The stadium still buzzed, stunned by the strike that split the storm. Gasps and shouts tangled in the winter air.
Scarves flailed in the stands, voices clashed—some screaming his name, others cursing, all wrapped into one raw roar that shook the metal bleachers.
But Julian didn’t linger. He didn’t roar or spread his arms. He was already waving to the referee, demanding the game restart.
The message was unmistakable: No time. Two more.
Crenshaw’s players shuffled back, disbelief etched across their faces.
The Ross twins exchanged quick glances, swagger cracking for the first time.
Tyrese rolled his shoulders, as if forcing confidence back into his frame, but his eyes betrayed unease.
Yet the ball was already rolling back to the center circle, dragged into Julian’s rhythm like the tide.
D-Lo caught it, turned, then slid the ball toward Tyrese.
But this time, Tyrese didn’t unleash one of his reckless cannons. He slowed. Head turning, eyes scanning, looking for cracks.
Julian’s gaze narrowed. If we want to win, we can’t give him space.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +5 To All Attributes]
He exploded forward, cleats biting frost, fire burning in his veins.
From the sideline, Coach Owen’s voice cut through the cold like steel.
Lincoln surged. One shadow became many. Blue shirts swarmed the ball, their rhythm now an inferno chasing every white-and-teal flicker.
Tyrese panicked, shifting left, then right. Pressure closed in. He shoved a pass off to a teammate—
But Lincoln pressed again.
The ball pinballed, rattling across the frozen grass. Crenshaw tried to settle it, but every touch was smothered, every lane cut.
Finally it squirted loose, rolling toward the flank.
D-Lo darted in to claim it—
But Leo was already there.
Ball trapped between them, frozen in stalemate.
Two wills collided. Leo’s golden eyes burned, jaw clenched, body braced.
D-Lo’s smirk sharpened, his balance loose, catlike, waiting for the slip.
Neither gave an inch.
Then—D-Ro came storming in, cutting across like a phantom. D-Lo flicked the ball sideways, freeing it into his twin’s stride.
And now the ball was at D-Ro’s feet.
He surged forward, swagger in every touch. Each step was a dare, every feint dripping with defiance. Lincoln’s players converged, but he swallowed them one by one.
An elastico snapped past Felix—ball flashing left, then right, leaving Felix clutching at empty air.
A roulette spun around Aaron—hips twisting, boots dancing, body gliding free.
Gasps shivered through the stands. Every Crenshaw supporter roared back to life, their chants vibrating like war drums. "D-Ro! D-Ro!" The rhythm pounded against Lincoln’s ears, a wall of noise.
Riku didn’t dive in. Didn’t lunge. He shadowed him step for step, shoulders square, eyes locked to D-Ro’s with cold steel.
D-Ro grinned. If I let this drag, I’ll be boxed in. I have to break him now—before help comes.
So he pulled out something wild.
The ball dragged back beneath his boot, then flicked forward again in a spinning blur. A high-risk, high-reward trick—mess it up, and you’d look like a clown.
But this was D-Ro. He thrived in chaos.
Dribbling was his heartbeat.
The nutmeg slid clean through Riku’s legs. The crowd roared. Riku twisted, fury snapping across his face—
But before the ball could roll back into D-Ro’s stride—
He slipped in like a ghost, cleat cutting the ball free in one clean interception. His head whipped up, eyes already scanning the pitch.
The pass ripped long, arcing through the frozen night.
[Rule the Pitch – Lv.2: +30 To All Attributes]
Warning: Overuse will burden the host’s body.
[Blood Furnace – Skill Activated]
Heat detonated inside him. His body became a furnace, soul-fire pouring through his veins until every stride felt like an explosion.
Frost hissed under his boots as he tore forward, faster than the air could catch him.
Tyrese was on his shoulder, matching every step, teeth bared like a wolf refusing to let go. Ahead, Javion planted himself wide, a concrete wall braced to crash down.
The storm hadn’t broken yet.
Julian would have to tear it apart himself.
This was the moment. The strike that could shatter Crenshaw’s spirit—not just to prove Lincoln couldn’t be beaten, but that he couldn’t be beaten.
[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 10 Seconds]
Warning: Host, this technique risks injury.
[Use all stored EXP points to purchase emergency item injection – Confirm?]
[Confirmed. Boosts applied.]
The system’s voice faded. A burn stabbed through his veins as something surged into him, muscles reinforced, tendons tightened. The pain hissed like fire, but Julian’s focus didn’t waver.
He had already chosen his weapon.
A technique so rare that even in his previous life, only masters whispered its name.
Julian’s eyes lit, glowing with a dangerous shimmer. Threads of possibility unraveled before him, fanning out like roots of a great tree.
The present slowed. Each breath stretched, each heartbeat thundered like a drum. And in the silence between seconds—he saw.
A branch where Tyrese hooked his ankle, dragging him down in the dirt.
A branch where he slipped past Tyrese, only to be flattened by Javion’s brute force.
Another where both fell behind him—only for D-Lo to appear like a knife from the blind side.
But all he needed was one.
His lips curled. His decision was made.
He counted the beats in his head.
Tyrese lunged from behind, cleats scraping frost.
Julian didn’t leap, didn’t panic—he veered left.
The tackle sliced past his trailing foot, missing by a breath.
He was still standing.
He braked. Dragged the ball back. Then exploded to the right, bursting with sudden speed.
Javion, already throwing himself into a tackle, twisted too late—Julian blazed past, his face locked in disbelief.
Did he just... read me?
Julian’s eyes flickered, calm in the storm. His lips whispered the count again.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
A roulette spun him right. His body pivoted like a flame twisting in the wind.
And there—D-Lo appeared, cutting from the left.
But Julian’s rotation carried him clear, spinning past them both, past all three hunters in one flowing dance.
He didn’t just dodge them.
I can read you like a book.
The box opened before him.
He feinted the shot, body coiling, defenders biting—then rolled his ankle and struck with delicate precision.
The ball slid low, curling left. The keeper dove, fingertips grazing air—
The stadium exploded. Sound shook the night. Voices collided in frenzy, drums and screams and raw disbelief.
Cold air burned lungs, but no one cared. Fans clutched their heads, others leapt onto railings, strangers hugging strangers. On the Lincoln bench, players crashed into each other like waves.
Julian froze in place, chest heaving. Then slowly—he lifted one hand to the sky, fist clenched tight.
The crowd lost itself. Lincoln’s bench erupted, blue shirts leaping to their feet.
"Damn... he really is the best thing that ever happened to our team," Leo breathed, golden eyes blazing.
"Nice, Julian!" Noah smirked, voice sharp with pride.
"YEAHHHHHH!" Cael’s roar cracked through the chaos like thunder.
The Ashen Emperor had spoken.
The storm was broken.