Silas roared the order.
And Riverside Prep surged.
Only one player stood ahead of the line—Riverside’s lone striker.
Silas didn’t hesitate. A direct, slicing pass.
Then he was off—sprinting like a bullet, dragging shadows in his wake.
Their right and left wingers exploded forward too. They knew their striker couldn’t finish alone. But it didn’t matter.
The wave had already begun.
Tariq locked onto the striker like a heat-seeking missile, bodying up as both tore across the grass.
The striker received the ball, tried to brake and pivot—face to face with Tariq now.
He glanced left. No help. Glanced right. Still no help.
And in that split-second of hesitation—
A clean tackle—sharp, powerful. The ball popped loose, spinning across the pitch. The striker staggered back, off balance.
Julian rose from the midfield, but he wasn’t close.
Before the ball could roll out of bounds, Silas flew in from behind—scooped it back under control—and kept running.
Fast. Hard. Relentless.
No one in front. No one beside.
He cut in from the left, carving a diagonal toward the center of the pitch like a golden arrow. But Riku had already moved.
Positioned like a wall.
Silas’s eyes scanned—quick, sharp.
There. The striker, recovering, darted toward the center—Tariq trailing.
The striker gathered it, turned—and then—
Tariq slammed into him.
The striker collapsed.
The whistle screamed.
PRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!
The Riverside crowd surged to their feet, screaming in fury and triumph. Flags waved. A flare lit up in their section. It was chaos.
Coach Owen facepalmed from the sidelines.
He pointed—straight to the box.
Julian’s heart clenched.
Leo bolted to the ref, hands raised in calm protest. "Ref, please. It was just a body check—Tariq didn’t go in with studs, didn’t swing. Let’s not ruin the game."
The referee frowned, hand hovering over his pocket.
Relief, but not much.
Tariq sighed, sweat dripping, chest rising fast.
Leo jogged over, patted his back. "It’s alright. Believe in Cael."
Tariq looked up. Across the box, the figure in gloves was already bouncing on his toes.
He raised both fists and screamed.
The stadium crackled with pressure.
Silas stepped forward.
He would be the executioner.
Riverside’s captain picked up the ball. Palmed it. Bounced it once. Twice.
Then placed it on the white spot like a crown on a guillotine.
The crowd hushed, breath frozen.
Players gathered just outside the box—coiled, ready to explode on a rebound.
But right now, everything centered on one man in gloves... and one man with the ball.
Cael stood tall on the line.
His vision tunneled, mind locking in like a scope—
He read Silas’s stance. His hips. His ankles. His balance.
The referee raised the whistle.
A slow, steady approach. Calculated.
Cael’s eyes tracked the motion—
Left? Right? Down the middle?
Power. Not precision. Middle.
Cael leapt—not sideways, but forward.
The ball ricocheted off his glove—deflected!
It rolled forward, slow but alive, mocking them with every spin.
Gasps rippled through the stands.
Boots pounded the grass.
Jerseys blurred in the chaos.
But Silas got there first.
He lunged—shielded the ball with his entire body like a lion protecting its cub.
Lincoln High survived.
"NICE ONNNNEEEE!" Coach Owen bellowed, hands raised to the sky, laughing like a man possessed.
Laura exhaled and leaned against the bench, hand on heart.
The Riverside sideline?
Frowns. Rage. Silence.
Julian, Leo, and Riku sprinted to Cael.
"Nice one, monster!" Julian grinned.
"Told you," Leo smirked, smacking his gloves.
Riku didn’t say a word.
The war had just begun.
But after that storm—
Lincoln High stood unbroken.
Time bled toward the break, both sides locking horns but failing to turn their chances into true threats. The ball moved, passed, pressed—yet neither side could finish.
Until the clock ticked past 45:00.
One final possession.
Cael caught the ball in his gloves after a half-hearted shot from Riverside.
The throw landed clean at Leo’s feet.
The ball never stopped.
And when it returned to Leo’s feet at the center of the storm—he saw it.
Far right side. Already running. Already breaking.
And Leo—the maestro—struck it.
A long, arching pass.
A curving beauty, trailing stardust.
Two shadows moved with him.
Damian Rowe in front.
Two of the best CDMs in the region.
Smart. Aggressive. Coordinated.
But Julian didn’t hesitate.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: +10 To All Attributes]
Power surged through his veins.
Speed. Awareness. Instinct.
"Bring it," he growled—low and feral.
His total attributes surged to 221.
A star-level player. Right now, right here.
The ball bounced down—curving like it had a mind.
Damian lunged for it.
It spun... and dropped perfectly toward Julian like it belonged to him.
Julian leapt, tapped it with his head—then tried to settle with his foot.
But the ball refused to obey. Still wild. Still rolling too fast.
[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 5 Seconds]
Julian didn’t need to think.
A soul technique from his previous life.
The art of binding a physical item to the body—pulling it as if by will alone.
Back then, he could bind blades across continents.
The moment his foot tapped the ball again—
The ball stopped spinning out.
It clung to him like a shadow.
Damian went for a tackle—
The ball followed—stuck to his foot mid-air.
Damian’s eyes widened.
Julian landed, kept running.
Nico charged from behind—fast.
Julian sidestepped, cutting to the right.
The ball shifted with him—unnatural. Ghostly.
Like it was part of his leg.
Julian spun—a perfect martial pivot.
And the ball spiraled around with him, bound tight.
Julian was in the box.
Just him and the keeper.
He fired his body right—
A real shot. A committed motion.
But just as the keeper dove—
Julian twisted his ankle.
The keeper was flying the wrong way.
[Martial Memory – End.]
The ball left his foot.
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!?"
"HOW DID HE DO THAT?!"
"WAS THAT... WAS THAT REAL?!"
Phones. Screams. Swearing. One Riverside dad literally dropped his nachos.
Even Riverside fans stood up, dazed.