After setting up his handle, Julian hit send and forwarded it to Leo.
Not even ten seconds later, his phone buzzed again.
@ElMaestro10 wants to follow you.
Julian accepted—and right on cue, another message landed in his inbox.
A location tag.
The Final Whistle — a bar and restaurant.
He blinked. Fitting name. The kind of place where victories were toasted and failures drowned in soda
But before he could process the invite, another notification rolled in.
Leo had tagged him in a story.
Julian opened it.
Two videos loaded. Grainy. Loud. Raw.
The first clip showed his goal against El Monte High—where he'd sprinted half the pitch and crashed toward the net like a wild animal.
The angle made the run look even more ridiculous. The crowd noise spiked at the finish.
The second clip…
His goal against Brighton Catholic.
The one where he tore through four defenders and made Marcus Hale—Marcus Hale—freeze like a glitching NPC.
The clip linked to Ztube. The comments section was already lighting up.
"That's crazy. Is he a footballer or a track star?"
"Bro hit NOS halfway through the field lmao."
"Why does the Brighton clip look like there are two of him?"
"That Marcus Hale? That's top 5 in the region. And this guy made him look like an NPC."
Most of the El Monte comments were just shock and laughter.
But the Brighton video?
Awe. Confusion. Respect.
People were impressed.
And thanks to Leo's tag, Julian's notifications started pinging like wildfire.
A handful of players from the team. A few local fans. Some randoms curious enough to click follow.
+145 followers.
Not enough to break the system's first tier.
But it was something. A ripple.
He stared at the screen, the glowing red digits ticking upward.
Then another message came in from Leo:
"Remember. 19:00 tonight."
Julian typed a simple reply:
"Okay."
Still awkward. He wasn't used to conversations like this.
In his past life, communication was strategy, briefing, or war cries. Not emojis and half-typed slang.
But this was the world now. His new battlefield.
And right now?
He had work to do.
Julian stood, body still sore from the night before.
But his muscles moved. His mind was clear.
He needed to keep going.
Because every step forward…
Every post, every match, every silent grind…
Was part of building a name the world wouldn't forget.
…
The morning sun stretched across the window blinds, casting golden streaks across the wooden floor.
Julian moved in silence.
First, martial arts.
Flowing stances. Focused breath. Precision drills burned into his bones. The repetition was meditative. His body listened, remembered, responded.
Then came football.
He launched into a Ronaldinho-style dribble drill—tight cuts, quick flicks, weaving through cones and shifting weight from foot to foot like a dancer with a blade.
After that: pass to the wall. One-touch, then two-touch. Then long passes across the short corner of the room, timing it so the rebound didn't kill the momentum.
Finally, sharp volleys at the reinforced wall. Simulated shots. Practice precision.
And all the while—
ASHI's Training Overlay ran in the corner of his vision.
Just like during those early quests.
Heart rate. Fatigue meter. Feedback on form.
Every stat mattered now.
When the drills were done, he dropped into a cooldown routine. Ate a protein-heavy breakfast—eggs, oats, fruit, and one of the nutrition bars Sean had forced into his gym bag.
After that?
He let himself breathe.
Video games.
Not strategy sims or puzzle tests—just a football game.
Old-school console. Classic controller. Fast gameplay.
And for the first time in a while…
He sat on the worn-down couch in the game room—his game room.
The room had dust in the corners, but it still held a familiar comfort.
He'd planned to transform this place.
Make it a home gym. Maybe add free weights. A sprint sled. Resistance training setups.
He'd already mentioned it to Crest.
Still in progress.
The cost wasn't small—and parental approval was still up in the air.
Which made him wonder.
His parents.
They knew he existed.
They'd hidden him away for years.
But now? Now he was making noise.
Now people were watching.
Would they come?
Would they try to stop him? Force him back into the shadows?
He didn't know.
Didn't care.
Let them come.
He would not stop.
The controller clicked in his hands.
His in-game avatar danced around defenders, scoring a curling screamer from outside the box.
He checked the clock.
18:32 PM.
Time to go.
