Awakening the Messi template, Florentino Pérez begs me to join Real Madrid

2025 year 9 month 10 day,

The air in Buenos Aires was filled with disappointed jeers and boos from the fans.

The stands of the Memorial Stadium.

The clock ticked to 93 minutes, and the referee put his whistle in his mouth—Argentina 0-1 Ecuador.

"¡La concha de tu madre!"

A fat man with face paint stomped on an empty beer can, squashing it. "Has Scaloni gotten mate in his head?!"

An old man next to him shouted in a hoarse voice, "Where's Messi?! Tell me why Messi is sitting at home watching TV?!"

The boos were deafening.

The camera panned across the substitutes' bench, where Scaloni stood with his hands in his pockets.

Seat number 10 is empty – the official explanation is "muscle fatigue," but betting forums have long been circulating rumors that Messi and the Football Association president have a falling out.

On the balcony of a shared apartment in a village in Xi'an, Wu Shi stared at his phone screen in the light.

"Damn, we really won." He blew a smoke ring into the night.

The TV was replaying the goal—Argentina's defense was like a wooden stake; the Ecuadorian striker pushed the ball to the far corner, and Martinez made a sluggish save, as if he hadn't slept for three days.

Wu Shi swiped his finger across the screen of the bank's app and saw a notification pop up: +50,000 yuan.

"I knew there was something fishy going on in a competition that didn't affect advancement, and I was right!"

Open WeChat, and the "Meiheer Anti-Meiheer Gathering Place" group has already received over 999 messages.

Wu Shi types incredibly fast:

"The Chilean football king truly lives up to his name!"

Then Wu Shi immediately found a picture in his collection of emojis and sent it out.

"The South American charity casino team is open on time, welcome all you suckers."

"Without Messi, they'd lose to Ecuador? With Messi, they'd lose to Saudi Arabia! It's all scripted!"

The group chat exploded:

"Brother Wu is awesome! He made money again!"

"Please take me with you, bro!"

"I bet on Argentina to give a 1.5 handicap... It's a bit windy on the rooftop..."

Wu Shi replied, "I told you guys long ago, bet against Argentina in this match, and you'll be living in a villa by the sea. These guys are seasoned actors, they just scam you idiots."

He checked his WeChat balance. — He'd already earned nearly 200,000 yuan this month, much better than working a regular job.

My phone vibrated, and a message from Zhang Hao popped up: "Collected? Same place as always?"

Wu Shi replied with a "Let's go," and put on a wrinkled T-shirt.

There was a Messi poster on the shoe cabinet, but he had a small mustache like a Japanese man.

The exhaust fans in the hot pot restaurant were humming loudly, and the air was filled with the smell of beef tallow.

"Brother Shi, how did you figure that out?" Zhang Hao asked, panting heavily as he ate the spicy tripe.

Wu Shi took a swig of ice-cold beer and grinned:

"Do you even need to look at that? The handicap is set at 1.5. Have you checked how Argentina has been playing Ecuador lately? Three wins and two draws in five games. This handicap is clearly problematic. Besides, Messi isn't playing. How can the bookmakers trick people into betting if they don't offer a deeper handicap?"

"But Messi is 38 years old, isn't it normal for him to take rest periods?"

"Normal my ass." Wu Shi picked up a piece of beef tripe.

"You really think it's muscle fatigue? Let me tell you, this industry is all business. Bookmakers, clubs, agents—it's a one-stop shop. Argentina? The kings of point control in South America, a professional acting team."

As he got more carried away, his voice grew louder and louder: "If you ask me, Messi is just hyped up. What king of football, what greatest of all time? Has he ever won the Champions League since leaving Barcelona? He was terrible in Paris, but when he went to Miami to retire, he was still praised to the skies every day."

Someone at the next table turned around; it was a young man wearing an Argentina number 10 jersey.

Zhang Hao lowered his voice: "Brother Shi, keep your voice down..."

"What are you afraid of?"

Wu Shi raised his voice instead.

"Did I say something wrong? Relying on referees in the World Cup, getting overturned in the Champions League every year, missing penalties in the Copa America—this guy deserves to be called a football king? More like the Chilean football king, right? After all, he gave Chile two Copa America titles for free, hahaha!"

The young man in the jersey jumped up: "Say that again, you fucking idiot?!"

Wu Shi glanced at him sideways: "What, can't I say anything? Why is your father Mei lying at home today? 'Muscle discomfort' again? I bet he's afraid of being blamed!"

Zhang Hao apologized to the other party, saying he was drunk, threw down 200 yuan, and dragged Wu Shi out.

At 11:30, Wu Shi slumped in the passenger seat, muttering to himself.

