The private jet carrying the newly crowned champions of Europe back to Liverpool was less an aircraft and more a flying, slightly sticky, and incredibly loud karaoke bar. The Champions League trophy, affectionately nicknamed "Ol' Big Ears" by Julián Álvarez (who was convinced it could hear their singing), sat strapped into its own first-class seat, occasionally being serenaded by a truly terrible, off-key rendition of "Allez Allez Allez" led by Andy Robertson.

Leon sat by the window, a contented, exhausted smile plastered on his face, watching the clouds drift by. The events of the last 24 hours felt like a surreal, beautiful dream. The impossible comeback. The agonizing tension of the shootout. Wataru Endō, their quiet, unassuming hero, smashing home the winning penalty. Lifting that magnificent trophy under the Wembley arch. It was... perfect.

His quiet, almost disbelieving thought from the night before still echoed in his mind. That easy?! He chuckled to himself. No. It hadn't been easy. It had been the hardest, most brutal, most emotionally draining fight of his entire life. They had faced tactical ghosts, rival 'Players', injuries, red cards, impossible goals, and their own moments of doubt. And they had overcome it all. Together. That was the magic. Not the system. Not the individual brilliance. But the unbreakable, beautiful, slightly insane spirit of this team.

"Penny for your thoughts, superstar?"

He looked up. Trent Alexander-Arnold was grinning at him from the seat opposite. "You look like you're contemplating the meaning of life, or maybe just deciding which ridiculously expensive car you're going to buy next."

"Just thinking," Leon smiled. "About how lucky I am to be here."

"Lucky?" Robertson chimed in from the row behind, his voice still hoarse from singing. "Luck had nothing to do with it, kid! That was pure, unadulterated, glorious hard work! And maybe," he added, a mischievous glint in his eye, "a little bit of Julián's tactical madness."

Julián, who had been trying to teach Mo Salah the lyrics to a complex Argentinian folk song, immediately perked up. "See! My methods are unconventional, but they yield results! The 'Confused Pigeon' formation is the future of European football!"

The plane erupted in laughter, the sound easy, warm, and full of the profound, simple joy of a shared, impossible triumph.

The heroes' welcome back in Liverpool was something else entirely. The city was a sea of red. Tens of thousands of fans lined the streets, waving flags, singing songs, their faces alight with pure, unadulterated joy as the open-top bus carrying their conquering heroes crawled through the city.

The players, standing on the top deck, were bathing in the adoration. Mo Salah was dancing, a huge, infectious grin on his face, leading the chants. Virgil van Dijk, his leg still in a brace but his spirit soaring, held the Premier League trophy they had narrowly missed aloft, a gesture of defiant pride. Alisson Becker, the hero of the final, just stood there, a quiet, humble smile on his face, soaking it all in.

Julián Álvarez, naturally, had found a traffic cone somewhere and was wearing it as a hat, conducting the crowd like a mad, glorious orchestra conductor.

Leon stood near the front, waving, smiling, his heart swelling with a pride so profound it felt like it might actually burst. He saw his mother in the crowd, her face streaked with happy tears, waving a little Italian flag. He saw Sofia, standing beside her, laughing, her eyes shining with a pride that made his own heart soar. This wasn't just a victory for the team; it was a victory for the city, for the family.

The parade ended. The crowds dispersed. The beautiful, chaotic noise faded, replaced by the quiet, contented hum of a city basking in the afterglow of glory. The season was officially, finally, gloriously over.

The off-season began, a blessed, welcome stretch of peace, quiet, and absolutely no tactical briefings involving ghosts or reality fractures. Leon spent the first week doing absolutely nothing except sleeping, eating his mother's incredible cooking, and trying (and failing) to beat Sofia at Mario Kart. It was perfect.

He finally found a quiet moment to himself one rainy afternoon. He sat on his sofa, the comforting sound of the English rain drumming against the window, and decided it was time. He closed his eyes, a familiar, excited tingle running through him. Skill Store.

The interface appeared, sleek and familiar. His System Points balance was astronomical, a king's ransom earned through a season of impossible victories and world-class performances.

[System Points (SP): 1875] (CL Final Goal: 200, Assist: 100, Key Passes: 50, Dribbles: 75, CL Trophy Bonus: 1000. Previous Balance: 450)

He had enough. He had more than enough. He navigated to the 'Traits' category, his heart pounding a slow, deliberate rhythm. The golden, glowing icon pulsed at the bottom of the list.

[Alpha's Presence - Level 1]: Unlocks a passive trait that designates you as the primary attacking focus. Increases the probability of teammates passing to you in the final third. Cost: 3000 SP (Locked - Requires 'Current Ability' of 90).

He looked at his own status. [Leon | Po: 96 | Cu: 92]. He met the requirement. He had the points (almost enough for Level 2 already!). He could do it. He could become the Alpha. He could officially, systemically, become the center of Liverpool's universe.

He thought of Mo Salah. He thought of their partnership, the unspoken understanding, the shared moments of genius. He thought of Arne Slot's words: co-existence.

He hesitated.

Then, he navigated back. He went to the 'Physical Resilience' category.

[Iron Body - Level 1]: Increases resistance to physical challenges and reduces the chance of injury from tackles by 10%. Cost: 500 SP.

He clicked 'Purchase'.

[500 SP deducted. 'Iron Body - Level 1' acquired.]

A warm, steadying energy flowed through him. He then went to 'Dribbling'.

[Silken Dribble - Level 2]: Increases close-control ball retention by a further 15%. Cost: 600 SP.

He clicked 'Purchase'.

[600 SP deducted. 'Silken Dribble - Level 2' acquired.]

He felt lighter, faster, the connection between his mind and his feet becoming even more seamless. He had 775 SP left. He smiled. The Alpha could wait. The King could keep his crown. For now. He was happy being the brain. And the brain needed to survive the beautiful, brutal chaos of the Premier League.

A few days later, Leon was enjoying a quiet afternoon walk in the park with Sofia. The English summer had finally arrived, bathing the city in a warm, golden light.

"So," she said, bumping her shoulder against his playfully. "Now that you're officially the Champion of Europe, does this mean you're too famous to be seen in public with a humble art history student?"

"Never," he laughed, taking her hand. "Besides, you're the one who's going to be famous soon. Your exhibition is next month, right?"

"It is," she said, a flicker of nervous excitement in her eyes. "It's terrifying. What if nobody comes? What if they hate it? What if they think my deep, philosophical exploration of the color blue is just... blue?"

He stopped walking and turned to face her, taking both her hands in his. "Hey," he said softly, his voice full of a quiet, unshakeable belief. "It's going to be amazing. Because you are amazing. You see the world in a way that no one else does. You find the magic in the everyday. And anyone who sees your art," he said, his heart full, "will see that too."

She just looked at him, her eyes shining, a slow, beautiful smile spreading across her face. "You always know what to say, footballer," she whispered.

He looked at her, at this incredible, brilliant, beautiful woman who had walked into his chaotic world and made it feel like home. He thought of the small, velvet box hidden away in his sock drawer. He thought of the future, not of trophies or contracts, but of this. Of them.

His heart was pounding, a frantic, happy rhythm. The words were right there, on the tip of his tongue. The biggest, most terrifying, most wonderful question of his life.

He opened his mouth to ask it.

And then, his phone rang. It was Arne Slot.

"Leon," the manager's voice came through, calm, professional, but with an undercurrent of something... different. Something urgent. "Sorry to disturb your holiday. But I need you to come to my office. Now. There's... there's been a development. Something you need to see."

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