Chapter 65: System Upgrade and a Glorious Title-Winning Reward
Amid the roaring celebrations on the pitch, Leon and Pirlo's calm, composed demeanor stood out like a quiet flame in the middle of a bonfire. The two, smiling and casually chatting, were quickly captured by the lenses of several journalists.
"These two are way too composed. I get why Andrea's calm—he's won everything there is to win. But how on earth is Leon staying so calm right now?" a young journalist from La Gazzetta dello Sport wondered aloud, camera in hand.
"That's exactly why he's the one standing in the spotlight, helping Milan win the title. If he weren't this composed, do you think Allegri would've entrusted him with such a key role at this age?" responded an older reporter from Corriere dello Sport, nodding in satisfaction as he reviewed his photo of the pair.
The remark was met with murmurs of agreement from the surrounding press corps.
Both Mourinho and Allegri were managers known for preferring seasoned, stable players over youthful flair. Yet Leon had earned more playing time than anyone in the media had expected under both men.
Since joining Milan, he hadn't just been a squad player—he'd become a pillar of the midfield.
You don't get that kind of trust unless your performances and mentality are rock solid.
So when reporters saw Leon and Pirlo chatting like old friends amid the frenzy, they didn't question it—they understood it.
Cameras clicked, and stories were being written live. Headlines were already rolling out to celebrate Milan's long-awaited Serie A title.
Match suspense?
There was none. The moment Boateng's goal hit the net, the countdown to Milan's coronation had begun.
The fallen king of Italy… was about to reclaim his throne.
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"After the restart, Milan continued pressing Sampdoria high up the pitch. Their tactics tonight have been bold, aggressive—and incredibly effective!"
"Leon and Gattuso's hard tackling in midfield has generated wave after wave of counterattacks. With the defense solid, Milan's attacking rhythm is only getting sharper."
"If they score a second goal before halftime, things could get really tough for Sampdoria. The way they're playing now just won't be enough to get anything from San Siro tonight."
The Sky Italia commentator tried to stay neutral, but he couldn't hide the direction the game was heading.
He didn't outright say the game would be over with another Milan goal, but everyone watching knew it.
Milan were in full flow, dominating both ends of the pitch. Sampdoria were barely hanging on.
Palombo was doing his best in midfield, but one man alone couldn't change the fact that Sampdoria's squad was outmatched across the board.
By the 31st minute, Milan—who had kept Samp under siege for nearly 20 minutes—unleashed another assault.
Pato used his blistering pace to blow past defender Reto Ziegler on the wing, then lofted a sharp, inverted cross into the box.
In the chaos, Boateng came charging in and took a wild, first-time swing at it.
The shot, though powerful, deflected off a defender and bounced out of the penalty area.
Fortunately, Zambrotta regained possession near the sideline, looked up, and whipped in another cross.
"Back post! Watch the back post!" Palombo screamed, seeing the ball's trajectory.
But before his teammates could react, Leon had already made his move.
Beating everyone to the spot, he rose high and met the cross with his head!
"LEON—!!!" the Sky commentator roared.
But instead of aiming for goal, Leon smartly redirected the ball into the center of the box.
There, waiting unmarked, was Zlatan Ibrahimović.
With effortless grace, he executed a spinning volley, hammering the ball into the net.
Second goal. Game over.
"Holy crap, Zlatan! That shot was filthy!"
Leon, having had the perfect view of the strike, couldn't help blurting it out.
Talent and power like that—it was impossible not to admire it.
"GOAL—!! That seals it! ZLATAN again! Leon's perfect assist! Only one hour left—just one hour—and we'll be champions of Italy again!"
In the studio, Carlo Crudele tore off his headset and ran to the center of the room, punching the air in delight.
Back in the stadium, the fans didn't even wait for the final whistle.
San Siro exploded.
Supporters brandished replica trophies, waved banners, and jumped in unison, screaming into the camera lenses as if Milan had already lifted the real silverware.
Leon's hair was a mess again, but he never cared much for appearances.
Especially not now.
Running his fingers through his hair, he shared a laugh with Zlatan as they strolled back toward their half.
Two goals were enough. Everyone knew it.
Even without direct orders, the Milan players instinctively began falling back and tightening their shape.
Sampdoria could feel it—the cold, heavy weight of reality.
Milan had what they needed and had no intention of giving even an inch.
Trying to break them down now was like slamming against a fortress wall.
Gattuso raised his arms to fire up the fans behind him, and the South Stand responded with a thunderous cheer.
San Siro had transformed into a cauldron of noise and energy.
Even during halftime, the stadium didn't quiet down for a second.
The singing, the chanting, the fiery celebration—it didn't stop.
That was the San Siro tonight.
In this boiling sea of molten emotion, even standing still was exhausting for Sampdoria.
As the second half wore on, the difference between the teams only grew.
Milan's airtight defensive wall choked the life out of the game.
As the final minutes ticked down, Milan's veterans only grew calmer.
Hard to believe?
But it was true. Maybe it was because there were simply too many legends on the field.
Pirlo. Nesta. Gattuso. Abbiati.
With them anchoring the team, it was impossible for panic to take hold.
So much so that when the final whistle blew, the younger Milan players actually froze for a second—unsure if it was really over.
But of course, once reality hit, all restraint vanished.
Allegri and the bench stormed the pitch, charging out in celebration with arms wide open.
Leon had barely registered the system notification in his head when Pirlo and Gattuso swept him up into a massive group hug.
"Another level-up?"
That was the only thought he had before he was swept up in the wild euphoria of the title celebration.
"WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS! WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS! MILAN, MILAN! FORZA MILAN!!"
Photographers captured the scene—the players jumping and singing arm in arm, creating iconic images that would live on for years.
Every Milan player was mobbed by reporters, and Allegri was surrounded by journalists offering congratulations.
Afterward, the team thanked the fans, gave interviews, and finally, to the sound of the crowd singing "Milan, Milan", the players began making their way—reluctantly—back down the tunnel.
There would be an official trophy ceremony and a proper celebration when the season ended. That day would be the day of true euphoria.
Tonight was only the beginning.
Back in the locker room, Leon finally had a moment to check his system panel.
The interface had been upgraded. Before he could even explore the new functions, he was struck by the gleaming golden glow of a new reward bundle.
The Championship Package.
He tapped to open it.
And immediately broke into uncontrollable internal laughter.
"One Gold Talent Shard Card. Two Silver Item Cards."
This haul—this—was a true windfall.
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