The referee marched San Dimas back, arms spread wide as he pointed to the spot for the wall. Golden jerseys shuffled, forming their barrier, shoulders locked, eyes narrowed.
Julian and Leo stood over the ball, breath mingling in the night air.
" So we shoot it?" Riku jogged up, voice edged with urgency.
"Too far," Noah said, glancing from the ball to the wall, then to Malik waiting in the net like a coiled hawk. "Can either of you really manage that?"
Leo tilted his head toward Julian, golden hue faint but still burning.
Julian pressed his tongue against his teeth, eyes narrowing at the distance. Thirty yards. Not impossible—but against Malik? Against that wall? It was like aiming at a fortress.
"I can manage... maybe." His voice was steady, but doubt curled at the edges. "But I don’t know if it’ll break through."
He raised an eyebrow at Leo, as if to say, you trust me with this?
Leo’s response was simple. He reached out, clapped Julian’s shoulder, and let a grin tug at his lips.
The crowd buzzed, waiting. The wall stamped its feet. The referee’s whistle slid between his lips, ready.
Julian stepped back, exhaling once, steadying his pulse.
This wasn’t just a free kick.
This was a test of faith.
Julian set the ball down, the leather pressing against the white chalk of the spot. His palms lingered on it a heartbeat longer, grounding himself.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +20 To All Attributes]
[Blood Furnace – Lv.1: Active]
[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 10 Seconds]
The system roared to life inside him.
Muscle fibers screamed as though chains were tightening around them. His blood surged like molten fire, veins lit with scarlet heat. The Blood Furnace restored him—stamina, strength, spirit all surging back to peak in a single, violent rush.
Julian inhaled sharply. Every tendon felt strung to its limit. Every joint coiled with unnatural precision.
The roar of the stadium dimmed in his ears, replaced by the pulse of his heartbeat. He could hear his body—hear the grind of bone, the snap of tendon, the rush of blood as if the world itself had leaned in to listen.
The smell of wet grass, the sting of chalk beneath his fingers, the weight of the ball—it all sharpened into unbearable clarity.
Not something ornate. Not something gilded.
A kick so sharp it split the air.
A strike trained to cut like lightning.
No stormclouds answered here. No divine thunderhead to crown his effort. The source of thɪs content is novel~fire~net
But the power—the speed—would be undeniable.
Julian stepped back, shoulders squaring, eyes narrowing on Malik’s frame beyond the wall.
The scouts leaned forward.
Even the wind seemed to pause.
He would not just shoot.
He would summon a storm.
Maybe the answer of fate itself.
The night sky, heavy with clouds, finally broke.
Raindrops tapped against skin and turf, at first light—then steady, enough to blur vision, enough to make every strike slippery, harder, crueler.
Leo’s eyes flicked to Julian, worry cutting through his golden trance.
Rain and wind—any normal shot would die against them.
But Julian wasn’t normal.
He drew in one breath. Then another.
Crest, from the stands, didn’t move. Her arms were folded, her expression carved from stone, but her eyes—sharp and maternal—followed every inch of his preparation.
Laura clutched her clipboard against her chest, whispering something like a prayer under the deafening silence. Even the scouts scribbling in the corners paused their pens. They didn’t want to miss this.
The players in the wall shifted nervously, boots grinding into the slick turf. Even Victor, unshaken until now, narrowed his eyes, studying Julian like he was staring at something inhuman.
A strange, electric tension laced the air—an unspoken sense that this kick was bigger than just a goal attempt.
The referee’s whistle sliced through the night.
Julian’s first step cracked like thunder.
The second hammered like war drums.
By the third, even the rain seemed to recoil.
The sound ripped the stadium apart. The ball tore through the storm, a silver bolt cutting reality.
The wall didn’t even rise in time. The scouts didn’t blink.
Malik launched, reflexes faster than thought—but the shot was faster still.
2–1. Lincoln leading.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then the stadium erupted, drowning even the rain.
Julian roared, chest heaving, voice carrying above the storm.
Lincoln swarmed him, arms wrapping, fists pounding his back, their shouts mixing with the crowd’s chaos.
Under the floodlights, under the rain, they weren’t just players.
On San Dimas’s side, disbelief rippled through their formation. Kai kicked at the wet turf, teeth clenched, muttering curses lost in the storm.
Elijah slammed a fist against his thigh, eyes narrowing like iron. Miles froze, replaying the curve of the shot in his mind, trying to dissect an equation that shouldn’t exist.
And Malik, Malik stood in the net, chest heaving, gloves dripping, his face unreadable. He hadn’t been beaten clean in months. But now... he had.
Victor broke the silence for them. He didn’t scream. Didn’t rage.
Rainwater streaked his face, but his grin was sharper than a blade.
"That’s it," he muttered. "That’s what I came for."
The referee jogged to midfield, whistling them back. Time still bled on the clock. Minutes to play. Rain falling harder, the pitch slick, every blade of grass a hazard.
The crowd never settled. Lincoln’s side thundered with chants, voices shredding into the night. "JU-LI-AN! JU-LI-AN!" San Dimas’s fans roared louder in answer, a wall of gold and silver shaking their banners against the storm. The clash wasn’t just on the pitch anymore—it was in the stands, in the sky, in the rain itself.
Julian pulled free of his teammates’ embrace, his chest burning, his throat raw. His eyes lifted through the downpour, locking across the field on Victor.
The boy in gold pointed at him again.
And Julian, breathing fire, drenched in storm and sweat, answered with the faintest nod.
The storm had only begun.