The game raged on.
Back and forth. Blow for blow. Steel meeting steel.
Every sprint felt like dragging weights. Every breath came sharp, shallow, burning in the lungs.
Sweat clung to skin like battle-worn armor. Legs trembled, lungs begged, but no one stopped.
And then—
89+ minutes.
The ball was with Brighton Catholic.
Rafael Soto. Midfield general. Eyes sharp, but breaths heavy. Even he was slowing now.
Every player on the field looked drained. Gasping. Movements sloppy. Precision fading. The final seconds were slipping like sand through fingers.
Two more possessions—maybe. That was all.
Rafael steadied the ball with his boot, surveying the pitch like a dying king planning one last move.
Brighton's formation shifted around him. Lincoln compressed in response. No room to breathe. No air to think.
Julian watched from across the field, heart hammering against his ribs. Eyes locked on Rafael.
And then—Leo moved.
He broke forward, light on his feet even now, pressing into Rafael's space. Not lunging. Not diving. Just... stalking. Shadowing. Waiting.
Rafael noticed. His eyes flicked left.
He hesitated.
Then passed.
Too fast. Too soon. Too sloppy.
Leo read it.
He lunged with one foot—tap!
The pass veered off course. Not a full interception. But enough. Enough to break the pattern.
The ball zipped awkwardly to the right. A Brighton midfielder jolted forward to recover, but—
Liam was already moving.
He sprinted, teeth gritted, boots thundering across the grass. Got there first.
Too fast. His touch bounced.
The ball skipped free.
Brighton's right midfielder arrived, scooped it up, and burst down the flank like a man chasing salvation.
Liam didn't stop.
He twisted mid-sprint, muscles screaming, and chased the Brighton midfielder like a man possessed. Shoulder to shoulder. Elbow to elbow. Every inch a brutal contest of wills.
This was the final blade drawn.
Brighton's winger pushed through the contact—gritted teeth, legs pumping—and launched a desperate, spear-like pass.
Straight down the gut.
Right to Elias Cross.
Brighton's #11.
The shadow behind the curtain. The monster in the hole.
He was already moving.
Arms slicing air. Chest heaving. Eyes wide and wild.
This was it.
His moment.
His kill.
On the sideline, Coach Owens roared like a general at war.
"BACK! BACK! Don't let them score!"
His arms sliced the air—urgent, commanding.
But in the chaos and noise, few heard him clearly.
Lincoln High didn't need to. They saw it.
Danger, screaming straight at them in a white jersey.
The ball curved in the air—beautiful, deadly.
And Riku was there.
He slid in from the side like a guillotine.
THWACK—!
He clipped the ball perfectly. It shot away at a wide angle.
Safe—for now.
Aaron lunged forward, chesting it down.
But Rafael Soto wasn't done.
He came crashing in with a slide of his own, legs low, body coiled—
SCRAPE—!
He snatched the ball right off Aaron's toes.
And in one motion, he rose.
Like a soldier too stubborn to die.
He passed. Again.
Straight to Elias.
Elias had barely pulled himself up—knees muddy, arms shaking—but when the ball came back to him, he didn't hesitate.
He pushed forward, off-balance, barely upright, stumbling—
But still moving. Still hunting.
And Cael saw it.
Saw the chaos.
Saw the danger.
He charged.
No waiting. No hesitation.
He left the box. Abandoned the line.
He wasn't just a keeper now.
He was a blade, unleashed.
Elias surged. Cael sprinted. The ball bounced between them, caught in gravity's pull.
And then—
They both jumped.
CLASH—!
Elias rose first—lean, long, desperate—and headed the ball to the left.
Cael's glove skimmed it—just missed it—the shot spun wide—
It was rolling. Rolling toward the net—
Too slow.
Because from behind, Caleb appeared.
Silent. Cold. Precise.
He didn't speak.
He didn't shout.
He just arrived.
And cleared it.
BOOM—!
A vicious punt, the kind meant to end wars, not just plays, launching the ball skyward—cutting across time and breath.
Maybe it was fate.
Maybe it was the will of this world.
But the ball…
Fell to Julian.
Right to his feet.
No one else near.
His first touch was velvet.
The weight, the bounce, the silence.
Everything aligned.
And the clock?
Ticking.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: +20 To All Attributes]
Julian muttered under his breath.
"All in."
His legs still ached.
Still sore.
Not ready.
He didn't care.
Eyes scanned the field in a single breath.
Brighton players already turning. Sprinting. Converging like hounds toward the scent of blood.
Four defenders ahead.
More behind.
And in that moment—he didn't hesitate.
[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 5 Seconds]
His mind expanded.
Time slowed.
Like flipping through an ancient scroll, his thoughts rifled through thousands of martial arts patterns.
One leapt forward.
Shadow Step.
An assassin's movement art.
Designed to disorient, to fracture sight.
A technique that left afterimages in its wake.
Julian's chest rose once.
Then—he moved.
With +140 total attributes, his body surged forward like a missile with no intention of stopping.
Left to right—blur.
A simple feint. But to the human eye?
There were two Julians.
People on the bench blinked.
Did they just see—?
The first defender bit the fake.
Gone.
Julian exploded past him.
Another blur—
The second defender twisted, off-balance.
Gone.
The third and fourth came in tandem, desperate now.
Julian burned through both with the final Shadow Step, his body leaving streaks of heat in the air.
Steam hissed from his shoulders.
From his legs.
From his spine.
His body was reaching critical limit.
But he was in the box.
One defender left.
Marcus Hale.
The monster. The wall.
And Marcus…
He stood tall.
Expression calm. Hands ready.
"Come to me."
That's what his eyes said.
Julian stepped forward—
[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 5 Seconds]
[HOST CAUTION YOU BODY CANT HANDLE IT ANYMORE]
His mind roared back.
And this time?
He selected something deeper.
Darker.
Emperor's Might.
A pressure technique.
A mental attack used by warlords.
The aura of dominion itself.
It surged around Julian in a haze of blue and black flame.
The air bent.
Even from the sideline, teammates felt it.
Felt their hearts race.
Felt a presence that wasn't human.
Marcus flinched.
Sweat poured down.
He couldn't breathe.
He couldn't move.
Julian's foot met the ball.
A simple shot. Right corner.
Marcus didn't budge.
The net rippled.
GOAL.
Silence.
Pure, stunned silence.
No cheers.
No screams.
Only disbelief.
A demon had run through them.
And now, he stood still in the box.
Chest rising. Shoulders steaming.
Eyes burning gold beneath the lights.