Both teams filed back to their benches, the air thick with sweat, chants, and the static hum of expectation.
Leo collapsed onto the bench, towel already over his head. His chest heaved, ragged breaths escaping loud enough for every Lincoln player to hear. The Maestro had burned bright, but the flame was flickering.
Coach Owen’s gaze lingered on him, one brow drawn, weighing choices heavier than tactics.
The towel shifted. Leo lowered it just enough for his golden eyes—dimming now, but still burning—to meet the coach’s.
"Don’t take me out," he rasped, voice broken but unwavering. "I can do this."
He pressed the towel back to his face, body folding like a bow under strain, but he didn’t yield.
The bench fell silent. No jokes from Cael. No smirk from Riku. Even Julian didn’t move. They all knew—the second half wasn’t going to be about just skill anymore. It was about will.
And Leo was daring anyone to doubt his.
Coach Owen rose from his seat, shoulders squared, voice cutting through the ragged breaths and pounding hearts.
"You saw their fangs," he said, low but sharp. "This is San Dimas at full power. And in the second half, they won’t let up. They’ll keep pressing, keep biting, until one of you breaks."
Silence. Every Lincoln player leaned forward.
"So we don’t break," coach Owen continued. "We absorb it. All of it. Let them throw their fire, let them bare their claws. We bend, but we don’t shatter. Not once. Not ever."
His hand clenched into a fist, lifted in front of them.
"Think of a bow," he said. "Pulled back. Tense. Dangerous. That’s us. Absorb their weight, hold steady—and when the moment comes, when fate opens the gap—" His arm snapped forward, slicing the air. "—we launch."
The words hung like steel in the air.
"Yes, Coach!" The chorus erupted, loud, raw, alive.
Coach Owen gave one nod, then exhaled and dropped back onto the bench, as if to share their burden in silence. The room simmered, every Lincoln player vibrating with tension, waiting for the whistle that would drag them back into the storm.
The whistle cut through the air, sharp as a blade.
Both benches stirred. Both teams rose.
Leo yanked the towel from his face and tossed it aside, the weight of fatigue still heavy on his shoulders—but his eyes burned again. Julian caught it, steadying him with words low but firm.
"Take it easy. Leave it to us, captain."
The captain who usually laughed, teased, who carried the team with a grin—right now he was steel, jaw locked, gaze fixed.
"Okay, okay," Leo muttered, almost to himself, then louder, to all of them: "Take care of it. I’ll go all out in the last twenty-five."
A hand slammed around his shoulders. Cael, grinning like a wolf.
"You can leave it to us."
Before Leo could reply, Cael pulled him in tighter, almost lifting him with the force of his embrace. A ripple of laughter broke the tension, just for a heartbeat.
Together, they rose. Together, they marched.
Lincoln walked back to the pitch as one—blue shirts lined in unity, hearts hammering the same rhythm.
The referee’s arm swung. The ball was set.
The second half began with a bang.
Julian’s mind was already decided.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +20 To All Attributes]
It tore through his body like fire, every nerve screaming—but he didn’t care. If his bones cracked, if his muscles burned, so be it. He would push through.
The ball rolled to Leo in midfield. One touch, then out to Felix on the right.
Julian and Noah were already slicing forward, tearing open space, demanding the ball. Felix spotted it—drove a pass between defenders—
The San Dimas anchor stepped in like a wall, body positioned perfectly, timing flawless.
Julian’s boots skidded as he killed his run and spun back. Noah mirrored him. Both sprinted, retreating to protect the line.
Elijah wasted no time. A diagonal pass snapped wide, hitting the San Dimas winger in stride. One touch, then a feed straight to Miles.
Victor was already cutting into the box.
Kai, from the opposite flank, blitzing inside like a dagger.
Miles didn’t look rushed. He never did. His foot rolled over the ball once, then he struck with the outside of his boot. A pass shaped like a lie—curving one way, dragging defenders, but hiding its true intention.
The crowd gasped at the spin, but Lincoln’s backline didn’t bite.
Riku clung to Victor, smothering his space. Noah shadowed Kai, refusing to give ground.
The passing lane shimmered.
Lincoln wanted them to believe the line was safe.
The ball reached Victor—
But before his terrifying first touch could spark, Riku struck. A perfect cut, body braced, eyes burning. The trap had sprung.
His clearance ripped the ball back into Lincoln’s control. The rightful source is novel[f]ire.net
Leo caught it, velvet on his boots, rhythm pulsing through his veins.
Julian slid beside him.
[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 10 Seconds]
Julian’s body flared with strain. His bones creaked, muscles throbbed, veins burned under the skill’s weight. But his mind... his mind sharpened, expanded.
He reached into the arsenal of his past life.
A technique most never mastered.
A forbidden art reserved for the bound—
Memories stabbed through him: warriors of his past life standing back-to-back, blades singing in unison, souls tethered until death.
The Link was not about domination. It was about surrender. To connect was to trust your partner utterly, to lay bare your rhythm and accept theirs. Failure meant collapse. Success meant transcendence.
In that old world, it was born from lovers. Man and woman tethered in spirit, their minds entwined, their movements one breath, one strike.
If the Corpse Control skill had made Julian a puppeteer...
then this was different.
Two minds becoming one.
Conductor and warrior.
A wire snapped into place, invisible but unbreakable. Leo’s rhythm poured into Julian, Julian’s fire surged into Leo. Their thoughts brushed, overlapped, fused.
The orchestra had found its second conductor.
Julian staggered for half a step as the fusion hit him, his vision bending, doubling, then aligning. He felt Leo’s heartbeat inside his own chest.
He tasted the iron of Leo’s blood at the back of his throat. Every flick of the captain’s ankle was already written across Julian’s nerves before it happened. And in return, Leo felt Julian’s hunger, the emperor’s weight pressing against him, pushing his tired body to dance again.
And as the Link sealed, the pitch itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the song that would split the night in two.