The smell of rich black coffee and aged Bavarian oak filled the executive boardroom on the second floor of Säbener Straße.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, light snow drifted over the training pitches below.
Inside, the atmosphere was thick with the quiet gravity of a historic turning point.
Across the heavy mahogany table sat three men who held the destiny of German football in their hands.
Franz Beckenbauer leaned back in his leather armchair, elegant and composed.
To his right, General Manager Uli Hoeneß tapped a fountain pen against a thick stack of legal documents, his round face flushed with stubborn determination.
Beside him, Karl-Heinz Rummenigge carefully reviewed the clauses page by page through thin reading glasses.
On the other side of the desk sat Leonhard Weiss, dressed in a sharp charcoal woolen pullover, accompanied by his trusted Munich-based attorney and agent, Stefan Becker.
“Five years,” Hoeneß said, sliding the parchment across the polished wood until it rested before Leonhard.
“The maximum duration permitted by FIFA for a player under eighteen.
A base salary of twenty-five thousand Euros per week, rising automatically by thirty percent each season.
A goal bonus of ten thousand Euros per official strike.
And most importantly…”
Hoeneß leaned forward, his steel-gray eyes boring directly into Leonhard’s.
“A buyout clause of one hundred and twenty million Euros.
Non-negotiable for foreign clubs.
Roman Abramovich can bring a suitcase full of Siberian oil money, and David Dein can cry in his London office—you are not leaving Bavaria, Leonhard.
Not now.
Not ever.”
Stefan Becker adjusted his spectacles, scanned the final paragraphs, and gave a slight, satisfied nod toward his young client.
“The terms are unprecedented for a fifteen-year-old in Bundesliga history, Herr Hoeneß.
More importantly, the sporting progression guarantees match our expectations.”
Leonhard did not hesitate.
He took the Montblanc fountain pen offered by Hoeneß.
His hand was perfectly steady.
In fluid, decisive strokes, he etched his signature across the bottom of every page: Leonhard Weiss — January 18, 2006.
[THE FOOTBALL SOVEREIGN MATRIX]
Host: Leonhard Weiss
Status Updated: First-Team Senior Professional (FC Bayern München)
[MILESTONE UNLOCKED: THE ROYAL PLEDGE]
• Bound to the Crown of Bavaria until June 2011
• Trait Resonance Activated: [The Weight of the Crown]
(Passive: Composure under hostile away stadium pressure +10%)
• Sovereign Essence Balance: 1 Node Available
As the ink settled into the paper, Franz Beckenbauer stood up with a warm, dignified smile.
He walked over to a glass display case at the side of the boardroom, unlocked the brass latch, and lifted out a pristine red home jersey.
Beckenbauer approached the table and held the shirt open with both hands.
Across the back, printed in crisp white flocking above the club’s iconic crest, were a name and a number that carried the weight of German football history: WEISS 9.
Gerd wore this number when we conquered Europe in the seventies,” Beckenbauer said softly, his voice carrying the warmth of personal memory.
“Giovane Élber danced with it into the hearts of our supporters.
Since Giovane left, this sacred shirt has waited in the glass case for a true successor, while Roy leads our line with the number ten.
In this club, the number nine is not a shirt, Leonhard.
It is a crown
Beckenbauer laid the jersey into Leonhard’s hands.
“Yesterday morning, you proved to Oliver that you possess the fire,” the Kaiser continued, his hand resting firmly on Leonhard’s broad shoulder.
“Now, wear it with honor.
Lead this club where it belongs—at the summit of the world.”
Leonhard ran his fingers over the textured fabric.
The red was deep, rich, and unmistakable.
He felt no crushing anxiety, no trembling intimidation.
To his tactician’s soul from 2026, this was not a burden to fear; it was the exact weapon he had returned to this era to wield.
“I will make sure no one ever forgets who wore this number, Herr Beckenbauer,” Leonhard answered, his voice quiet, calm, and unshakable.
Rummenigge smiled broadly and clapped his hands together.
“Spoken like a true Bavarian.”
Before the ink could even dry, the heavy double doors of the boardroom clicked open.
Felix Magath strode inside, holding a thick black tactical binder tucked under his arm.
The head coach’s stern face surveyed the room, his eyes lingering on the red number nine resting before Leonhard.
“Is the ink dry?” Magath asked gruffly.
“He’s officially ours, Felix,” Hoeneß grinned, leaning back in his chair with immense relief.
“No one touches him.”
Magath nodded once, then dropped a match schedule onto the desk in front of Leonhard.
“Saturday afternoon.
3:30 PM,” Magath said without wasting a single breath.
“Matchday 18 of the Bundesliga.
Borussia Mönchengladbach away at Borussia-Park.
Roy Makaay is recovering from a bruised knee, and Santa Cruz is still struggling with his ankle.”
Magath looked straight into Leonhard’s eyes.
“You are traveling with the senior squad on Friday morning, Weiss.
You will sit on the bench.
And if we need a goal in the second half, I expect you to tear their defensive line apart exactly as you did to Lúcio yesterday.”
A faint, predatory smile flickered at the corner of Leonhard’s lips.
“Consider it done, Coach.”
[NEW MISSION ASSIGNED: BUNDESLIGA SENIOR DEBUT]
• Match: Borussia Mönchengladbach vs.
FC Bayern München
• Venue: Borussia-Park, Mönchengladbach (54,000 Capacity)
• Objective: Secure match minutes and record first senior goal/assist.
• Potential Reward: [Trait Resonance: Fox-in-the-Box Instinct Lv.
1]
Ten minutes later, Leonhard walked out of the main entrance of Säbener Straße, carrying his new kit bag over one shoulder.
Outside the gates, a small crowd of local Bavarian supporters and youth academy kids had gathered in the snow, whispering excitedly as they caught sight of the tall teenager.
Leaning against the wrought-iron fence under the shade of an old chestnut tree stood a slender, graceful figure wrapped in a dark green wool coat and a cream-colored scarf.
Clara Schneider.
Her cheeks were lightly flushed from the cold, her gentle hazel eyes sparkling as she looked at him.
In her gloved hands, she held an old analog Leica camera and a warm paper cup of roasted chestnuts from the Viktualienmarkt.
“So…” Clara asked softly as Leonhard walked up to her, a teasing smile touching her lips.
“Is it official, Herr Number Nine?”
Leonhard smiled—a genuine, warm expression that only ever appeared around her.
He unzipped the bag slightly, revealing the pristine red fabric with the white number nine folded neatly inside.
“Mönchengladbach on Saturday,” Leonhard said gently, taking her gloved hand in his.
“Get your ticket ready, Clara.
The show is about to start.”