The final whistle sliced through the air.
Cheers erupted from the Lincoln High bench—relieved, tired, victorious. Across the field, El Monte’s players slumped, hands on hips, heads tilted back in frustration.
Julian walked toward the sideline, chest still heaving, legs trembling slightly from the thunderous sprint that had left everyone in shock. The sweat on his brow dripped like melting ice, but his eyes burned bright.
Then—he met Lucas’s gaze.
The El Monte striker was already walking toward him, jersey half untucked, smile wide despite the loss.
"That goal," Lucas said, chuckling. "I’ve never seen anything like it. Dumb as hell, but man—it worked."
Julian barked out a dry laugh. "Yeah... wasn’t really part of the plan."
Lucas nodded, bumping fists with him. "You’re weird, but I like your style. I hope we face each other again. In a real match."
"Same," Julian replied. "I’ll be ready next time."
Lucas turned and jogged back to his team, casual and light. There was something warm about him—like a flame that refused to burn out, no matter the score.
But then—another pair of eyes met Julian’s.
No smile. No warmth. Just cool calculation in every step.
The El Monte center back didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. That look alone said everything:
Julian exhaled. So this is what it feels like to face real competition.
Not just talent. But pride.
Both teams returned to their benches. Bodies sagged with exhaustion, jerseys soaked through. Laura, ever reliable, moved between them with cool towels and bottles of energy drink, ponytail bouncing as she moved.
Julian accepted his with a nod, letting the chilled liquid wash away the dryness in his throat. His body still hummed, a low vibration of leftover adrenaline and strain.
Coach Owens didn’t speak immediately. He stood off to the side, scribbling something into his black notebook with that same unreadable face.
Then—he looked up and locked eyes with Leonardo.
Leo stood up and stepped forward without hesitation.
"Alright," he called out, voice steady but proud. "We won."
His teammates perked up.
"Yeah, it was just a practice match. But we fought hard—and we walked off with the win."
"Hell yeah!" someone shouted.
A ripple of cheers followed, the kind only exhausted teenagers could produce.
"Don’t celebrate too hard yet. This is only step one. Tomorrow—we’ve got another match. Bellmere Prep."
He scanned the team, his gaze serious now.
"We win again. And then again. And when the last whistle blows—then we celebrate."
"YES CAPTAIN!" the team roared in unison.
Laughter and grins spread like wildfire.
Everyone was smiling... everyone except two.
Julian sat quietly, towel draped over his shoulders, sipping slowly from his drink. Cael leaned on a post beside him, arms crossed, silently watching everyone joke and laugh.
"What kind of celebration are they even talking about?" Julian muttered under his breath, half to himself.
Cael didn’t answer at first.
Then he smirked. "One that’ll probably involve bad pizza, loud music, and someone crying about college offers."
Julian chuckled. "Sounds chaotic."
"High school," Cael replied. "What do you expect?"
Julian glanced at his teammates—Felix throwing a sweaty arm around Tyrell, Riku finally cracking a smile, Leo in the center like a general whose army just returned home. There was joy there. Camaraderie. But also expectation.
Tomorrow would reset the scale.
parking lot in hues of orange and rose gold. Lincoln High’s team had already dispersed, voices fading, laughter lingering in the air like the echo of a battle well fought.
Julian sat in the passenger seat of Crest’s black sedan, legs heavy, muscles buzzing with fatigue.
Crest, ever composed in her blazer and heels, glanced sideways at him as she started the engine.
"Well," she said dryly, eyes flicking to him. "I didn’t know you were planning to become a comedian on the field."
Julian groaned, slumping deeper into the seat. "Please don’t."
Crest let out a low chuckle. "Running straight into the net like a rocket-powered scarecrow. I thought you were going to break the goalpost."
He rubbed his forehead, mortified. "Don’t remind me. What if someone recorded that?"
"Too late." Her smirk grew. "Might already be a meme."
Julian let out a resigned sigh, then smiled despite himself. "Let’s just call it... a happy accident."
"Accident, huh?" Crest shook her head, eyes forward now. "At least it worked."
Julian leaned back in the seat, resting his head against the window. The vibrations of the road hummed through the frame like a distant heartbeat.
He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. The warmth of the car. The weight in his limbs. The hum of the road beneath them.
[Ashi, since I scored two goals, that’s +20 attributes, right?]
[Affirmative, Host. +10 for each goal under current mission parameters.]
[But I can’t claim them yet, right?]
[Correct. Rewards are locked until the "Practice Match Series" mission is completed or terminated.]
Julian exhaled through his nose, barely a sound. His legs twitched, the lingering effect of his skill use still pulsing through his muscles.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.1] had pushed him far. Twice he had activated its higher levels in the match—once to break Dominic, and once for that ridiculous Thunder Step.
Now his feet were trembling.
His hamstrings cramped.
Even his fingers tingled.
And the system didn’t care if his body screamed for rest.
And tomorrow—they had another match.
Julian stared out the window, watching the streetlights blur past in hazy streaks. Doubt curled in his chest like smoke.
Can I fight again tomorrow?
He didn’t have an answer.
But as his reflection stared back at him through the glass...
He hoped his body could endure.
Because one thing was certain:
The mission wasn’t over yet.
And in this world of numbers, skills, and secrets... pain was part of the price.