The week bled away in sweat and drills.
By Friday, the war drums beat again.
Lincoln High’s home ground.
Winter air clung to the pitch, sharp enough to sting lungs.
The visitors arrived in black and gold kit—Riverside Prep.
Nothing had changed in their core. Nico Villar, Damian Rowe, Silas Malik—their heartbeat, their spine—still there.
Three midfield generals, heavy enough to tilt the field by themselves.
But Lincoln wasn’t whole either.
Two pillars stripped away.
Julian sat on the bench, eyes locked on the team that had once been his very first opponent.
The opener of the season—back then, he’d only carried a body with a total stat of 130.
Now, he’d grown sharper, stronger, a step closer to the throne he claimed.
Would Riverside come changed?
Would they bring new tricks, new fury to break Lincoln?
Or had they stagnated, frozen in place while he climbed?
Across the pitch, Silas Malik turned.
Captain’s armband tight on his arm.
Their eyes met—steel to steel. No words, just promise.
Both teams silent, saving breath for the storm.
Julian stood, clapping his hands once, the sound cracking like a starter’s gun.
His boots carried him onto the pitch, winter air biting, heartbeat steady.
The past and present were about to collide.
The past and present were about to collide.
During warm-ups, Julian’s gaze sharpened.
[Activating Scan Lv.2...]
Lines of data flooded his vision, names and numbers floating over Riverside’s players.
The others hadn’t shifted much—solid, steady, but unremarkable.
But the spine of Riverside—their three kings—burned brighter.
Best attribute : Strength and Instinct
Skill : Predator’s Zone - Uses brute force to shield his territory and instincts sharp enough to choke out passing lanes.
Total Attributes: 207
Best attribute : Agility and Perception
Skill: Phantom Press - Reads movement like a predator, sliding in with surgical timing, stealing the ball before the opponent breathes.
Total Attributes: 206
Best attribute : Technique and Perception
Skill: Spirit Rhythm - Guides the tempo of battle like a shaman feeling the earth’s pulse. His perception was almost supernatural, sensing space before it opened, striking before danger bloomed.
Total Attributes: 250
Julian’s eyes narrowed as the numbers faded.
Silas had grown. Not much on the surface—but it was there. The slow, steady climb of a natural talent.
Maybe that was the difference.
Other people improved through time, through luck, through steady steps.
He had no envy. No jealousy.
Because he carried what none of them could touch.
The peak of martial arts talent from another world.
The system pulsing within him.
What he needed was one thing.
The referee’s whistle cut across the air, sharp and commanding.
Both teams turned toward the center circle, boots crunching over the frozen turf. The ritual handshake. The calm before war.
But today was different.
The stands... fuller. Louder. Buzzing with expectation.
Scarves and jackets bundled against winter’s bite, the crowd pressed in tight, the hum of voices swelling like a storm ready to break.
Julian caught glimpses—faces he didn’t recognize. Not just parents, not just students. Strangers with sharp eyes, notebooks, and clipped movements.
Laura’s words echoed back to him.
More would come with each game. And if Lincoln stayed unbeaten, if they reached San Dimas undefeated—
That match would be the summit.
Not just the clash for first place.
But a stage where futures could be rewritten.
Where scouts would carve names into contracts.
Where one match could decide everything.
Julian adjusted his captain’s armband, his expression cold, fire beneath the surface.
Tonight wasn’t just another game.
It was the step before the mountain.
The whistle shrieked.
Lincoln’s formation snapped into place, blue jerseys braced against the cold.
Across from them, Riverside opened the kickoff—clean, sharp.
The striker rolled the ball back, and at once it found its way to the heart of the beast.
Back straight, touch velvet-smooth, the ball obeyed him like a crown jewel in his grasp.
Under the floodlights, that gold-and-black kit shimmered—his every step deliberate, majestic, like a king descending into battle.
The stadium hushed as the rhythm shifted.
With Silas at the helm, Riverside moved as one—
wings spreading wide, runners cutting sharp angles, the midfield pivoting to stretch Lincoln’s shape.
They wanted to pry Lincoln open.
To force cracks into their defense and pierce through the seams.
Julian felt the vibration in his chest. Silas’s skill wasn’t flashy. It was deeper, heavier—like the steady drumbeat of a ritual circle, calling his teammates into harmony.
Every pass carried intention. Every pause forced Lincoln to hesitate. Even the crowd seemed to sway with that rhythm, drawn into the current Silas commanded.
Julian’s gaze sharpened, tracking every subtle tilt of Silas’s hips, every pause in his stride. That wasn’t just ball control.
That was command—Spirit Rhythm thrumming through his veins, bending the flow of the match to his pulse.
Already, Julian could feel it.
But he wasn’t here to follow someone else’s song.
He was here to break it.
Julian drew in a slow, steady breath, the winter air biting sharp into his lungs.
Not his usual battlefield, but today, it was his throne.
The view was different—more chaotic, more demanding.
Passing lanes opened and closed in a heartbeat, defenders pressed, shadows flickered in every direction.
But it didn’t matter. He would rule this space. He would drag Lincoln to victory.
From the stands, a familiar figure caught his eye.
Leo—arms folded, watching
Leo gave the smallest of nods.
Julian nodded back, the unspoken promise clear between them.
Boots dug into the turf.
Julian exploded forward, cutting into Riverside’s rhythm like a blade through silk.
His body leaned into the run, muscles coiling, eyes locked on the ball as it spun in Malik’s orbit.
The Emperor had stepped into the midfield.
And the war for the heart of the pitch had begun