The system notification still echoed faintly in Julian's mind.
No going back.
Julian walked onto the pitch with the rest of the team, the soft hum of the stadium lights buzzing overhead like electric anticipation.
Each step felt heavier than it should have—like the field itself was demanding something from him.
Something real.
Something painful.
Something earned.
The second half had begun.
Brighton Catholic stood ready. Formation tight. Eyes sharper than before.
Julian's breath fogged in the night air as the whistle pierced the sky—
Kick-off: Brighton.
The ball rolled.
A slow, deliberate crawl across the grass—like the start of a ritual.
Julian didn't rush in.
Not yet.
Julian held back, reading the flow like a tactician watching pieces shift on a board.
Brighton's midfield moved like clockwork. Sharp touches. Clean passes. No flash. Just lethal precision.
Rafael Soto controlled the tempo—a metronome made of sinew and steel. Every motion deliberate. Every angle executed like a drill.
Julian shadowed him—close enough to draw attention, far enough to remain a ghost.
Leo slid into a hybrid role beside him, dancing between midfield and attack, constantly adjusting.
Ricky floated wide on the left flank, a dagger waiting for the perfect unsheathing.
Then it came.
Elias Cross dropped deep, calling for the ball near the center circle.
Julian's eyes narrowed.
Now.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: +5 To All Attributes]
He exploded forward—one sharp, surgical sprint.
Elias flinched and released the ball too early, sending it out wide.
Mistake.
Aaron clipped it down mid-air with calm precision, instantly surveying the field.
He spotted Leo.
A pass.
Leo—one touch. Turn. Flick.
To Ricky, already racing down the flank.
The counterattack surged—clean, violent, fast.
And Julian?
He was already on the move, surging into the box like a warhead on rails.
Ricky didn't hesitate. He cut inside, dragging defenders with him, then slipped a sharp, grounded pass toward the penalty arc.
Julian saw it.
Felt it.
His pulse spiked.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: +10 To All Attributes]
Rafael was there.
Waiting.
But Julian met the pass with calm fury.
First touch—his heel.
A soft, surgical flick.
Right between Rafael's legs.
"Shit—!" Rafael cursed, spinning to recover.
Too late.
Julian was already past him.
The ball rolled perfectly into his path.
Open lane. Goal in sight.
He pulled back.
And unleashed.
BANG—!!
A thunderous strike tore through the air.
But Marcus Hale—Brighton's wall of iron—was already airborne.
A blur.
A monster in motion.
THWACK—!!
Glove met ball. The shot deflected wide, spinning violently from the impact.
Julian didn't even blink.
He pivoted, eyes snapping toward the rebound.
Rafael turned to intercept—
But Ricky was already there.
A clean trap.
Even with Rafael bodying him from behind, Ricky stayed on his feet.
And shot.
Not power.
Precision.
The ball curved low—threading between defenders, crawling toward the far post.
Marcus was still down.
Still down—?
No.
He pushed up like a beast from the deep, legs snapping beneath him like pistons.
And jumped.
CRACK—!!
This time, the ball didn't deflect.
It stuck.
Right into his gloves.
Solid.
Unmoving.
Steam hissed off Marcus Hale's scalp beneath the floodlights.
His bald head shimmered like obsidian doused in firelight.
And his eyes?
Still burning.
Julian stood still.
Not in fear.
Not in awe.
But in recognition.
They weren't just up against a wall.
They were up against a monster guarding the gate.
And that monster?
He didn't flinch.
He devoured.
…
The ball was already moving again.
Brighton didn't pause.
They launched forward like wolves scenting blood.
Rafael carried the ball with that relentless, piston stride. One touch to the wing—
Brighton's right winger caught it in stride and fired a low cross into the box.
Elias darted in like a phantom.
But Caleb—the silent shadow in Lincoln's back line—rose.
No roar. No drama.
Just a leap and a clean, firm header that sent the ball arcing back out of danger.
Ethan trapped it mid-bounce, then turned—
Spotted Leo and triggered the triangle.
Quick. Sharp. Clean.
Leo to Ethan. Ethan to Felix.
And Felix, with no hesitation, sent a line drive to—
Julian.
His boots kissed the turf as he took the ball in stride.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: +15 To All Attributes]
The moment it activated—he felt it.
Every tendon. Every ligament. Every inch of his body screamed.
The strain cracked through him like invisible lightning.
But he grit his teeth.
He needed this.
A Brighton defender stepped in—sharp, strong, and ready.
Julian didn't slow.
He remembered the move.
He'd watched it a dozen times on ZTube.
A variation on a croqueta.
A magician's feint.
He rolled the ball with his left foot—
Soft. Deceptive.
Then—
Snap.
Right foot. Sharp push.
The ball slipped between the defender's legs with surgical precision.
The defender lunged—
Too heavy.
Too late.
Julian was already gone, bursting past from the left side with a flash of raw acceleration.
The Brighton player tripped over his own momentum, skidding across the turf with a curse.
Another defender came in—closing like a gate.
Julian twisted.
A shift of hips. A drop of the shoulder. A window opened.
He saw it.
And he struck.
BANG—!!
A +15 shot.
The ball howled through the air like a missile, streaking toward the top-right corner like it had been shot from a cannon.
It should've been impossible to save.
Except—
Marcus Hale was already moving.
Already in the air.
Not guessing. Not reacting.
Reading.
His hand reached up—like he had strings tied to the sky.
SNAP.
No deflection.
No bounce.
The ball stopped.
Right into his palms.
The impact echoed like thunder through the stadium.
And Marcus landed on both feet, knees bent, unfazed.
Still standing. Still holding the ball.
His eyes met Julian's across the field.
Flat.
Icy.
Unyielding.
Like a beast saying, Try again. Try harder.
Marcus didn't smirk.
Didn't taunt.
Didn't flinch.
He just stared.
Calm. Cold.
As if catching that missile of a shot had been nothing more than routine.
Julian stood frozen.
Not in awe this time.
In defiance.
That strike had been perfect.
Clean form. Pure contact. Full force.
The kind of shot that would tear through most high school keepers—
And Marcus Hale caught it like it was a training drill.
Julian's breath left him like steam on a winter morning.
The message was clear.
You're strong. But not enough.
And from that moment on—
The war resumed.
Brighton came again.
Harder. Faster. Tighter.
Rafael weaved through midfield like a blade.
Elias danced along the final third, threading passes like silk.
But Lincoln's wall held firm.
Riku—solid.
Caleb—silent and immovable.
Cael—every time Brighton got close, he was there, gloves snapping like thunder.
Denied. Again and again.
But Lincoln wasn't backing down.
They struck back—every counter sharp, every pass urgent.
Leo controlled the rhythm.
Felix fired up the right.
Ricky cut like scissors through paper.
And Julian?
Julian hunted.
Running the line.
Creating chaos.
Searching for that one crack in Marcus' armor.
But it never came.
Every shot—deflected.
Every angle—cut off.
Every dream of a goal—devoured by the monster in the net.
It was no longer just a game.
It was a siege.
A battle of blades and shields.
Two forces clashing.
Neither willing to fall.
The stadium buzzed like a live wire.
Fans on both sides held their breath.
Someone would break.
Someone had to.
Because the clock was ticking—
And the war was only growing bloodier.