Julian didn’t return to his room immediately.
He lingered—thirty minutes, pacing the corridors, making sure Crest had time to reset, to put her calm mask back on.
Every step was measured, each pause deliberate, his instincts still stretched thin like wires after the stairwell incident.
When he finally drifted toward the heart of the hotel, he found himself in the suspended park built into the middle section of the tower.
From above, he could see the world already gathering for midnight.
Families clumped together in the streets below. Lovers pressed close under the glittering winter sky.
Laughter, cheers, and warm embraces spilled upward, brushing against the glass walls that separated Julian from the rest of the city.
Win against Adrian in Barcelona
Time Limit: 1.5 years
Penalty: System Erase
Julian’s breath caught.
A quest unlike any before. Not a friendly, not a playoff, not even CIF glory.
This was Barcelona. The giants of Spain. The club of legends. And Adrian—his so-called brother—would debut there within a year.
Julian stared at the screen.
The penalty wasn’t loss of attributes or injuries. It was obliteration. System erase.
Failure meant vanishing back into mediocrity. Failure meant death of his second chance.
His fists curled tight.
One and a half years.
From a high school pitch in California... to the lights of Camp Nou.
It wasn’t just about Adrian anymore. It was about standing on the highest stage, carving his name into history where betrayal couldn’t erase it.
Julian pressed [Yes].
The system’s cold tone echoed like thunder in his mind.
This wasn’t fear. This was fuel.
His body might ache, his path might seem impossible, but fire now roared in his veins.
Julian tilted his head back, eyes tracing the night sky above the glass dome. Fireworks were already starting, faint and distant. Somewhere below, people counted the seconds to a new year.
He wasn’t counting. He was promising.
Adrian. Barcelona. The world.
I’ll reach you. I’ll surpass you.
And when I stand on that pitch... no one will ever forget the name Julian Ashford
Julian left the rooftop park with the weight of the quest still burning in his chest.
His steps were calm, measured, yet every beat of his heart carried the rhythm of war drums.
When he opened the door, Crest was already inside, composed as ever, her expression smooth as glass. Not a wrinkle of worry showed, not a drop of emotion spilled.
"Something happen?" Julian asked, eyes narrowing, reading the faint tension in the air.
Crest shook her head lightly. "Nothing." Her voice was calm, almost too calm.
"Really?" he pressed.
"Yes." The answer was clipped, resolute, the kind of tone that ended questions rather than invited them.
Julian studied her for a moment longer before exhaling softly. "...Alright." He didn’t push. If Crest wanted him to know, she’d tell him.
"I’m going to sleep. Please don’t disturb me."
"What about the New Year party?" Crest’s eyes flickered, her words edged with warning. "What if your father gets angry?"
Julian’s lips curved in the faintest smirk. "He won’t. Believe me. And if you don’t... just ask him yourself."
Crest’s gaze lingered, searching him, but she finally nodded. "...If you say so."
Julian stepped into his room. The silence welcomed him.
He stripped off the suffocating weight of the tailored suit, exchanging it for a loose shirt and sweatpants.
The softness of fabric felt almost foreign against skin that had known nothing but strain and battle.
With no more hesitation, Julian dropped onto the bed.
His body sank into the mattress, and before long, his eyes closed, surrendering to the first real sleep he had allowed himself in weeks.
The city outside erupted in cheers and fireworks as the year turned.
But Julian slept soundly, his dream already set—not in the sky, not in the lights of New York, but on the pitch where his fate awaited.
Like a twist of fate, Julian’s eyes opened again at 11:50.
Ten minutes short of midnight.
He tried to close them, shifting from one side to the other, but no matter the position, sleep refused to return. His body was still, but his mind thrummed restlessly.
"Really...?" he muttered to himself, lips curling faintly in frustration.
Finally, with a quiet sigh, he pulled on his hoodie and slipped out. The hotel corridors were hushed, but when he reached the inner garden—the same central courtyard he had seen earlier—the world was alive with anticipation.
Guests lingered among the lantern-lit paths and trimmed hedges, scattered groups waiting quietly for the turn of the year.
The faint sound of music drifted in from the city beyond the glass walls. From here, Julian could hear the laughter of the streets, the faint chorus of strangers singing in unison.
Julian lowered himself onto a bench, eyes drawn upward through the open view above the atrium. "So this is New Year in this world..." he murmured. His voice was low, but a strange warmth threaded through it.
From what he’d read, Earth’s population was over seven billion. Seven billion lives. Seven billion dreams. Too many to count, too many to ever truly know.
And yet, tonight, all those lives seemed to breathe in unison, waiting for the clock to strike.
A massive LED screen flashed outside, visible through the glass façade of the hotel, numbers glowing bright as the countdown began.
Streams of light tore across the night sky, bursting into blossoms of red, gold, and violet. Fireworks painted the heavens, their echoes rolling through New York’s towers. Trumpets blared. Voices roared.
"Happy New Year!" thousands shouted beyond the glass.
Julian tilted his head back, eyes reflecting the lights. "Happy New Year," he whispered softly, almost like a vow.
And then, for the first time in this life, he prayed. Not to gods, not to spirits—just a simple wish carried into the night.
Strength for the brothers he had chosen at Lincoln High.
The fireworks raged, then softened, the sky clearing to the quiet crackle of fading sparks. Julian rose from the bench, pulled his hood tighter, and walked back toward his room.
When the last of his footsteps faded, another figure appeared among the trimmed hedges.
Graceful. Sharp-eyed. Her presence blended with the luxury of the place, yet her aura was unmistakable.
Seraphina Law, Adrian Ashford’s fiancée.
She stepped to where Julian had sat moments earlier, gazing through the glass at the dying trails of fireworks.
Her lips curved into the faintest smile.
"Interesting..." she whispered, the word lingering like smoke in the night air.
Morning of January 1st.
Julian stirred awake at 6:30, his body sluggish, the aftertaste of celebration and jet lag clinging to him. For once, he had overslept.
He washed up, slipped into comfortable clothes, and opened his door. As always, Crest was there—already waiting, already prepared. A tray of breakfast sat on the table between them.
"The hotel brought it?" Julian asked, voice still heavy with sleep.
"Yeah," Crest replied simply, already munching on a donut with calm precision.
Julian raised a brow at the sight, then sat and picked at the meal. One bite, and his eyes widened. "This is... good. Too good."
Crest gave the smallest shrug, but Julian could see the faint curl of amusement at the corner of her lips.
Between bites, he glanced down at his casual wear. "It’s fine if I just go , right?"
Crest gave him a brief, assessing look before nodding. "It’s fine."
"Alright then." Julian leaned back, satisfied, and dug back into his plate.
When the last bite was gone, he washed up once more. This time, he dressed with purpose, shoulders squared, expression sharpened.
"You ready, Crest?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered without hesitation.
Together, they stepped into the elevator, silence hanging between them but heavy with understanding.
The car was already waiting when they arrived in the underground lot—sleek, driverless, an AI hum guiding its engine. Crest slid into the front, Julian into the back. The doors shut, and the machine purred to life.
As the hotel and its towering shadows fell away behind them, Julian leaned his head back against the seat.
New York—its family, its games, its hidden blades—was behind him now.
Ahead waited Los Angeles.
Ahead waited the pitch.
The only battlefield that mattered.