The match began under the humming floodlights.
Kick-off: Brighton Catholic.
The ball rolled across the pristine turf, slick from the evening dew. A soft tap, then a second touch—like a fuse being lit. The stadium buzzed, not with thunderous cheers, but with focused murmurs. Tactical tension. A test of patience.
Julian sat quietly on the Lincoln bench, eyes locked onto the field. His legs bounced slightly, still itching to play.
[ASHI, can I scan from the bench?]
A familiar voice chimed in his mind—sharp and echoing, like silver bells over stone.
[Yes, Host. As long as they are registered as football players, the system scan is available.]
It had been a while since Julian saw ASHI manifest.
A small figure appeared beside him—no larger than a child's head, floating just above the ground. It shimmered with ethereal light, like moonlight trapped in mist. Its shape was goblin-like—large ears, jagged teeth—but its glow was soft, almost serene. Blue, not green. A spirit born of data and war.
Julian flicked his eyes left, then right.
No one reacted. No one else saw it.
[You can't be seen, right?] he asked silently.
[Of course not, Host.] ASHI's voice rang again.
Julian nodded to himself and adjusted his gaze back to the field.
[What did you mean by "registered football players"?]
[Players officially in the match roster, recognized by the local football federation.]
Julian didn't press further. He'd learned not to waste time when information flowed this easily.
He narrowed his eyes at the players on the field.
[Activate Scan Lv.1.]
The system pulsed—cool and quiet. Like a ripple passing through his mind.
And then the numbers came in.
Julian's stomach tensed.
He had scanned hundreds of players by now. In the last friendly match, Bellmere Prep's average was around 115 - 120, with key players like Adrian and Felix pushing into the 190s.
This team?
Brighton Catholic's average was 120–130.
But that wasn't what shook him.
It was the top three.
…
User: Elias Cross
Position: AM
Age: 17
Total Attributes: 192
…
User: Rafael Soto
Position: CDM
Age: 17
Total Attributes: 197
…
User: Marcus Hale
Position: GK
Age: 17
Total Attributes: 265
…
Julian's pupils tightened.
Two midfielders already near elite-tier. But that wasn't the scariest part.
It was the keeper.
Two hundred sixty-five.
That was a monster. That was absurd. That was record-breaking.
Julian leaned back on the bench, pulse picking up.
He wasn't scared.
He was electrified.
Could they even score on a guy like that?
Marcus Hale stood calmly in the box. Shaved head. Lean frame. Gloves pulled tight. His posture didn't radiate tension—it radiated control. The kind of quiet stillness that screamed: Come try me.
Julian narrowed his eyes.
He'd never seen stats that high.
This wasn't just a challenge.
This was a wall.
And Julian?
He wasn't planning to go around it.
He was going straight through.
…
He exhaled slowly, eyes snapping back to the field.
The match had already surged forward.
Lincoln had broken through.
The ball was in Brighton Catholic's box—at Leo's feet.
Julian's gaze sharpened.
Ricky, Felix, and Tyrell were all moving like hunters, circling the net. Space tightened. Time shortened.
Then came the threat.
Rafael Soto—Brighton's defensive anchor—closed in fast, his footsteps thunderous against the turf.
Leo didn't flinch.
Inside. Outside.
A step over from left to right—silky, practiced, perfect.
Rafael slid past—beaten.
Leo surged forward, spotted the run, and without hesitation—
—launched a pass.
Long. Arched. A curve of intent through the air.
Julian watched it cut across the floodlights like a ribbon.
In the box, Ricky muscled his defender aside, braced, and took the ball down in one touch.
Chest. Drop.
Shoot.
CRACK—
It was a missile. A strike drilled low and fast toward the left post.
But Marcus Hale was already there.
Not diving.
Not reacting.
Reading.
He didn't even stretch. He moved, perfect positioning, and caught it like it was nothing more than a pass in training.
Snatched.
The entire stadium froze for a heartbeat.
Then Marcus roared.
"SHIFT! LEFT—PRESS—NOW!"
His voice carried like thunder. His teammates moved immediately.
Marcus threw the ball to the flank—hard, flat, and fast—and then followed up with a devastating punt downfield. A bullet disguised as a clearance.
Counterattack.
Rafael was already in motion, reading it before it even left the keeper's boot.
Not just him—Elias Cross too, slicing through midfield like a spear of white light.
Julian sat forward instinctively, heart ticking faster.
The ball curved like a homing missile, and Rafael adjusted, scanning ahead.
Two Lincoln players were already there—Zion and Aaron—positioned to intercept.
But Rafael didn't hesitate.
The ball met Zion's foot on the bounce.
Good touch.
But not perfect.
The second bounce was too far forward.
And Rafael struck.
A soft flick. Smooth. Surgical.
He stole it.
Zion twisted to recover—too late.
Aaron sprinted to close the gap, but Rafael had already seen the pass.
Elias.
Riku moved in, cutting the angle.
But Rafael pivoted mid-stride, dragged the ball back with his sole—then slipped a disguised through-ball.
Right between Riku's legs.
Julian's breath caught.
Elias Cross didn't need a second invitation.
He picked it up in full stride, driving into the box with Tariq on his back.
Left. Then left again. A cut like a scalpel.
Cael locked in—eyes like lasers.
Julian could feel it from the bench.
No blink. No breath. Just instinct.
Elias slowed. One step back. Opened his hips—
Right foot strike.
The ball soared—sharp, tight, deadly.
Cael jumped.
BOOM—
Glove to ball.
The impact echoed like a drumbeat through the air.
The ball deflected hard, slicing over the bar and smashing into the fencing behind the goal.
The crowd gasped, a sharp inhale that seemed to pull the entire stadium tight.
"BRING IT HERE!" Cael roared, pounding his chest. "THEY'RE NOT THE ONLY ONES WITH A KEEPER!"
His voice thundered, raw and triumphant, riding the tension like a war cry.
Corner kick.
The referee pointed to the flag. Brighton Catholic lined up, Elias already trotting to the corner with that same cold focus in his eyes.
Julian's fingers gripped the bench tighter, white-knuckled.
His breath had caught somewhere in his throat.
That was too close.
Too fast.
Too perfect.
But that was Brighton Catholic for you.
They didn't just come to test Lincoln.
They came to break them.
Julian leaned forward, scanning the pitch.
His heart pounded like a drum in his ears.
His legs twitched—muscle memory.
The fire in his veins wouldn't go quiet.
This wasn't just another friendly.
This was a war between monsters.
And his turn was coming.
Soon.