The penalty shootout. The cruellest, most beautiful, most utterly heart-stopping invention in the history of sport.

Ten kicks from twelve yards to decide the fate of Europe, the culmination of an entire season distilled into a few agonizing seconds.

Leon stood on the halfway line, arm-in-arm with his brothers, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs.

The message from his system AI pulsed in his mind, a devil's bargain offered in the heat of battle.

[Activate 'Predictive Analysis'? Probability of Victory: 98%. Risk of Guardian Detection: High.]

He looked across the pitch at Alisson Becker, his captain, his goalkeeper, a man who had already produced miracles tonight. He saw the calm, steady focus in the Brazilian's eyes. He thought of his teammates, the men who had fought and bled beside him for 120 minutes. He thought of Arne Slot's words: Trust the man next to you.

He took a deep, steadying breath. This wasn't a video game. This was football. And you didn't win football with cheat codes. You won it with heart, with skill, and with a little bit of beautiful, unpredictable chaos.

'No,' he thought, a firm, decisive mental command sent back to the silent AI. 'We do this ourselves.'

The AI's response was simple, instantaneous, and strangely… approving.

[Acknowledged. Good luck, User Leon.]

The coin toss was done. Liverpool would shoot first, towards the end of Wembley housing their own roaring, red sea of fans. Mo Salah, the king, the man who lived for these moments, was the first to walk. He placed the ball with a calm, almost casual air, spun it once, and took his steps back. Courtois, in the Madrid goal, was a giant, an intimidating presence. The whistle blew. Salah ran up and coolly passed the ball into the bottom left corner as the keeper dove the wrong way.

1-0.

"THE KING DOES NOT MISS!" Barry roared. "Ice in his veins! Liverpool lead!"

First up for Madrid was their own superstar, Kylian Mbappé. He walked to the spot with a confident swagger, completely unfazed by the wall of noise from the Liverpool fans. He blasted the ball with ferocious power into the roof of the net. Alisson went the right way but had absolutely no chance.

1-1.

Next for Liverpool was Hakan Çalhanoğlu, the man whose free-kick had saved them in extra time. He was the specialist. He placed the ball, took his short run-up, and tried his trademark calm, side-footed finish. But Courtois was a mind-reader. He guessed the right way, diving low to his left and pushing the ball away.

A miss! A collective groan went through the red half of Wembley.

Luka Modrić, the ageless Croatian maestro, was next for Madrid. He walked up, looking utterly calm, as if he were taking a penalty in his own back garden. He sent Alisson the wrong way with a shimmy of the hips and rolled the ball into the empty net.

2-1 to Real Madrid. The pressure was immense.

The third penalty for Liverpool was Trent Alexander-Arnold. The hometown hero. He looked nervous, the weight of the moment heavy on his shoulders. He struck the ball well, aiming for the corner, but Courtois, who seemed to be growing larger with every kick, guessed right again, producing another magnificent save.

Two misses in a row! Disaster.

"COURTOIS! THE BELGIAN WALL!" Barry screamed. "He is a giant! He is unbeatable! Liverpool are crumbling!"

Now it was Aurélien Tchouaméni's turn. Leon watched his rival walk towards the spot, the golden aura around him barely visible now, his energy clearly depleted by the long match and Chivu's enforced 'Anchor' protocol. He placed the ball. He looked calm. Leon closed his eyes. Come on, Alisson.

Tchouaméni struck the ball cleanly, aiming for the bottom corner. Alisson guessed right, a full-stretch, fingertip save pushing the ball onto the post! It bounced out!

SAVED! Wembley erupted! They were still alive!

Fourth penalty for Liverpool. And walking up, with the fate of their season resting on his young shoulders, was Julián Álvarez. The agent of chaos. The philosopher king. The man who had scored a scuffed, ridiculous, glorious Panenka in the Coppa Italia final.

"Okay," he muttered to himself as he walked, a strange, intense focus in his eyes. "The keeper is big. He is confident. He expects power. He expects placement. He does not expect... quantum mechanics."