"...Those Messi fans, when they lose, they blame Messi's teammates; when they win, they say Messi carried them to victory. Double standards..."

Zhang Hao gripped the steering wheel, remaining silent. He knew Wu Shiyi acted like this when he was drunk.

"If you ask me, no matter how bad the Chinese national football team is... oh my god!"

The high beams cleaved the night like two knives.

The sound of the brakes was shrill and piercing.

boom--

Wu Shi felt like he was flying.

Time seemed to slow down. He could see the windshield shattered into a spiderweb pattern, Zhang Hao's terrified face, and the GG sign flashing past the car window—Messi was grinning, holding up a sports drink.

"Damn it... I have to see your face even on my deathbed..."

This was the last thing he thought of.

My whole body aches, especially my head. This smells like disinfectant. Where am I?

Takeshi opened his eyes.

"He's awake! Doctor, he's awake!"

The woman's voice had a slight Shaanxi accent.

Wu Shi strained to focus and saw the face of a middle-aged woman with red eyes and deep wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. A doctor in a white coat stood beside her, writing something.

"Where...am I?" The voice was so hoarse it didn't sound like his own.

"The hospital, you silly child." The woman wiped her eyes. "You fainted during training, it scared your mother to death."

Training? Mom?

Wu Shi's mind was a complete mess. His memory was still stuck on the car accident—

"What's the date today?" he asked with difficulty.

"August 15, 2010," the woman said, touching his forehead. "Are you still recovering from heatstroke?"

2010 years?

Wu Shi asked incredulously, "What?" He tried to sit up.

"Don't move," the doctor pressed him down.

"

"Wu Shi, right? Your team doctor came to check on you and said the training was too intense, plus the heat."

Team doctor? Training?

Fragmented images flooded in—red jerseys, a rubber track under the blazing sun, the coach's whistle, and then everything went black…

"Get some rest. Your coach will come to see you the day after tomorrow," the doctor said before leaving.

The ward fell silent. Wu Shi's mother kept rambling on and on, but he wasn't listening.

2010. That's not the right year.

He was born in 1994 in his previous life. In 2010, he was only sixteen years old and still in middle school. How could he have a team?

"Mom...how old am I?" His voice trembled.

"Sixteen? Are you really delirious from the fever?" His mother looked at him worriedly. "You won't turn sixteen until next month."

Sixteen years old. 2010.

Wu Shi's mind went blank for a moment. He slowly raised his hand—it was a thin hand with distinct knuckles and calloused palms, but unlike the rough hands he had in his previous life from working.

"Where's my phone?"

A domestically made knock-off phone, its touchscreen cracked at the corner. Wu Shi's hands trembled as he opened the browser; the 3G network loaded very slowly.

2010 8 Month 15 Day.

The first news item popped up: "Barcelona completes the treble, Messi becomes the youngest Ballon d'Or winner."

武石皱眉——不对。他记得2009年梅西拿金球时是22岁，但现在新闻里写的是「20岁创造历史」现在2010年梅西才20岁？梅西成90后了？

He continued flipping through the pages.

"The South Africa World Cup is about to kick off, with defending champions Brazil becoming the biggest favorites."

Brazil? Defending champions?

Wu Shi's heart raced. In his past life, Italy was the champion of the 2006 World Cup, wasn't they?

My fingers are swiping rapidly.

"Messi: I hope to make up for the regret of 2006 in South Africa" ​​-- 2006? Messi was only 16 then, and he already had regrets?

"Cristiano Ronaldo admits the Premier League is fiercely competitive, Manchester United aims for a three-peat"—wait, Cristiano Ronaldo, that nickname sounds like it came from a long time ago. Wait, didn't Cristiano Ronaldo go to Real Madrid in 2009?

Wu Shi broke out in a cold sweat. He searched for "2006 World Cup Final".

The page loads: Brazil 2-1 France.

It wasn't a penalty shootout between Italy and France.

It wasn't Zidane who headbutted Materazzi.

no…

He searched for "2009 Champions League final".

Barcelona 2-0 Manchester United – the same thing.

But the timeline is completely messed up:

Messi won his first Ballon d'Or in 2007 at the age of 17, and completed the treble at the age of 19 in 2009;

Cristiano Ronaldo was still called "Little Ronaldo" at Manchester United, and the president of Real Madrid is not Florentino Pérez.

Most importantly, Messi was already a starter in the 2006 World Cup when he was only 16 years old. Argentina reached the semi-finals but lost to the eventual champions, Brazil.

This is not a rebirth.

I've traveled to a parallel world.

As a seasoned bookworm who has been reading online novels for over a decade, Wu Shi quickly accepted the premise that he had transmigrated to a parallel world.

