The next morning arrived like a whisper of pain.
Julian woke with a dull throb pulsing through his entire body—especially his legs. His feet felt like they’d been crushed under the weight of mountains, as if he had just run a fifty-kilometer marathon in combat boots.
Every tendon screamed. Every fiber burned.
This wasn’t just fatigue. It was the backlash of pushing a body too far, too fast. The price of walking the edge.
Julian knew he couldn’t train like usual today—not physically. His legs couldn’t take another sprint, not yet.
So instead, he did what he always used to do in his past life when pain became too loud.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, the old lotus position that once grounded him as a martial artist.
And he turned inward.
A deep breath. Then another. Slow, deliberate.
[Activating Soul Circulation Technique]
The moment he closed his eyes, he felt it—his soul power. Dim at first, like a dying ember buried in ash, but still there. Still alive.
From his heart, it flowed to his right hand—warmth blooming through his arm like a spark kissing dry wood—then returned to his heart.
Then to his right foot—tight, aching, inflamed. He gritted his teeth as the power pulsed there, burning through the soreness like fire chasing rot.
Then the left foot, swollen and stiff.
Then to the left hand—tingling, tense.
And finally—his mind.
A single, focused circuit.
Each cycle squeezed his muscles. His breathing grew shallower. Sweat trickled down his brow even though he hadn’t moved an inch. His entire body tensed with the pressure—like metal being tempered in flame.
But slowly, the heat began to settle into something else.
His body wasn’t healed. Not fully. But it was sharper now. Cleaner. Reforged.
Julian remained in that meditative trance for two hours. He’d awoken at 5 a.m.—and by the time the sun stretched its golden fingers across his room, he finally opened his eyes.
And a familiar voice echoed through his mind.
Soul Circulation Completed
Host has gained +1 to All Attributes.
"Small gains," he muttered, cracking his neck, "but gains nonetheless."
Progress is progress.
And in this world, he’d take every edge he could find.
After that, he dragged himself to the shower.
The hot water felt like a second meditation—each drop melting into sore muscles, steaming away the weight of yesterday’s battle.
By the time he stepped out, towel slung over his shoulders and hair damp, the scent of something warm and savory drifted through the air.
Julian stepped into the kitchen and paused.
Crest was already there.
She stood by the counter, sleeves rolled up, apron tight around her waist. Steam curled up from the pan as she flipped something with a practiced hand.
"Hmm," she said without turning, "No training today?"
Julian rubbed the back of his neck, still towel-drying his hair. "Yeah. Let’s just say I need a bit of time to... recoup from the fatigue."
Crest gave him a glance—sharp, as always—but didn’t press further.
She simply nodded, turned off the stove, and slid a plate onto the table.
Julian pulled out the chair and sat down with a sigh.
Then he saw what she’d made.
Soft, warm tortillas filled with seasoned meat, fresh herbs, chopped onion, grilled peppers. The aroma was insane—spiced, citrusy, slightly smoky.
His stomach growled before he could even pick one up.
"You didn’t have to go this hard," he muttered, taking his first bite.
The flavor hit instantly. Savory. Sharp. Perfect.
Crest sat across from him, arms crossed, sipping her coffee with that unreadable expression she always wore.
A silent guardian. Watching. Measuring.
She didn’t need to say much. Her presence always said enough.
"You’ve got another match today, right?" she asked without looking up.
Julian nodded mid-bite, mouth half-full of warm taco and spice. "Mm-hmm."
She took another sip and set the mug down with a soft clink.
"Then eat up. No lion charges into war hungry."
Then smiled faintly, something tugging warm behind his ribs.
"...Yeah," he said. "You’re right."
The routine repeated—but the tension was different.
A weight hung in the locker room. Not heavy... just tight. Coiled.
Julian stood by his locker, sliding into his jersey. The navy blue fabric clung comfortably to his frame, still without a number stitched on the back.
He fastened the shin guards. Pulled his socks up. Tightened the laces.
One more battlefield.
Coach Owens stood at the front of the room, arms behind his back, expression carved from granite.
"Listen up," he said. "Today’s opponent is Bellmere Prep Academy."
"They run a 3-5-2 formation. High tempo. Relentless stamina. They’ll try to wear you down and pull you out of position. If you can’t endure, they’ll run over you. Simple as that."
He turned to the whiteboard behind him and tapped the names already scribbled in black marker.
"Three key players. Number eight—Malaka James. Their LWB. He’s fast, tireless, and plays both ends of the pitch like a machine. If he catches rhythm, he’ll tear open our flanks."
A murmur rippled through the team.
"Number ten—Adrian Bellamy. Junior year. Deep-lying playmaker. Calm. Clinical. Eyes like a hawk. Don’t give him space."
Coach paused here, tapping the final name.
"And finally... Felix Yuan. Attacking midfielder. Their superstar. He’s not just flashy—he’s decisive. He finds the cracks, then splits them wide open."
A cold hush settled in.
Then Coach stepped back.
Laura—ponytail neat, clipboard in hand—stepped forward.
She called out the lineup.
CBs: Riku Tanaka, Tariq Okoye
CDMs: Aaron Bishop, Ethan Rhodes
"Substitutes," Laura continued, voice steady.
"Nice..." he murmured to himself, a small grin breaking across his face.
He was the tip of the spear today.
Even for him—it felt surreal.
But the weight of it... it didn’t crush him.
Just like that blue jersey.
The rest of the team looked over at him. Some with quiet nods. Some with knowing grins.
Julian met Leo’s gaze across the locker room.
No words were exchanged.
But the fire was there.