The ball rolled back from Julian’s boot into Leo’s possession.
Golden light shimred faintly around him, his eyes burning with that Maestro’s aura—calm but commanding, like a conductor stepping to the podium.
Across the pitch, D-Lo braced himself. His body leaned forward, every twitch of his legs humming with restless energy, the Mirrorworld waiting to split reality apart.
The clash of wills began.
Leo lifted his chin, surveying the field as though the ga unfolded in sheet music only he could read.
A faint flick of his wrist, a subtle drop of his shoulder—and Lincoln’s forwards shifted, each run perfectly tid, like instrunts following the rise of his baton.
The rhythm was eerie. Every movent seed inevitable, as though Leo had already seen the future and was rely letting the rest of them catch up.
His aura wasn’t just golden light—it was pressure, sinking into the bones of his teammates, telling them where to stand, where to run, where to breathe.
D-Lo surged forward to cut him off. For an instant, the world fractured. One D-Lo pressed high, another shadow lunged wide, another dropped to the middle. Mirrors stacked over mirrors, his skill bending reality until Lincoln’s midfielders hesitated, unsure which angle was real.
But Leo didn’t hesitate. His foot brushed the ball forward, sliding it between two defenders into Noah’s path.
Noah cut in, striking hard—
But Crenshaw’s keeper dived, palms smothering the shot.
The crowd roared.
The sound ca like a tidal wave—half the stadium howling in triumph, the other half groaning in disbelief.
Boots pounded the turf, benches erupted with shouts, the crackle of energy climbing higher with each passing second.
And in the next breath, D-Lo stole the rebound. His boots caressed the ball, and suddenly the pitch tilted toward Lincoln’s goal.
Every step multiplied. Three shadows sprinted where one should be, each pass mirrored with another possibility. Lincoln’s defense stumbled back, chasing illusions.
Julian tracked him, heart hamring. So fast...
But Leo moved again, a single whistle blown only his teammates could hear.
Riku shifted, Aaron pressed, and the trap closed. D-Lo still slipped through—but his shot from distance curved just wide of the post.
Both sides missed by inches.
The match had turned into sothing beyond football—it was a duel of philosophies.
Order against chaos. Symphony against storm. Every spectator could feel it in their gut.
Even the crowd had stopped waving banners or chanting nas; they were frozen in awe, caught between two forces tearing the ga apart.
By the seventy-fifth minute, the duel had consud the pitch. Leo dictating tempo with golden calm, pulling strings that made Lincoln’s attacks flow like rivers. D-Lo answering with chaos sharpened into clarity, shattering lines with every mirrored touch.
The scoreboard stayed 1–1, but the air felt like it would break.
By the eightieth minute, both teams staggered, sweat dripping, lungs burning. Their legs felt carved from stone, but their eyes still burned.
One more chance.
That was all this war would give.
One more chance.
And Julian knew—it was coming soon.
...
He heard it first.
The ragged pull of Leo’s breath beside him.
The sharp drip of sweat falling from D-Lo’s jaw.
The two of them moved across the pitch like duelists circling inside an invisible ring—Leo’s golden eyes burning steady, D-Lo’s aura flaring wild, every touch on the ball a challenge. They weren’t just playing. They were dancing on a knife’s edge.
Julian didn’t move yet. He watched. He waited.
[Rule the Pitch – Lv.2: 20 to Perception]
The world slowed, the noise of the crowd thinning into a dull roar. Every vibration of the turf, every shift in balance around him beca sharper, closer.
[Martial mory – Active Mode: 10 Seconds]
Julian’s mind reached back into the abyss of his past life. A forbidden technique. A killer’s art.
Veinseer.
Back in his old world, it was a tool for assassins and duelists.
A way to pierce flesh with the eyes alone. Muscles beca words. Strain beca sentences. The body itself betrayed intent.
And now... football was the battlefield.
Julian’s pupils narrowed, veins in his temples tightening. He didn’t look at the ball anymore. He read D-Lo’s body instead.
The slight bulge of his calf before he pushed off. The tightening of the shoulder. The twist in the hips telegraphing the cut before it ca.
To anyone else, D-Lo was a phantom, a hall of mirrors impossible to pin down. But under Veinseer, the illusions bled away.
The fake steps. The false shimrs. They were just shadows. Julian saw through to the core.
But the cost was instant. His skull throbbed, eyes burning like coals pressed into his sockets. Veinseer was brutal—ten seconds at most before it chewed him alive.
Ten seconds to end this.
