The match surged on, San Dimas tightening their grip on the early tempo. Gold and silver shirts moved like a tide, flowing, pressing, crashing against Lincoln’s lines.
But Lincoln didn’t fold.
Cael, reborn, guarded the net with fire in his veins. Every shot that whistled through the air found his gloves, his fists, his fra. His voice cracked like thunder as he commanded the box. Each save steadied Lincoln’s pulse.
And in midfield—Leo.
Julian saw it before anyone else. That light. A golden hue bleeding into his captain’s eyes, radiant and unshakable. His steps slowed but sharpened, every motion deliberate, as if the whole field bent to his tempo.
The Maestro’s state.
Passes snapped with unnatural precision. One touch, two, three—and suddenly Lincoln were alive. The others moved as if strings had been tied to their boots, their rhythm pulled by Leo’s silent baton.
Julian’s gaze narrowed. He triggered the scan.
[Activating Scan Lv.2...]
...
User: Leonardo Luz
Position: CAM
Best Attributes: Perception, Technique
Skill: Maestro’s Rhythm — Enters a trance-like state, boosting all attributes by 10 to 40 for a set duration, scaling with match pressure.
Age: 17
Total Attributes: 191 (401)
...
Julian’s chest tightened as the numbers seared into his vision. His fist clenched around nothing.
Four hundred.
With Maestro’s Rhythm, Leo was standing toe-to-toe with Victor.
Julian’s pulse hamred. That was their opening. That was their weapon.
But the trance was fleeting. He knew it. The higher Leo soared, the sharper the fall that would follow. His body would burn out if they waited too long.
They had to strike now.
Julian’s eyes locked on Leo’s golden glow as a grin tugged at his lips.
"Win it, captain," he muttered under his breath.
Because if Leo’s fire blazed against Victor’s storm, Julian would be the blade that cut when the mont ca.
The war hadn’t chosen its hero yet.
But the pitch had chosen its conductor.
...
Leo didn’t need words.
Not in this trance.
His voice was his eyes. His orders were the brush of his passes.
The ball rolled at his feet, and the rhythm bent around him.
Dribble. Midfield split.
Felix to Aaron.
Aaron back to Leo.
Every touch was a note, every stride another bar in his song.
The crowd felt it too. The hum of chatter dulled, then rose again, rising and falling in waves that matched his movents.
Every pass sent ripples through the stands. Every turn drew gasps, as if the spectators themselves had been caught in his rhythm. For a mont, the stadium wasn’t just watching—it was listening.
Defenders lunged, but Leo’s feet sang quicker—fluid steps, hips swaying left then right. He danced past two with ease, until the wall lood before him.
Elijah.
The iron sentinel. Arms low, knees bent, gaze sharp as steel. He didn’t charge. Didn’t flinch. He simply stood—reading, waiting, like a wall daring the wave to crash.
Leo slowed, golden eyes burning. His shoulders feinted left, then right. The crowd held its breath.
And then—boom.
An explosive burst to the left, feet slapping the turf like thunder.
Elijah shifted instantly, body sliding across, cutting the lane. He had read it.
But so had Leo.
A pivot. A spin. A flare of gold.
Elijah’s arm shot out, too slow. Leo slipped past, the ball tethered like it was chained to his soul.
For the briefest instant, Elijah’s stoic mask cracked—his jaw tightening, his balance faltering. Even the Iron Wall could be shaken.
The crowd roared—only for silence to drop a beat later.
Because Kai was already there.
Blitz Run unleashed, he tore in from the flank, body a blur of motion. His timing was perfect, his trap undeniable.
But Leo was still in trance. His rhythm never broke.
With a flick, the ball zipped left—into Aaron’s stride.
Kai cursed under his breath, veering late, but Aaron had already touched it once—sending it spiraling back into Leo’s path.
And Leo lifted his head.
Scanning. Reading. Choosing.
The field wasn’t chaos to him. It was an orchestra, every player an instrunt.
Noah—the flute, a shadow weaving behind defenders.
Julian—the electric guitar, raw power vibrating, demanding to split the air.
Which voice would end his song?
The Maestro chose.
A low ball. Weighted perfectly. Slipping between a defender’s legs, sneaking through like smoke.
Noah burst onto it on the right wing. First touch clean, stride opening, already inside the box.
The crowd surged, a thousand voices gasping in unison.
Noah swung.
Bang.
The strike was true.
But Malik stood waiting.
The Eagle’s eyes had tracked it all along. His reflexes were lightning.
He exploded sideways, gloves flashing.
Smack!
The ball cracked off Malik’s palms, ricocheting upward.
Gasps. Shouts. A storm ripping through the stands.
Julian’s perception sharpened until the world slowed to a crawl. The spinning ball hung above him like fate itself.
This chance... there won’t be another.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: 30 To All Attributes]
Power surged. Every blood vessel strained, muscles screaming, bones grinding under the flood of force. He could feel himself breaking past his limit—his body wasn’t built for this, but his will demanded it.
[Martial mory – Active Mode: 10 Seconds]
Fifteen minutes into the match, and already he was burning through his soul. His body would pay the price. But that didn’t matter. He had a weapon to finish this.
Sky Reaping Kick.
One of the peak techniques of the kick school. A skill said to sever the soul itself with a single strike.
Julian’s eyes never left the ball. The defenders surged, boots hamring the turf, bodies crashing forward to close him down. Too late.
He leapt.
His body spun, drilling upward through the air. Each rotation carved the sky, his limbs coiled tight, every motion feeding into the next. Ti bent.
He felt the stadium fall away—the noise, the floodlights, the weight of San Dimas’s pressure.
In that instant there was only him, the ball, and the art of destruction. His past life’s battlefields bled into the pitch, mories of blades and blood sharpening his focus into sothing terrifying.
And then—
Contact.
Bang!
His foot t the ball in perfect harmony, the sound cracking like thunder through the night.
The ball scread toward the net, the angle impossibly steep.
Malik’s pupils dilated. He launched himself, body twisting, fists clenched. His glove punched through the air, connecting with leather.
But it wasn’t enough.
The strike was too heavy, too vicious—like a hamr crushing through bone. Malik’s hand only slowed it for a heartbeat before it tore past.
The net rippled. Violently.
Goal.
1 – 0.
The stadium froze. Mouths hung open, sound caught in throats. One man finally broke the silence—
"What the fuck—"
And then the dam burst.
Screams. Roars. Chants. Chaos.
Julian landed hard, pain stabbing through his legs, but he didn’t stop. He sprinted straight for the crowd, chest heaving, arms spread wide.
The noise swallowed him whole, thousands of voices crashing together into one tidal wave of awe.
Caras flashed like lightning. Fans clutched their heads. Scouts scribbled furiously into their notebooks, so rising to their feet without realizing it.
The mont was too much for words—too heavy, too unreal.
He had reaped the sky.
And carved his na into it.
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