The chance came—finally, after a storm of wasted chances, the door cracked open.
Julian stood in the center, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his jaw.
The rhythm of the match had shifted again, the defenders weary but still clinging, like men clinging to a wall in a flood.
He felt the pull in his body, the call of the pitch.
Leo darted up beside him, the two of them sliding roles without a word.
Striker and playmaker—no fixed line between them. Noah waited wide left, Felix cutting sharp on the right, Leo ghosting ahead in the middle.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +15 Technique Attributes]
Julian’s eyes sharpened. The ball at his feet sang like steel under his control.
With the outside of his boot, he faked left—body twisting, hips lying—but the ball bent right, slicing through the grass like a blade toward Felix.
Crenshaw’s defenders bit on the feint, shadows dragged the wrong way. But not Javion.
He read it. He always read it.
The captain’s eyes narrowed as he broke from the line, his stride like a wolf scenting prey. He tore across the box toward Felix.
Felix cushioned the ball with one touch, breath catching as Javion crashed into him. Shoulder into chest—strength against will.
Felix staggered back, boot barely keeping the ball alive. His frame trembled, boots skidding on the turf, but his focus didn’t waver. He forced the ball forward another meter, desperate to buy a second, a heartbeat.
Javion’s hand pressed, body smothering him. The weight of Crenshaw’s defense fell on Felix alone. He gritted his teeth, muscles straining, fighting a battle he couldn’t win for long.
The ball rolled loose, caught between their clash, spinning in no-man’s land.
Javion’s leg hooked around, hunting for it, prying it away. Felix’s boots scraped, clinging to possession by threads.
But it wasn’t enough.
He was seconds from losing it.
Javion’s boot scraped through the chaos, his frame shoving Felix off balance.
The ball slipped free—caught under his command. For a breath, Crenshaw’s captain looked ready to end the threat.
The winger appeared like a thief in the night, sliding in as Javion straightened. One touch. A clean steal.
"What—?!" Javion’s snarl cracked across the box, shock breaking his usual composure.
But Noah was already gone, dragging the ball forward with blistering pace.
His stride carved into the penalty area. Ahead—Julian and Leo surged together, shadows cutting into the teeth of the defense.
Only two defenders left. And Javion—desperately chasing from behind.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +10 To All Attributes]
The air itself sharpened.
Noah drove inward, cutting diagonally into the box. Julian mirrored his angle, Leo ghosting alongside him, the three of them converging like blades of a trident.
The goalkeeper crouched, locked on Noah, weight coiled to pounce.
Noah slashed the ball across—straight to Julian.
But Julian... let it roll.
The ball skipped past his boots, sliding into the path of Leo.
It was like watching a replay, destiny circling back on itself.
Leo wound his leg as if to strike—
Defender lunging, body blocking, eyes squeezed shut.
He feinted—boot ghosting over the ball, before flicking it back.
The pass cut sharper than any blade. Julian’s boot met it.
The goalkeeper launched himself low, body sprawling at Julian’s feet, gloves stretching.
Julian chipped. Not high—just enough. The ball rose, kissed by his boot, arcing above the keeper’s desperate reach.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +20 To All Attributes]
Julian surged forward, chest heaving, eyes burning. The ball hung in the air for a blink, spinning like the world itself had slowed. He met it with his head, guiding it over himself, letting it drop behind.
Body twisting like a wheel, motion one fluid storm.
The volley cracked like thunder. Leather met lace, power met precision. The net rippled, snapping taut with the strike.
The roar split the pitch.
For a moment, the stadium froze.
The Crenshaw crowd, loud all game, faltered into stunned silence—then broke into scattered shouts, disbelief spilling from their throats.
Words clashed and tangled, but none of them made sense. They had just watched the impossible.
Javion’s boot slammed into the turf, dirt scattering like sparks. His jaw clenched so tight a vein bulged across his temple.
On the bench, D-Ro sat with his bandaged leg propped, teeth grinding hard enough to bleed.
He leaned forward, fists trembling, like his body was trying to stand even if his ankle refused.
His face shifted, the heat of frustration snuffed out. What replaced it was colder. Sharper. His stare wasn’t rage. It was evolution—like a predator deciding to shed its skin.
The replay still hung in the minds of everyone watching: a spinning volley, hit with both savage power and surgical precision. Not luck. Not accident. A weapon forged in fire.
On Lincoln’s sideline, Coach Owen’s lips curved into something rare. A smile. His fist clenched tight, but not in restraint—this was pride, burning steady like a torch.
Julian was already gone, sprinting to the corner flag, his chest heaving, his grin wolfish.
His teammates crashed into him one by one—Leo, Noah, and Felix—all piling on, their voices tearing into the night.
The scoreboard glowed. The match still burned. But with that single strike, one truth rang clear:
Julian Ashford had already carved his name into this season. The Golden Boot was his. Every goal a brand, every strike a seal.
And nothing—no defender, no keeper, no rival—
Nothing could stop him now.
The game rolled on, the rhythm unchanged—Lincoln pressing, hammering, battering Crenshaw’s lines with wave after wave of attacks.
Blue shirts swarmed like hunters scenting blood, their passes crisp, their movements fluid, their confidence undeniable.
But this time, every surge carried a new rhythm—confidence turned into hunger, hunger turned into arrogance. Each player carried Julian’s fire inside their lungs.
Felix’s runs grew sharper, his shoulders squaring like he wanted to break Javion himself. Noah, eyes wide with adrenaline, demanded the ball at every chance, as though he wanted to burn the left wing into ash.
Even Ethan and Aaron at the backline pushed higher, daring Crenshaw to counter. Lincoln didn’t just press—they devoured.
The stadium shook with it. Every pass cracked like a drum, every clearance like a clash of cymbals. The pitch itself seemed to tilt under Lincoln’s dominance, every blade of grass bending toward Crenshaw’s goal.
Crenshaw looked smaller—not just missing players, not just broken by injury, but dwarfed by a side that refused to yield.
But beneath it, Julian felt it.
Not in the scoreline, not in the crowd, but in the air itself.
A weight pressing against his skin, prickling the back of his neck.
He glanced across the pitch. D-Lo. The boy’s movements had changed—sharper, colder. Every touch carried an edge, like steel being drawn from a sheath. His gaze never left Julian, not once.
Julian had felt eyes like that before. Not here. Not on this field.
Long ago, in another life, he had stood across from men who wanted him dead, whose entire being sharpened into a single point of violence.
The kind of stare that didn’t look at you—it pierced through you, searching for cracks to tear open. And now, that stare burned out of D-Lo.
Something was coming.
The whistle cut through the tension.
The first half ended.
Lincoln walked off the pitch with their lead intact, shoulders high, lungs burning with victory’s scent. But Julian’s steps were slower, heavier.
His chest still throbbed from the goal, but his instincts screamed louder than his heartbeat.
This wasn’t finished.