Julian had read it once—
A team that controls the midfield controls the match.
A quote from some famous analyst.
And right now, he was watching that exact truth unfold before his eyes.
Bellmere wasn’t just pressing. They were orchestrating.
Their formation flexed like a living creature, the midfield pulsing with constant motion, anchored by Adrian.
Lincoln High’s backline was holding—barely.
Riku and Tariq defended like twin towers, intercepting passes, throwing their bodies in the way of low shots and cutting crosses.
And behind them stood Damien Silva—a completely different beast from Cael.
Where Cael read the ball with a mathematician’s precision—a tactician of trajectories and angles—
Damien played like a storm. Wild. Instinctual. Feral, even. His movements were explosive, his eyes sharp like a predator.
Chaotic, but effective.
The net stayed untouched. But only just.
Julian clenched his fists.
He couldn’t just wait up front like bait anymore.
If they wanted to launch a counter, it had to start earlier—
He took a deep breath and dropped back, just in time to witness chaos unfolding.
Yuan broke loose on the left side—
One touch. Two. Then a sudden blast from a brutal angle.
The ball slammed against the crossbar.
The impact rang like a warning bell across the pitch.
It bounced high—wild—alive.
One of Bellmere’s midfielders broke into a sprint, eyes locked on the ball.
But Julian was already there.
He activated his Skill.
[Activating Rule the Pitch – Lv.1: +5 To All Attributes]
A sharp breath. A clean touch. And control was his.
The moment his foot kissed the ball, his body surged forward like it had caught fire.
Felix, Tyrell, and Leo exploded into motion—
The engine of the counterattack roared to life.
Julian didn’t waste a second.
Leo pivoted, saw the space, and launched a high, curling ball wide into the path of Tyrell on the right wing.
An arcing beauty—spinning with perfect weight and timing.
Bellmere’s defense scrambled, arms waving, but they couldn’t intercept.
Tyrell caught it clean.
Tyrell stumbled—but didn’t fall.
Kept pushing the line.
On the opposite wing, Felix darted inside—hand raised, eyes calling for the ball.
A split-second decision.
Felix was open—but defenders were closing in hard from the side and behind.
So Tyrell chose chaos.
BOOM—right-footed blast.
The Bellmere keeper dove—gloved fingers just reaching.
He slapped the ball away, but it stayed in play.
Tyrell pounced again—swinging wildly at the rebound.
The ball soared over the bar.
Tyrell dropped to his knees, gasping, eyes wide.
Julian, back at midfield, exhaled.
The miss hung in the air like a ghost.
Bellmere didn’t slow down—not even for a second.
Like sharks scenting blood, they surged forward off the goal kick.
Julian barely had time to reset his stance before the midfield wave came crashing back.
Adrian barked an order—low, firm, like thunder wrapped in velvet.
Bellmere’s shape snapped into motion, wide players stretching the field, their dual strikers pulling Riku and Tariq apart with clever diagonal runs.
Yuan drifted again—ghostlike—between Lincoln’s midfield and backline.
Julian tracked him for a moment. His tempo was strange, erratic. Slow, then quick. Pausing like a dancer before striking like a whip.
A soft pass from Adrian pierced the middle.
Yuan let it roll through his legs before spinning on the half-turn.
Tariq lunged—just a fraction too slow.
Yuan rifled a low shot across the grass.
Damien reacted on raw instinct.
No time to think—just move.
His right leg flared out, cleats grazing the ball’s edge.
The deflection sent it skipping wide.
Julian turned and sprinted toward the box, heart hammering, trying to help mark.
Bellmere was suffocating them.
This wasn’t pressure. This was a slow, calculated strangle.
The corner came in—tight, near post.
Adrian charged, using his body like a wrecking ball.
Riku threw himself up—arms tucked, spine bent like a bow.
Lincoln scrambled to push out—but Bellmere recycled possession effortlessly.
And that’s when Malaka James pounced.
5’ 8" ft (176 centimeters) of raw speed and lung-busting stamina—he wasn’t big, but he didn’t need to be. He was fire.
The ball spilled loose near the left sideline, but Malaka arrived first—his first touch crisp, his second already bursting into a sprint.
Tyrell closed in—but it didn’t matter.
Malaka’s feet exploded—one touch in, second touch out, a blur of movement that left Tyrell swiping at empty air.
He darted down the flank, hugging the line like a sprinter chasing the tape.
Julian’s breath hitched.
They couldn’t let him cross.
Tariq charged over—forced to abandon the central lane—and lunged with a sliding challenge.
Grass tore. Studs flashed.
Malaka flicked the ball just a half-second earlier, lofting a perfect chipped cross toward the back post.
Bellmere’s striker got there first—leaping high, neck snapping forward—
One hand punched it away.
Riku swept the rebound clear.
Lincoln gasped for air.
Julian clenched his jaw.
They were holding—but barely.
And the deeper the game dragged on, the clearer it became:
Bellmere weren’t trying to score fast.
They were trying to wear them down.
Run them ragged. Break their shape. Drown their rhythm.
Julian felt the system boost from earlier fading, the adrenaline cooling, replaced by a familiar ache deep in his legs.
He checked the clock.
38 minutes. Still 0 – 0.
But Bellmere looked fresher. Hungrier.
And Malaka was sprinting like it was minute one. Again.
Julian narrowed his eyes.
They had to strike before fatigue made choices for them.
He turned toward Leo, shouting through the roar.