Victor caught Julian’s celebration, and instead of anger, he smiled.
"Nice," he muttered to himself. "That’s how it should be."
It wasn’t the smile of a boy humbled. It was the grin of a predator who had just scented prey worth devouring. His shoulders rolled back, chest expanding with a calm breath. No panic. No rage. Only hunger.
The whistle dragged both teams back to the center. San Dimas set up for the restart.
Victor tapped the ball to Miles, and the war surged forward again.
For the next twenty-five minutes, it was chaos.
Back and forth. Blow for blow.
San Dimas pressed with fury. Miles threaded dagger-like passes toward Victor, searching for that one opening. But each time, Riku barked orders from the back line, pulling Lincoln’s defense into shape, snapping the trap shut. Victor’s timing slipped into offside more than once, frustration flickering across his face.
Lincoln answered with their own fire.
Leo, golden eyes alight, guided the midfield like a general in trance. Every touch of his boots sang with control, every pass carved space from nothing. He bent the tempo of the match, dragging even Victor down into midfield just to contain him.
Felix burst down the right, only for Kai to explode back with his Blitz Run, slicing the ball cleanly from his feet.
On the other end, Noah tried to cut inside, but Elijah’s Iron Wall closed like jaws, intercepting cleanly without fouling.
The pitch burned with effort. Neither side giving. Neither side breaking.
The stadium became a furnace. Steam rose off bodies, sweat misting under floodlights. Every duel drew gasps, every tackle ripped a shout from the stands.
But then—Julian felt it.
A shift in the rhythm.
The Maestro’s song faltering.
He turned his head. Leo’s chest heaved, his breath ragged. The golden hue in his eyes flickered, dimming like a flame gasping for air. His movements slowed, each step heavier, each pass just a fraction less sharp.
Julian’s gut twisted.
He could hear it—the labored rhythm of Leo’s lungs, loud even through the roar of the crowd.
Three more minutes until halftime.
Three minutes where San Dimas would smell weakness.
Julian’s fists clenched.
He shifted his stance, scanning every line, every shadow in San Dimas’s shape. The ball wasn’t the only thing moving—their eyes were.
Kai’s glances darting wider. Elijah stepping higher. Victor pacing like a caged wolf, his head tilting just enough to catch Leo’s stagger. They knew. They smelled it.
The game’s weight pressed harder than ever. Because for all Leo had given them, his trance couldn’t last forever.
And if Leo fell before the break...
San Dimas would strike.
Each passing second tilted the balance. Lincoln’s midfield no longer pulsed with Leo’s rhythm—his dominance fading, his golden trance dimming.
And into that vacuum stepped Miles Becker.
His Algorithm Pass unfurled like code across the field, dissecting angles, splicing runs, corrupting the flow Lincoln had built.
He didn’t run like other players—no wasted movement, no desperation. His head stayed level, his feet glided, his eyes narrowed as if he were staring at invisible grids only he could see.
To Miles, football wasn’t chaos. It was mathematics, and he was rewriting the equation with every step.
The clock bled toward forty-five. The final minute. Get full chapters from NoveI★Fire.net
The ball snapped across their midfield, Elijah feeding into Miles.
Victor had already cut into the box, pulling Riku with him. Lincoln’s captain stuck tight, body low, every muscle screaming to shut him down.
Miles didn’t hesitate.
One touch, then—click.
His heel flicked the ball backward mid-stride, the pass disguised, weight perfect. The defender tracking him bit on the feint, twisting the wrong way.
The ball slid clean into Victor’s path.
Riku rose, a wall of muscle, his frame towering above the fifteen-year-old striker. In the air, the duel should have been his. He won the height, the reach—every natural advantage.
But Victor was more than a boy.
A shove. Subtle, ruthless. Just enough force to jar Riku mid-jump. His header slipped, the clearance mistimed.
The ball spilled, bouncing awkwardly to Victor’s left side.
Riku hit the turf, scrambling to recover.
Cael surged from his line, gloves wide.
But Victor didn’t shoot. Not yet.
He feinted, juggling the ball up with impossible calm. Riku bit, Cael lunged—both committing to the strike that never came.
The ball popped over Riku’s head.
And when Victor spun, he was already there to meet it again.
The strike tore through the box, past Cael’s desperate dive. The net rippled, vibrating with the violence of the finish.
San Dimas’s side of the stands exploded into thunder, a tidal wave of roars, banners, fists in the air. Their bench spilled out, players howling, fists pumping.
Victor sprinted straight to the crowd, chest heaving, arms outstretched. Then he turned—eyes locked on Julian.
His finger pointed across the pitch.
No words. No grin. Just the gesture, sharp as a blade.
Julian’s breath caught. That finger wasn’t just a taunt. It was a challenge across time, across fate itself.
A boy of fifteen daring a reincarnated warrior to prove himself worthy. Their duel wasn’t about goals—it was about dominance.
The question burned in Julian’s chest, hotter than the roar of the San Dimas crowd.
Victor’s finger still lingered in his mind, sharp as a blade, daring him to answer.
Kickoff resumed. Lincoln tapped the ball forward, the seconds bleeding away. But no rhythm came, no chance for reprieve—because almost instantly—
The referee’s whistle cut through the air.
The scoreboard glared its truth in red digits, the draw etched across the floodlit sky.
The crowd’s roar didn’t fade—it shifted, a restless hum that vibrated through the bleachers. Lincoln fans clapped hard, voices steady, trying to drown the unease. San Dimas’s supporters thundered louder, sensing momentum had tilted.
Players trudged toward the benches. Sweat clung heavy to their kits, steam rising in the cool night air. Some heads hung, others burned with fire—but all eyes were pulled to the tunnel of minutes still to come.
Because the first half hadn’t ended.
It had only sharpened the blade.
The second half waited.
Hungrier. Sharper. Merciless.
And there, in its shadow, Julian clenched his fists.
The war wasn’t decided yet.
The real carving—the half that would decide fates—was only about to begin.