He could feel blood vessels tightening around his temples, a tallic taste spreading across his tongue.
Every heartbeat rattled inside his skull like a drum, threatening to split it open. But he held on. Ten seconds was all he needed.
Leo pressed closer, Maestro’s rhythm controlling the tempo, forcing D-Lo toward the flank. But D-Lo welcod it, muscles twitching with dangerous intent.
Julian’s lungs filled. His heart hamred. His vision narrowed.
He’s going to cut inside.
The instant D-Lo’s hips coiled, Julian exploded forward—eyes locked on the one truth behind the storm of mirrors.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: 20 to All Attributes]
Boot t leather. With a sharp scoop of his foot, Julian cut straight through the illusion—stealing the ball clean.
Both Leo and D-Lo froze, their duel shattering in an instant. Their gazes snapped toward Julian, eyes wide with shock.
Julian didn’t hesitate. He turned, driving forward, the ball glued to his stride. His Veinseer vision flared—muscles flexing, fibers twitching, defenders’ intent unraveling before him like a script.
One lunged—he was already gone. Another closed the gap—Julian sidestepped before the challenge was even born. Every dodge was prewritten. Every defender was a step too late.
The crowd’s noise fractured into chaos—screams, gasps, chants blending into one storm of disbelief.
They couldn’t understand how Julian was cutting through a defense that had seed unbreakable minutes before. But to him, it wasn’t magic.
It was truth carved from flesh, read in the language of veins and muscles.
And Lincoln surged with him.
Noah tore down the left, his body leaning into the run, shadow rging with the floodlit grass.
Julian’s gaze cut toward him. Veinseer locked onto the subtle ripple in Noah’s thigh, the coiling of calves. The body betrayed its truth. He could reach it. He would reach it.
Julian drew back and struck. A long, searing through ball carved across the pitch, slicing open Crenshaw’s back line like a blade through silk.
Noah’s eyes widened. "That far?!"
But he didn’t slow. He pushed harder, legs pumping, lungs burning, the night swallowing his figure as he chased. The ball spun ahead of him like it was daring him to fail.
Julian’s vision blurred, a sting clawing through his eyes. Veinseer was tearing him apart. He closed his eyes for half a heartbeat, then forced them open again. Not yet. Ten seconds.
The play unfolded like fate.
Noah stretched, every muscle screaming as his boot reached. Contact.
The first touch—perfect. Magical. The ball bent to his will, settling under his control as if it had always belonged there.
Gasps rippled through the stands as Noah cut into the box, the defenders left stumbling in his wake. Only Javion remained, closing hard, jaw clenched.
He dove in for the tackle—
Noah slipped past, body twisting, blade through shadow.
One more step. The strike.
Bang.
The net rippled. The stadium erupted.
1 – 2. Lincoln High.
The explosion of sound nearly tore the night apart. Fans leapt to their feet, voices cracking from the force of their screams.
Even the concrete beneath the stands seed to tremble under the roar. It wasn’t just a goal—it was a declaration, a spear driven into the heart of Crenshaw’s pride.
Noah didn’t stop running. He sprinted straight to Julian, arms wide, slamming into him with a fierce embrace.
Their teammates followed, voices breaking into roars as they rushed the corner flag.
Together, they weren’t just scoring.
They were sealing the ga.
...
The match pressed on, but the fire that had blazed between Leo and D-Lo was gone. Their duel—the maestro against the mirror—had burned itself out.
Exhaustion painted every stride now. Even giants had limits.
Leo’s golden eyes dimd, his body drained, until Coach Owen called him off. Ricky ca in to finish the final stretch.
On the other side, D-Lo staggered, his brilliance spent.
His mirrors cracked, his fra heavy. Crenshaw’s bench raised a substitution board, and their ace was gone.
It was surrender in everything but words.
Crenshaw still moved, still chased, still fought—but the edge had vanished.
Their rhythm was broken, their fla extinguished. Every pass looked tired. Every press lacked teeth.
The whistle finally ca.
Prittt—
1 – 2. Lincoln High.
The scoreboard glared down at the field, cold and undeniable.
Lincoln’s players roared, arms thrown up, voices echoing into the night sky.
Julian stood at the center of it, sweat cooling on his skin, lungs burning—but his eyes steady. The war was over.
But not for him.
As the celebrations swirled, his thoughts drifted forward. Past the match. Past the cheers.
Tonight, he would see David—
the man who would soon beco his agent.
And with that eting, Julian knew—
his world was about to open wider than Lincoln’s field.
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