The small, velvet box in the inside pocket of Leon's jacket felt both incredibly heavy and impossibly light.

He had spent the afternoon in the jewelry shop, a surreal, nerve-wracking experience that had ended with him purchasing a simple, elegant ring that felt… right. He wasn't sure when, or how, he was going to ask the question. But he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he wanted to.

He walked into the AXA Training Centre the next morning feeling like a man walking on air, a secret, joyous energy buzzing beneath his skin. The usual pre-training chaos of the dressing room felt brighter, funnier, more alive.

"Okay, I have conducted extensive research," Julián Álvarez announced, holding up a printout covered in complex diagrams that looked suspiciously like doodles of llamas playing football. "And I have concluded that the optimal trajectory for a celebratory knee-slide is precisely 17.3 degrees. Any lower, you risk 'turf friction embarrassment'. Any higher, you risk 'unexpected aerial rotation'. The science is very clear."

Andy Robertson, who was trying to tape his own ankle, just groaned. "Julián," he said, his voice muffled by concentration. "If you try to calculate the angle of your knee-slide after scoring, you will pull a hamstring. Just slide, you madman. Slide with joy."

Leon just laughed, the sound easy and carefree. He felt… different. Lighter. The weight of the world, the pressure of the transfer fee, the constant, grinding expectation—it all seemed to have lifted slightly, replaced by the simple, profound anchor of a future he was choosing for himself.

Their next match was a home game against Fulham, a team known for playing attractive, attacking football but often lacking the defensive steel to back it up. Anfield was buzzing, expectant. After the high-wire drama of the last few weeks, the fans were hoping for a simple, dominant, goal-filled afternoon.

In the dressing room, Arne Slot was calm, focused, and utterly ruthless.

"Alright, lads," he began, his voice a steady, analytical hum. "Fulham. They are artists. They love the ball. They will try to play. Good." A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "We will let them play. We will let them have the ball in their own half. We will be a patient, coiled spring. And the moment, the very second they make a mistake, the moment they overplay in a dangerous area," he said, his eyes burning with a fierce, intelligent fire, "we will pounce. We will be a red storm. We will be a hurricane of counter-attacking fury. I do not just want a win today. I want a statement. I want goals. Lots of them. Go and feast."

The whistle blew. Anfield roared. And for the first twenty minutes, Fulham, to their credit, played exactly as Slot had predicted. They were brave, they passed the ball beautifully, and they dominated possession.

"A confident start from the visitors, Clive!" the commentator, Barry, noted, a hint of surprise in his voice. "They are not intimidated by Anfield! They are playing their football!"

"It's a dangerous game, Barry," the calmer Clive replied. "You play like this against Liverpool, you are walking a tightrope without a safety net. One mistake..."

And in the 22nd minute, the mistake came.

A risky pass across the backline from a Fulham defender was slightly under-hit. Mo Salah, who had been waiting, lurking, exploded onto it like a cheetah pouncing on its prey. He took one touch to intercept, another to push the ball past the last defender, and then he was one-on-one. The finish was ruthless. Clinical. Inevitable.

1-0. Anfield erupted.

"THE KING STRIKES!" Barry roared. "A gift from the Fulham defense, and Mo Salah does not need a second invitation! Ruthless! Clinical! Liverpool lead!"

The goal opened the floodgates. Fulham, forced to chase the game, abandoned their patient build-up and pushed forward, leaving vast, green meadows of space for Liverpool's red storm to exploit.

In the 31st minute, a lightning-fast counter-attack. A brilliant interception from Wataru Endō. A quick pass to Leon. He looked up, his Vision painting a perfect map of the chaos. He saw Isak's run. He played the pass, a beautiful, defense-splitting through-ball. The big Swede took one touch and smashed the ball into the net with ferocious power.

2-0.

"IT'S TWO! A DEVASTATING COUNTER-ATTACK!" Barry screamed. "From defense to attack in the blink of an eye! Leon with the vision, Isak with the hammer! Liverpool are running riot!"

Five minutes later, it was three. A brilliant piece of skill from Florian Wirtz saw him glide past two defenders. He looked up and chipped a perfect, delicate cross towards the back post. And arriving, like a ghost, was Leon. He met the ball with a flying, acrobatic volley that flew into the back of the net.

3-0.

"OH, STOP IT! JUST STOP IT!" Barry wailed, dissolving into laughter. "This isn't a football match; it's an exhibition! Leon with a goal of pure, audacious beauty! The artists are painting a masterpiece!"

The halftime whistle blew. The score was 3-0. The game was over. But the feast was not.

In the second half, Liverpool played with a joyous, ruthless freedom. They were a blur of red, their passing a one-touch symphony, their movement a telepathic dance.

In the 55th minute, Trent Alexander-Arnold scored the fourth, a thunderous long shot from 35 yards out that nearly took the net off its moorings.

In the 68th minute, a beautiful, flowing move involving ten different players ended with Andy Robertson tapping the ball into an empty net after a selfless square pass from Salah. 5-0.

And in the 79th minute, the final, beautiful flourish. Julián Álvarez, who had come on as a substitute and had been buzzing around like a tactical wasp, received the ball, went on a ridiculous, mazy dribble that involved him accidentally nutmegging the referee, and then chipped the ball over the despairing keeper for the sixth.

6-0. A statement.

The final whistle blew. Anfield was a sea of red, a joyous, singing, celebrating paradise. The players did their lap of honor, their faces beaming, the bond between them stronger than ever.

Leon walked off the pitch, the roar of the crowd washing over him, a profound sense of peace and belonging in his heart. He felt… complete. He had his family. He had his team. He had his future, both on and off the pitch, clearer than it had ever been.

That night, as he sat in his quiet house, the joyous exhaustion of the match a warm, pleasant ache in his muscles, he decided to check his system. He had played well, scored a goal, created chances. He had earned his points.

He opened his HUD. The 'USER STATUS' window popped up.

[Leon | Po: 96 | Cu: 90]

[System Points (SP): 650] (Goal: 150, Key Passes: 75, Successful Dribbles: 100, Premier League Victory Bonus: 100. Previous Balance: 225)

He smiled. 650 points. A healthy sum. Enough for the 'Iron Body' skill, with plenty left over. But then, his eyes drifted down the status screen, to the final, locked trait, the one that represented the pinnacle, the final evolution.

[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 stared at the requirement. Requires 'Current Ability' of 90. He looked back at his own number. Cu: 90.

A jolt, a thrill of pure, unadulterated ambition shot through him. It was unlocked. The path was open. He had the points. He could buy it. Right now. He could become the Alpha.

He thought of Mo Salah. He thought of the delicate balance they had found. He thought of Arne Slot's words: co-existence.

He hesitated. The choice, the one he thought he had already made, was back, stark and unavoidable. Be the brain? Or be the king?

With a trembling, mental command, he opened the 'Traits' category in the Skill Store. The 'Alpha's Presence' icon was no longer greyed out. It was glowing with a fierce, golden, and impossibly tempting light. All he had to do was click 'Purchase'.

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