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**Vienna, Austria, June 20, 2026**
The Ernst-Happel-Stadion pulsed like a heart, its 50,000 seats a tapestry of Austrian zeal under Vienna's velvet dusk. Tonight's UEFA U-21 Championship quarter-final—Spain U-21 versus Italy U-21—was a duel of destiny, a knockout clash to reach the semi-finals. Lin Jing stood in the Spain U-21 huddle, his red-and-yellow kit aglow, the crest a flame on his olive skin. His hazel eyes, woven from his Chinese-Spanish heritage, gleamed with fierce hunger. At 17, he was no echo of his past life's despair. His hat-trick at Camp Nou, U-21 debut in Lisbon, and brace in Budapest had forged a legend, a prodigy now chasing a European crown.
The [**Supreme Football System**] was his hidden edge, a secret no one—teammates, coaches, or the roaring Viennese—could glimpse. Its permanent [**Causality Skills**] and skills, honed through years of grit, elevated his talent to divine heights. With 19,800 System Points**] after humbling Antoine Dubois, Lin Jing was poised to dazzle Vienna. Tonight, the [**System**] would dance subtly, his feats a waltz of skill, not a celestial blaze.
His rival was Italy's U-21 striker, Lorenzo "Il Poeta" Rossi, a 20-year-old with golden curls and sapphire eyes, known for his poetic flair and ruthless goals. Lorenzo's AC Milan contract made him Serie A's darling, but his ego—calling rivals "minor stanzas" in a Milan podcast—marked him for a reckoning. In Lin Jing's past life, Lorenzo was a distant idol. Today, Lin Jing would silence Il Poeta.
The [**System**] flickered in his mind:
[**Mission: Win Man of the Match in a UEFA U-21 Knockout Match.**]
[**Reward: 2,200 system points, +2 Influence Points.**]
[**Hidden Mission: Outshine Lorenzo Rossi and Propel Spain to the Semi-Finals.**]
[**Reward: 2,000 system points, +2 Skill Points.**]
Lin Jing's grin was a spark of moonlight. Outshine Lorenzo and lead Spain to the semis? He'd make Vienna's historic turf chant his name, keeping the [**System**] veiled. His brilliance would sear as talent, not a cheat.
The Spain U-21 squad huddled, their faces alight with fire. Diego Ruiz, the lanky midfielder, nudged Lin Jing. "Ready to rewrite Italy's poetry, Jing?" His grin was a beacon, distinct from Budapest's warmth. Lin Jing's [**Charisma Aura**] flared, his voice electric. "Let's pen our epic, Diego." The team roared, their spirits a furnace, a fresh bond kindled.
Coach Javier Sánchez, his gaze sharp as a blade, fixed Lin Jing with intensity. "You're our maestro, attacking midfielder. Italy's cunning—Rossi's their muse. Break him."
Lin Jing's reply was iron, yet fresh. "I'll tear his verses apart, Coach." Sánchez nodded, sensing a titan's rise. In his past life, Lin Jing was dust. Now, he was Spain's spear.
The teams took the field, the Stadion's roar a primal hymn. Italy's azure kits gleamed, their players radiating Mediterranean swagger. Lorenzo Rossi prowled up top, his sapphire eyes locking onto Lin Jing with a smirk. "Ready to be my footnote, Spaniard?" he taunted, his voice smooth as silk.
Lin Jing's eyes danced, his retort cool but biting. "I'll write your elegy, Poeta." The crowd buzzed, sensing a duel, as the whistle pierced the dusk.
The match ignited, a symphony of steel and grace. Italy's tiki-taka was mesmerizing, Lorenzo's runs slicing through Spain's flanks. Lin Jing flowed like a river, his [**Steel Body**] absorbing tackles, his [**Eagle Vision**] piercing their press.
In the 8th minute, Spain surged. A defender passed, and Lin Jing controlled with [**Maradona's D10S Touch**], the ball a whisper on his boot. Lorenzo charged, but Lin Jing dodged with [**Pelé's Samba Flair**], his dribble a carnival of joy, leaving the striker grasping air. He activated [**Perfect Pass**], threading a 25-yard ball to Diego, whose shot forced a diving save. The crowd gasped, Lorenzo's smirk twitching.
Italy struck, Lorenzo's flick finding a midfielder for a clinical finish, 1–0. He celebrated with a pirouette, taunting Spain's fans. Lin Jing dropped back, his [**Beckenbauer's Iron Wall**] instincts thwarting a second goal, intercepting a pass with calm precision. Diego clapped his back, their synergy alive. "You're a shield, Jing!"
In the 14th minute, Lin Jing roared to life. Spain regained possession, and he used [**Pirlo's Deep Playmaker**] to dictate the tempo, baiting Italy's press. Lorenzo marked him, but Lin Jing spun with [**Cruyff's Phantom Turn**], then entered the 18-yard box. The [**Causality Power**] flared—[*All shots within the 18-yard box score*]. His shot, fueled by [**Thunder Strike**], was a meteor, ripping past the keeper.
1–1.
The Spanish fans erupted, Diego mobbing Lin Jing with a grin. Lorenzo's face darkened, his poetic aura dimmed. Lin Jing jogged back, his expression serene, the [**System**]'s magic unseen. To the crowd, he was a genius; to himself, a strategist.
Italy rallied, Lorenzo weaving a counter, his shot grazing the bar. Lin Jing's heart burned, the [**Hidden Mission**] alight—outshine Lorenzo. One goal wasn't enough; he needed to dominate.