He stood, stretching the stiffness out of his legs. Then walked into the living room where Crest was sorting through receipts and papers at the kitchen table.
"I'm heading out," Julian said, grabbing his hoodie from the chair. "Going to The Final Whistle."
Crest's eyes snapped up. "What's that?"
"It's a bar. And a restaurant," Julian clarified quickly, before the scowl deepened. "We're just celebrating the end of our friendlies and the start of the season."
Her lips pressed into a line.
"You're underage," she said. "You know you can't drink."
Julian gave her a look—the kind that had gotten him an extra cookie when he was a kid.
Soft eyes. Tilted head.
The legendary cat face.
Crest sighed. She tried. Really tried. But her expression melted.
"…Alright. Fine." She pointed a finger at him. "But promise me—no drinking."
"Promise," Julian nodded. "I'll take the bus."
…
The sun had already dipped beneath the skyline, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. Julian followed the location Leo had sent—just one bus, a ten-minute walk, and—
He arrived.
The Final Whistle.
The sign above the entrance was bold and backlit, shaped like a referee's whistle wrapped in flames. From the outside, it looked like a mix between a sports bar and a football shrine.
Even from the curb, he could already hear the murmur of conversations and bursts of laughter leaking out through the windows.
When he stepped inside, the atmosphere hit him like a roar.
Flags. Scarves. Jerseys. Everywhere.
Premier League. La Liga. Serie A. MLS. Even obscure clubs from South Korea and Brazil. The walls were packed with memorabilia, each piece framed like relics from old battles.
A massive videotron took center stage, mounted high behind the bar.
It currently displayed a looping montage of famous goals—Zidane's volley, Messi's dribble through a wall of defenders, Haaland's rocket header.
Julian blinked.
This place didn't just serve food.
It worshipped football.
Booths were packed. A few small tables had been shoved together in the back to form one long gathering spot—and at it sat familiar faces.
Coach Owens.
Leo, animated as always, waving his hands while talking.
Cael with a half-finished milkshake and a mischievous grin.
Ricky, cool as ice, already scrolling through his phone.
Felix, Tyrell, Miles, Zion—all in casual clothes, plates stacked with fries and wings.
Then—
"JULIAN!"
Cael shot up from his chair, flailing both arms. "Get over here, man!"
A few heads turned. One of the waiters chuckled.
Julian couldn't help but smile.
He walked toward them—into the noise, the heat, the ridiculous team energy that buzzed like a live wire through the restaurant.
And as he pulled out a chair and sat down—
He felt it.
Not just like a player.
But part of the squad.
Plates clattered. Soda fizzed. The smell of garlic fries, barbecue sauce, and sizzling burgers filled the air.
Julian leaned back as laughter exploded around him.
On the massive screen above the bar, the MLS regular season game had just kicked off—Philadelphia Union vs Inter Miami. The restaurant dimmed its lights slightly as the crowd turned their attention upward.
"THE GOAT'S PLAYING!" Leo yelled, his hands raised like it was a Champions League final.
Julian followed his gaze to the screen—Inter Miami's pink kits glowing under the floodlights. And there, walking calmly with the ball, was the man they were all staring at.
Lionel Messi.
Julian's eyes narrowed. Even through the screen, even at 36 years old, the way Messi moved…
It was elegant. Effortless.
Each touch a whisper. Each run a question no defender could answer.
From what Julian knew, in this year—2023—there were two names etched into the legend of Earth football:
Cristiano Ronaldo.
Lionel Messi.
The twin kings of two decades.
"Messi's the GOAT, bro. He plays like he's from another planet!" Leo grinned, arms wide, like the debate was already over.
"What?!" Cael practically stood from his seat, a chicken wing still in his hand. "The GOAT is Cristiano Ronaldo, don't even start!"
Felix shook his head. "We doing this again? Every single time…"
Julian just listened, the noise fading slightly as he watched Messi on the screen.
That calm. That pressure. The way he drew defenders like a tide pulling in sand—and then slipped through with a single touch.
It wasn't just skill.
It was command.
And for the first time, Julian wondered…
What would it be like to face a monster like that?