Julian stirred awake to the roar of celebration.
The rain had passed, but the pitch still glistened, blades of grass slick beneath the floodlights. Damp air clung to his skin, heavy with the scent of mud and sweat.
His eyelids fluttered, heavy as stone, each blink dragging him back from the edge of unconsciousness.
The first thing he felt wasn’t victory—it was the pounding in his skull, the dull throb of overdrawn power. His body screamed, but the world’s roar reminded him that somehow, against everything, they had done it.
Crest sat beside him, knees drawn close, her sharp posture softened by the way her eyes clung to his.
"You okay?" her voice cut through the noise, low but steady.
Julian blinked, pressed a palm to his temple. "Yeah... just a headache."
A shadow loomed. Leo, hair plastered by rain, grinned as he crouched down.
Behind him came Noah, Riku, Ricky, Cael—faces lined with exhaustion, joy, relief.
"Yo, our emperor awakens from his slumber!" Cael crowed, dramatic as ever.
Aaron piled on, bowing like a jester. "Do you feel well, Your Majesty?"
Julian couldn’t help the crooked grin tugging at his lips. "Idiots."
The tension shattered. For a moment, they weren’t warriors crawling out of a battlefield—they were kids again, laughing in the pitch. The contrast made Julian’s chest tighten in a way he couldn’t name.
Laughter broke out, a chorus that cut the lingering tension. Leo and Noah hooked their arms under his shoulders, helping him rise. Crest stood back, watching every movement with worry still etched deep in her gaze, but she didn’t stop them.
"Damn, you burned everything tonight," Noah muttered, half-admiration, half-scolding.
Julian steadied himself on his feet, chest rising with the echo of the crowd. He glanced across the pitch.
Faces carved with frustration, anger, resignation. Yet beneath it all, the quiet understanding—they’d qualified for CIF. Their war wasn’t over.
This battlefield would be left behind.
The crowd spilled over the barriers, surging onto the soaked pitch.
To them, it wasn’t just a victory. It was Lincoln’s world cup.
Julian blinked at the flood of faces—classmates he’d never spoken to, parents he didn’t know, strangers chanting his name. Lincoln football had never been this famous. Not until tonight. Not until the no-loss run.
[ MATCH PERFORMANCE RATING 14.2]
[System Quest Complete]
Win against San Dimas
Reward: Legendary Pack
Of course, Julian pressed yes.
But as the cheers roared and his teammates lifted him on their shoulders, he held the thought close. The pack could wait. That was for later. Alone.
Coach Owen’s voice cut through the flood of noise.
"Alright, enough! Stop—it’s already night!"
Groans and sighs rose from the Lincoln fans and players alike. Faces twisted in mock disappointment.
Owen just chuckled, raising his hands.
"Hahaha. Tomorrow—at The Final Whistle. We’ll continue there. For now, these kids need rest."
He looked squarely at his team, as if daring anyone to protest.
"YEAHHHHHHH!" the crowd bellowed, breaking into fresh cheers before finally beginning to disperse.
One by one, the field emptied. The floodlights dimmed. The storm of voices softened into echoes.
Lincoln’s players, dragging heavy legs and sweat-soaked kits, shuffled back into the locker room. They changed in silence, too tired for words, the adrenaline finally crashing out of their systems.
The sound of velcro ripping, boots thudding to the floor, and water hissing in showers filled the void where chatter should’ve been. Even Cael, usually the loudest, slumped against his locker with eyes half-closed.
Julian stepped into the night air again, every muscle in his body reminding him of the war he’d just fought. Crest was already waiting by the car, arms folded, eyes sharp even in the dark.
He started walking toward her— Updates are released by NoveI-Fire.ɴet
But a voice stopped him.
"Can I take your time?"
Victor stood there in clean clothes, wet still clinging to his hair, his gaze sharp as fire. His expression wasn’t bitter. It wasn’t broken.
"Yeah," Julian replied.
They walked side by side, silence stretching until Victor finally spoke.
"So... when do you leave the country?"
Julian froze. His head snapped toward him.
Did someone talk? Did Crest? Laura?
Victor smirked at Julian’s stunned face.
"Did I hit it?" he pressed.
Julian blinked. "What?"
"At your level, you should already be looking abroad," Victor said, eyes scanning him like a detective picking apart evidence. Then, with a shrug: "Basically, you’re not that good."
Julian narrowed his eyes, but Victor raised a hand.
"No offense. I mean it."
Julian stayed quiet, jaw set.
"But what makes you different," Victor went on, tone steady, "is that ability of yours to keep breaking limits. I don’t know how to explain it, but every time we meet, you surprise me. Scouts will see it. Hell, you probably already have an agent."
Julian’s thoughts flared.
What are you, Sherlock Holmes?
A name from one of the novels he’d devoured in this world.
Victor didn’t notice his silence. "I say this because... after CIF, I’m going abroad too."
Julian blinked. "Where?"
"La Liga," Victor said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "That’s the dream."
"You?" he asked back.
Julian exhaled. "Still sorting it out. Maybe Germany."
Victor reached into his bag, rifling through gear before pulling out his damp jersey. He held it out.
Julian’s lips quirked as he tugged off his own shirt in return.
"Let’s meet again," Julian said, voice low but firm. "No—let’s play again."
The exchange was wordless after that. Just fabric, sweat, and promise.
It was Julian’s second jersey swap, and as the cloth settled in his hands, he chuckled under his breath. The fabric was heavy, still damp with effort, smelling of grass and rain.
For all its weight, it felt less like a shirt and more like a pact, the kind that bound two warriors until the next battlefield.
Then he turned, continuing toward Crest’s waiting car.