He placed the ball. He looked at Courtois. He grinned. He ran up, and just as he was about to strike it, he stopped dead, did a little hop, and then poked the ball, with almost no power, straight down the middle. Courtois, who had already dived spectacularly to his right, could only watch in horror as the ball rolled, with the speed of a dying snail, over the line.

2-2.

"JULIÁN! YOU BEAUTIFUL, CRAZY, MAGNIFICENT MADMAN!" Barry roared, dissolving into hysterical laughter.

"HE DID IT AGAIN! THE SHEER, UNADULTERATED NERVE! He has chipped Courtois! He has chipped the best goalkeeper in the world in a Champions League final! I cannot breathe! I need oxygen! And possibly a therapist!"

Julián just jogged back, shrugging, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Now the pressure was back on Madrid. Vinícius Jr. stepped up. He looked confident. He smashed the ball towards the corner. Alisson went the right way, got a hand to it... but the shot was too powerful. It squeezed under his body and into the net.

3-2 to Real Madrid.

The fifth and final penalty for Liverpool. It had to go in to keep them alive. And the man walking forward, the man chosen for this moment, was Leon.

The walk from the halfway line felt like a mile. The noise from the crowd was a physical, deafening wave. He felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. He thought of his mom, of Sofia, of his teammates. He thought of the hours in the VR rig, practicing, honing his skills. He thought of the 'Power Shot'. Could he risk it? Could he trust himself to control it?

He reached the spot. He placed the ball. He looked up at Courtois, the Belgian wall, who looked impossibly large in the goal. He took his steps back. He blocked out the noise. He blocked out the pressure. He blocked out the system.

There was only him, the ball, and the net.

He ran up. He struck it. Cleanly. Powerfully.

But not with the reality-bending force of his special skill. Just with pure, perfect, human technique. He aimed for the bottom corner.

Courtois guessed right again, a magnificent dive.

But the shot was too precise. Too perfect. It nestled into the side netting, an inch beyond his outstretched fingers.

3-3. They were still alive. Sudden death.

The shootout went on. Bellingham scored. Isak scored. 4-4. Rüdiger scored. Robertson scored. 5-5. The tension was unbearable.

Next up for Madrid was their young defender, Éder Militão. He looked nervous. He struck the ball well, but Alisson, the hero of Dortmund, produced another magnificent save, diving low to his left.

Wembley exploded. Liverpool had match point. One goal to win the Champions League.

And the man walking forward, the unlikely hero chosen for the final, glorious moment, was the quiet, unassuming, Japanese engine in their midfield. Wataru Endō.

He walked to the spot, his face a mask of calm focus. He placed the ball. The weight of the world was on his shoulders. He ran up. He struck it. Cleanly. Confidently. He sent Courtois the wrong way.

The net bulged.

Silence....

Then... pandemonium.

Liverpool had won the Champions League.

Leon didn't even see the ball go in. He was buried under a pile of screaming, crying, laughing bodies before he even knew what had happened. He was at the bottom of a mountain of pure, unadulterated joy.

They lifted the trophy, the beautiful, big-eared beast, passing it from man to man, each kiss, each roar, a release of a season's worth of hopes and dreams. Confetti rained down.

"You'll Never Walk Alone" echoed around the stadium, sung by 50,000 voices thick with tears and triumph.

Leon stood there, a medal around his neck, his hands on the iconic trophy, the roar of the crowd washing over him.

He looked up at the sea of red, at the faces of his teammates, his brothers. He felt a profound, simple, and utterly overwhelming sense of peace.

He had done it. They had done it. He was a champion of Europe.

He looked down at the trophy, at his own reflection gleaming in the polished silver. A single, quiet, almost bewildered thought drifted through his mind, a strange counterpoint to the glorious chaos around him.

I won it? he thought, a slow, disbelieving smile spreading across his face.

That... that easy?!

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