The golden, glowing icon for 'Alpha's Presence' pulsed in Leon's mind, a siren call of pure, unadulterated ambition. 3000 System Points.

He had nowhere near enough yet, but the path was unlocked. He could start saving, grinding, focusing his entire being on reaching that pinnacle, on becoming the undisputed center of Liverpool's attacking universe.

He thought of Mo Salah, the King of Anfield, the 'Alpha Attacker' whose gravitational pull shaped their entire tactical system. He thought of the delicate, beautiful balance they had found, the unspoken understanding, the shared moments of genius. He thought of Arne Slot's words: co-existence.

Was it possible? Could two suns truly share the same sky? Or would one inevitably have to eclipse the other?

He looked at his remaining System Points: 225 SP after purchasing 'Silken Dribble'. Not enough for a major upgrade. Not enough to truly challenge the established order. Not yet.

He navigated back to the 'Physical Resilience' category, the memory of Burnley's beautiful, brutal welcome still fresh in his mind.

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

He smiled. The Premier League was a marathon, not a sprint. And right now, survival felt more important than supremacy. He would save his points. He would build his foundation. He would become unbreakable first. Then, he would think about becoming the king.

He closed the system, a quiet, contented peace settling over him. He had made his choice. For now.

(Time Skip: December)

Winter had descended upon Liverpool, bringing with it shorter days, colder winds, and the relentless, beautiful chaos of the English football calendar. The Premier League table made for happy reading. Liverpool sat proudly at the top, a comfortable cushion established through a series of dominant, breathtaking performances. They had navigated the group stage of the new Champions League format with ruthless efficiency, securing their place in the knockout rounds with games to spare.

Leon was flying. His 'Current Ability' had ticked over to 91, a reflection of his seamless integration into the team and his consistently brilliant performances. He wasn't just the playmaker anymore; he was the heartbeat. His assists were piling up, each pass a work of art, each movement a masterclass in intelligent, selfless football. And every now and then, just to remind the world of the monster lurking beneath the surface, he would unleash a thunderbolt, a moment of pure, reality-bending magic that left stadiums silent and commentators speechless.

He was happy. Genuinely, profoundly happy. His life in Liverpool was a beautiful, chaotic, and deeply fulfilling rhythm of training, matches, quiet evenings with Sofia, and loud, laughter-filled dinners with his mother and his ever-expanding football family.

The atmosphere at the AXA Training Centre on a cold December morning was electric. The festive period, a notoriously brutal stretch of games played in quick succession, was upon them. But the mood wasn't one of dread; it was one of eager, almost giddy, anticipation.

"Okay, serious question," Julián Álvarez announced to a group of players huddled around the coffee machine, trying to ward off the morning chill. He was holding a mince pie with the intense focus of a bomb disposal expert. "This is a 'mince pie'. But there is no mince in it. It is fruit. This is a blatant act of 'culinary misinformation'. Can we report this to the league? Is there a committee for 'pastry-based deception'?"

Andy Robertson, who was trying to pour himself a coffee without spilling it, just groaned. "Julián," he said, his voice thick with sleep and exasperation. "It's eight o'clock in the morning. Please. Do not start a war with the concept of dessert."

"He has a point, though," Trent Alexander-Arnold chimed in, a mischievous grin on his face. "It's false advertising. Like calling Manchester United a 'football team'."

The group erupted in laughter, the familiar, easy banter a perfect start to the day.

Leon joined them, a warm mug of tea in his hands. "Morning, lads. Ready for the Christmas chaos?"

"Ready?" Mo Salah said, appearing beside him, a bright, energetic grin on his face despite the early hour. "My friend, this is where the fun begins! More games, more goals, more chances to make the defenders cry!" He clapped Leon on the back. "You are ready, yes? Your first English Christmas football experience?"

"I think so," Leon laughed. "My mom has already bought enough panettone to feed the entire city."

Arne Slot gathered them on the training pitch later that morning. The air was crisp, their breath misting in the cold.

"Alright, gentlemen," he began, his voice calm and focused. "The festive period. Six games in eighteen days. It is a test of fitness, of mentality, of the depth of our squad." He looked around at the sea of determined faces. "It is a test we will pass."

He outlined the plan: rotation, smart recovery, and a relentless, unwavering focus on one game at a time. "We do not think about the title race," he declared. "We do not think about the Champions League draw. We think only about the next ninety minutes. We are a machine. And this," he said, a slow, confident smile spreading across his face, "is where the machine shows its power."

The training session was sharp, intense, and surprisingly fun. They worked on tactical patterns, but there was a lightness in the air, a sense of shared purpose and genuine enjoyment. Leon, his 'Silken Dribble' now a natural, instinctive part of his game, glided through the drills, his passes crisp, his movement intelligent. He felt completely in sync with his teammates, a perfect cog in Slot's beautiful, red machine.

During a break, he found himself next to Alexander Isak. The big Swede, usually a man of quiet intensity, was actually smiling.

"Good session," Isak rumbled, his voice a low, satisfied hum. "I feel... fast today."

"You look fast," Leon grinned. "Ready to score some Christmas goals?"

Isak just nodded, a dangerous, predatory glint in his eye. "Always."

That night, Leon was at home, relaxing after a long day. He was on the phone with Sofia, who was back in Liverpool after helping her parents settle into their new life in Newcastle. They were planning their weekend, a precious island of normality in the middle of the festive football storm.

"...and then maybe we can try that little bookstore you were telling me about?" he was saying, a happy, contented smile on his face.

"Sounds perfect," she replied, her voice a warm, happy melody. "Just promise me you won't try to analyze the tactical formation of the bookshelves."

He laughed, about to reply, when a notification flashed up on the TV screen in front of him. It was a live news report, the familiar yellow banner of a breaking story.

[BREAKING: Injury crisis deepens at Newcastle United. Manager Cristian Chivu confirms star striker Alexander Isak ruled out for 'significant period' after training ground incident.]

Leon froze, the phone still pressed to his ear, his blood running cold.

Alexander Isak? Newcastle's Isak? Injured?

The news report continued, showing footage of Chivu at a press conference, his face a mask of grim, professional disappointment. "...it is a blow, of course," Chivu was saying. "Alexander is a key player for us. But we have a strong squad. We adapt. We overcome."

But then, the reporter's voiceover cut in, adding a new, shocking, and deeply unsettling layer to the story. "Sources close to the club suggest the 'training ground incident' was not an accident. There are rumors of a serious altercation between Isak and his manager during yesterday's session, resulting in the injury. When asked directly, Chivu refused to comment, simply stating that 'discipline is paramount'."

Leon just stared at the screen, a thousand confusing, terrifying thoughts racing through his mind. Chivu. Isak. An 'altercation'. An 'injury'. He thought of the coach's cold, ruthless intensity. He thought of the warning he had given him outside the restaurant in Milan: You break her heart, I break your legs... in a way that looks like a tragic, unavoidable training ground accident.

"Leon?" Sofia's voice, small and worried, came through the phone. "Are you okay? You've gone completely silent."

He looked at the screen, at the image of his old coach, his new rival, his girlfriend's father, his face an unreadable mask.

And for the first time since he had met the man, Leon felt a flicker, not of fear, but of something far colder, far deeper. He felt a profound, unsettling, and utterly terrifying doubt.

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