In the 23rd minute, Lin Jing struck again. Spain won a free kick 30 yards out. He stepped up, using [**Baggio's Divine Curl**], the ball bending like a sonnet, curling past the keeper's dive to kiss the net.
2–1.
The Stadion quaked, scouts from Munich and Madrid scribbling furiously. Lorenzo slammed the ground, his swagger cracked. Lin Jing's grin was subtle, Diego cheering. The [**System**] chimed:
[*Ding!*]
[**Mission Progress: Win Man of the Match (50% Complete).**]
The first half ended, Spain leading. In the dugout, Sánchez was ablaze. "Jing, you're a storm! Keep it fierce!" Diego tossed him a water bottle, laughing. "Rossi's poem's in tatters!" Lin Jing's reply was light, distinct. "Let's rip the pages, amigo." Their banter sparked warmth, a new hue of friendship.
The second half was a crucible. Italy pushed, Lorenzo driving their attack with desperate flair, his shots testing Spain's keeper. Lin Jing was a conductor, his [**Steel Body**] defying fouls, his [**Iniesta's Tiki-Taka**] linking passes with [**Perfect Pass**] precision. In the 60th minute, he intercepted a pass with [**Beckenbauer's Iron Wall**], sprinting forward. Lorenzo fouled him, earning a yellow, but Lin Jing rose, unshaken.
Spain won a corner in the 70th minute. Diego's delivery soared, and Lin Jing leaped, using [**Pelé's Samba Flair**] to weave through defenders. Lorenzo marked him, but Lin Jing twisted with [**Messi's La Croqueta**], setting up a teammate for a tap-in.
3–1.
The stadium roared, Spanish fans chanting "Lin Jing! Lin Jing!" Lorenzo's face was ash, his poetic aura extinguished. Sánchez leaped, scouts nodding. The [**System**] sang:
[*Ding!*]
[**Mission Complete: Win Man of the Match in a UEFA U-21 Knockout Match.**]
[**Reward: 6,000 system points, +2 Influence Points.**]
[**Total System Points: 42,500**]
The match ended 3–2, a late Italian goal irrelevant. Spain advanced to the U-21 semi-finals, and Lin Jing was named Man of the Match, his free kick replayed on screens. "For Spain's heart," he said into a microphone, his [**Charisma Aura**] radiant. Lorenzo left the pitch, humbled, another rival felled.
[*Ding!*]
[**Hidden Mission Complete: Outshine Lorenzo Rossi and Propel Spain to the Semi-Finals.**]
[**Reward: 3,000 system points, +2 Skill Points.**]
[**Total System Points: 45,500**]
Lin Jing opened the [**System Shop**], its glow a private star. He typed "skills":
- [**Neymar's Rainbow Flick (+25% Trickery)**]: 700 points.
- [**Zico's Free Kick Mastery (+30% Set-Piece Versatility)**]: 4,500 points.
He chose [**Zico's Free Kick Mastery**], spending 4,500 points. A surge of versatility flooded his boots, set-pieces now his canvas. With 41,000 points, he was ready for the semi-finals.
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That evening, Lin Jing joined Diego and the U-21 squad at Vienna's Christkindlmarkt, its stalls aglow with Christmas lights, though summer reigned. The air hummed with carols, the scent of glühwein and gingerbread wafting. Diego handed him a mug, grinning. "You made Italy weep, Jing. Drink like a victor!" Lin Jing laughed, his reply warm. "Only if you stop hogging the ball, Diego." Their bond was vibrant, a new shade of camaraderie.
Lin Jing wandered the market, buying a crystal snowflake for Sofia, picturing her smile. A street violinist played Mozart, and Lin Jing tossed a coin, his [**Charisma Aura**] earning a bow. In his past life, he'd shunned such joy, too bitter. Now, Vienna's magic was his pulse.
His phone buzzed—a text from Elena Voss: "Man of the Match again? You're carving history, Jing. Madrid next week—big moves." He replied, "Count me in," his heart light, their dynamic a spark of ambition.
Back in Valencia, Lin Jing's butterfly effect rippled. His flair had propelled Valencia CF to La Liga's summit, their Copa del Rey semi-final berth secured, though he let teammates shine. A market TV flickered with the latest table, a quiet testament.
**La Liga Table (June 20, 2026, after 38 Matchdays)**:
| Rank | Team | Played | Won | Drawn | Lost | Points |
|------|----------------|--------|-----|-------|------|--------|
| 1 | Valencia CF | 38 | 28 | 7 | 3 | 91 |
| 2 | Real Madrid | 38 | 26 | 8 | 4 | 86 |
| 3 | FC Barcelona | 38 | 24 | 9 | 5 | 81 |
| 4 | Atlético Madrid| 38 | 22 | 10 | 6 | 76 |
| 5 | Sevilla FC | 38 | 20 | 8 | 10 | 68 |
Lin Jing's heart swelled, but his focus remained on the U-21 semi-finals, Valencia's glory a silent backdrop.
As he lay in his hotel, the [**System**] flickered:
[**Hidden Mission Unlocked: Lead Spain U-21 to the UEFA U-21 Championship Final.**]
[**Reward: 7,000 system points, +2 Prestige Points.**]
Lin Jing's eyes gleamed like Vienna's stars. Lorenzo Rossi was another shadow surpassed. The [**System**] was his secret, his empire his destiny. The U-21 final loomed, and Europe would bow.
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