The history of football in this world is completely different from what he remembers:

Maradona's goal in the 1986 World Cup was disallowed as there was no "Hand of God," and Argentina ultimately finished as runners-up.

Ronaldo did not suffer any serious injuries and remained at his peak until 2008;

Zidane didn't headbutt anyone in the 2006 World Cup final; France won the penalty shootout, but only in the semi-finals…

Messi—the Messi of this world—became famous much earlier, winning the Ballon d'Or at 18, completing the treble at 21, and now at 21, he is already recognized as the next generation's football king.

But the Argentine national team remains the same:

The team reached the semi-finals in 2006, finished as runners-up in the Copa America in 2007, won a gold medal at the 2008 Olympics (the same as the previous one), and before the 2010 World Cup even started, the media was already hyping it up as "Messi will lead the team to victory."

Wu Shi continued scrolling through his own information.

Wu Shi, born in 1994, is 16 years old and a striker for the U19 team of Shaanxi Chanba. He was just promoted to the first team this month and currently has 0 professional appearances.

Family: Father died early (same here), mother works in a garment factory.

"Son, what's wrong? Don't scare Mom..." His mother grabbed his hand.

Wu Shi took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.

"Mom, I'm fine," he said, his voice more steady. "I'm just a little dazed."

He looked out the window. It was summer 2010, and the sunlight was blinding.

In this parallel world, Messi is even stronger.

And he, Wu Shi, a sixteen-year-old player in the China League One youth team, had no money or background, only those unreliable "future memories" in his mind.

But for some reason, a sense of resentment welled up from the bottom of my heart.

He hated Messi in his past life because he felt that Messi's success was all hype, a god created by the media and fans.

But the Messi of this world seems to be truly stronger, fulfilling his potential earlier, and closer to becoming the "King of Football"...

My phone vibrated, and a text message popped up:

"Xiao Wu, focus on recovering from your injury. You're on the roster for the game against BJ Baxy next Saturday, so get ready. — Coach Wang"

Wu Shi stared at that line of text for a long time.

Then he grinned.

He recalled that during his physical examination last month, he was 1.84 meters tall and weighed 150 kilograms. He had eight-pack abs from years of hard work and self-discipline, and his body fat percentage was 11%—that's practically Cristiano Ronaldo's physique! And he was only 16 and could still grow taller.

Fine. Since I've been given a second chance at life, and since Messi is stronger in this world…

Wouldn't it be more interesting to personally pull him down from his pedestal?

Outside the window, the cicadas were still chirping incessantly.

A whole new world of football has just begun to unfold before him.

(A voice, seemingly from nowhere, rings out in my head: Strong obsession detected... Matching...)

(Zzz... Error... Template library disorder...)

(Detected the deepest imprint of the host's subconscious: Lionel Messi (enhanced version of this world))

(Forced binding in progress... [Peak Messi Template - Parallel World Special Edition] Loading...)

Wu Shi's smile froze on his face.

A voice echoed in my head: System?

I've found you!

[Template: Lionel Messi (2008-2010 Treble-Winning Era - This Timeline)]

[Fusion degree: 0.001%]

[Warning: Rejecting the template will lead to cognitive breakdown, and the host will be unable to understand the rules of football in this world]

"Wh...what the hell?!" Wu Shi roared inwardly.

A Messi template? Or an enhanced version of the Messi template from a parallel universe?

"Get lost! Change it! I want Ronaldo's! I want Ronaldo's! Son Heung-min is fine too, or even Zheng Zhi's role model!"

[Application Refused]

[Deep Consciousness Scan Completed: Among the host's neural synapses related to "football," the correlation with "Messi" is 97.3%, while the combined correlation with all other players is 2.7%]

[The binding cannot be changed]

Wu Shi lay paralyzed on the bed, his face pale.

In his past life, he gambled on football and cursed in the streets; his greatest pleasure was watching Messi lose.

Now tell him he wants to become the person he hates most?

"I'd rather go lay bricks, deliver food, or quit playing soccer than take this shit!" he roared in his mind.

【receive】

[Template enters dormancy]

[Reactivation requires the host to actively use Messi's technical moves in professional matches.]

The sound disappeared.

The only sound in the ward was the hum of the electric fan.

Wu Shi stared at the cracks in the ceiling for a full ten minutes.

Then he chuckled.

"Okay, then I don't need it."

He muttered to himself,

"I refuse to believe it. With my physical attributes, plus the fact that I joined the first team at 16, even though it was in the second division, it means I have a natural talent. I don't believe I can't make it on my own!"

He closed his eyes.

"A Messi template? Even a dog wouldn't want that."