The news of Lamine Yamal's transfer request was a nuclear bomb that had detonated in the heart of the footballing world, and the fallout was glorious, chaotic, and all anyone could talk about.

The Liverpool training ground, usually a focused sanctuary of tactical preparation, was now a buzzing, high-level gossip hub.

"I'm just saying," Trent Alexander-Arnold announced to a group of his teammates, a look of pure, unadulterated mischief on his face, "if he comes to us, our front three would be so fast that the television cameras wouldn't be able to keep up. They'd have to broadcast our games with a five-second delay."

"If he comes to us?" Andy Robertson shot back, a fiery, competitive glint in his eye. "He's not coming to us! We're not letting that little monster join the enemy! He goes to United, we riot! We go on strike! We replace all the footballs with haggises!"

"What is a haggis?" the young French striker, Hugo Ekitike, asked with a confused look on his face.

"It's a very angry, very Scottish football," Robertson replied with a completely straight face. "Very difficult to control."

In the middle of it all was the team's resident philosopher, Julián Álvarez.

He was staring at the ceiling, a look of profound, almost pained, concentration on his face.

"Okay," he began, and the room quieted expectantly. "So, PSG bought him for a world-record fee. He is their 'asset'. Now, he wants to leave. So, is a transfer request a 'product return'? And if he is 'faulty' because he is unhappy, does PSG get a full refund, or just store credit?"

The room just stared at him for a long, silent moment before Mo Salah, a man who had seen everything in his long and storied career, just shook his head and let out a huge, booming laugh.

"Julián," he said, clapping the Argentine on the back.

"You have a beautiful, strange, and possibly broken brain. Never change."

Leon just sat in his corner, a quiet smile on his face, taking it all in. The noise, the laughter, the beautiful, chaotic energy of his new family. The world was speculating about nine-figure transfer fees and the future of a global superstar, and his teammates were debating the legal rights of unhappy footballing assets. He loved this place.

He felt a quiet, profound sense of peace. The last few weeks had been a whirlwind of growth and change.

He had faced down his old master, he had survived the beautiful, brutal chaos of the Premier League, and he had unlocked a new, simpler, more powerful version of his own system. He took a quiet, mental look at his own status, a personal milestone that felt more significant than any transfer rumor.

[Leon | Po: 96 | Cu: 90]

[Market Value: €150,000,000]

He had done it. He had broken the 90-point barrier. He was officially, statistically, undeniably, in the same bracket as the superstars he had once idolized.

The number, the value, was so large it felt like a joke, a typo from a video game. But it was real. And it felt... good.

The light-hearted, speculative mood was cut short by the arrival of their own superstar manager. Arne Slot walked into the center of the room, a calm, analytical smile on his face.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said, his voice a steady, authoritative hum that instantly commanded the room's attention.

"I see you have all been enjoying the morning's entertainment. It is a very exciting time to be a football journalist." He let the sarcastic words hang in the air for a moment.

"But we," he continued, his smile fading, replaced by a look of intense, unshakeable focus, "are not journalists. We are footballers. And we have a job to do." He looked around the room, his eyes lingering on each of his star players.

"I am not in the business of collecting superstars. I am in the business of building a team. And this team," he said, a powerful, unshakeable belief in his voice, "is the best team in the world. I do not care who plays for PSG, or who plays for Manchester United. I only care who plays for Liverpool. Now, let's work."

The training session that followed was a masterclass in controlled, beautiful aggression.

The players, their minds now clear and focused, were a blur of red, their passing a one-touch symphony, their movements a perfect, telepathic dance.They were a machine, and they were beautiful to watch.

That night, after a long day of training and tactical meetings, Leon was in his living room, relaxing on the sofa, a book in his hands. But he wasn't reading.

He was just thinking. He thought about Yamal, about the immense, suffocating pressure that was about to be placed on the young man's shoulders. He thought about his own journey, about the strange, magical system that had been his secret companion. He thought about his own value, the ridiculous, nine-figure number that now followed his name.

He was no longer just a talented kid with a secret. He was a part of the global conversation. He was a superstar. The thought was both thrilling and deeply, deeply unnerving.

His phone buzzed, pulling him from his thoughts. It was Arne Slot.

"Leon," the manager's calm, familiar voice came through the phone. "I hope I am not disturbing you."

"Not at all, gaffer," Leon said, sitting up a little straighter.

"Good," Slot said. "I have just come from a meeting with the board. With our owners. As you can imagine, the... situation... with the young man in Paris was the main topic of conversation."

Leon's heart did a little nervous flutter.

"The owners are ambitious," Slot continued, his voice a low, serious murmur. "They see an opportunity. A chance to acquire a generational talent. They have asked for my opinion."

He paused, and in that single, profound moment of silence, Leon felt like the entire world was holding its breath.

"I have told them about the potential conflict," Slot said, his voice a calm, analytical hum. "The problem of having two suns in the same sky, as you so poetically put it. But I have also told them about your intelligence, your maturity, your willingness to adapt." He took a deep breath. "The club is prepared to make an official offer. A very, very large offer. But I have told them that I will not sanction it, I will not move forward with it, without speaking to you first. Because this is not just a tactical decision; it is a human one. It will change the dynamic of this team. It will change your role in this team."

The weight of the manager's words was immense.

He wasn't just asking for an opinion. He was giving Leon a choice. A voice. A seat at the table.

"I am not asking you what you think we should do from a business perspective," Slot said, his voice a final, powerful, and utterly terrifying question.

"I need to know where your head is at. I need to know if you are willing to share your sky." He paused, and the question that followed was not just a question about a potential new signing. It was a question about Leon's own heart, his own ambition, his own destiny.

"So, I'm asking you, Leon. As a leader of this team. What do you think we should do?"

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