That night ended with Tress’s lips pressed against Julian’s—his first kiss in this world.
Warm. Wild. Untad.
A mont carved so deep into him that even sleep carried it forward.
He dread well. For once, his night wasn’t filled with demons or echoes of battles, but with light.
And when morning ca, he woke with fire.
05:00 AM sharp.
His body rose before the sun.
Julian pushed through his routine with relentless rhythm:
Martial arts drills, flowing like water but sharp as blades.
Body training, weights pressing against trembling muscles until they roared.
Football in the backyard, touches sharp, movents precise, every strike aid at invisible defenders.
By the ti sweat slicked down his spine, the sky had turned pale. His lungs burned, his heart hamred.
The ache in his arms, the sting in his calves, even the raw burn across his chest—it all fed into the rhythm of discipline.
His body was no longer the frail shell he had been born into. It was becoming what he demanded of it. A weapon.
The crisp air of dawn stung his throat, but it only pushed him further. Each breath felt like sharpening steel, each bead of sweat proof that his body was catching up to the will that had always driven him.
He had just finished when—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A heavy rap against the front door echoed through the quiet house.
"It’s ee—David!" ca the voice from outside, lazy but loud.
Julian froze mid-step, glanced at Crest. She was already in the hall, her eyes sharp as if she had been waiting.
He wiped his face with a towel, walked over, and swung the door open.
David stood there, hair still ssy, a stack of thick docunts clutched under one arm, his grin as wide as ever.
"Morning, superstar," David said, stepping inside without waiting for permission. "Hope you’re ready—because today, we’re talking contracts."
...
David dropped the stack of docunts onto the coffee table with a thud, papers fanning out like a deck of fate. He leaned back, casual as ever, but his eyes glead with sharp intent.
"First things first. The senior team wants you." He jabbed a finger toward Julian. "But you’ll still have to prove it. Here’s how it works: the transfer goes through in March. Until August, you’ll play with their U21s. That’s your trial ground. Do well there, and when the Bundesliga season starts, you’ll be called up to the senior squad."
Julian sat forward, elbows on his knees, Crest silent beside him, arms crossed, gaze locked on every word.
"Position?" Julian asked, voice low.
"Striker. Or attacking mid," David replied smoothly. "They want goals. Simple as that."
Julian’s eyes narrowed. "Simple never ans easy. What’s the tric? What’s considered good enough?"
David grinned, pulling a sheet free and sliding it across the table. "I asked the sa thing. Here’s what they told —they don’t just want promise. They want proof. Numbers."
He tapped the page.
"One goal every match? That’s grade S. Automatic call-up."
Julian’s brow furrowed.
"One goal every two matches? Grade A. About eighty percent chance they’ll promote you, depending on your overall play."
He paused, letting it sink in.
"One goal every three matches? Grade B. Fifty-fifty. Anything below that..." He spread his hands, smile fading. "...you’ll be written off as another gamble that didn’t pay out."
The room went quiet. Crest’s gaze flicked from the papers to Julian, reading the storm brewing behind his eyes.
Julian exhaled, slow, steady, then leaned back. "So. One goal a ga if I want certainty."
"That’s right." David’s grin sharpened. "They’re daring you to beco a scoring machine."
The word "daring" sat heavy in the air. To any other boy his age, it might sound impossible—pressure designed to break him.
To Julian, it was a challenge written in blood. One he couldn’t ignore. One he had been waiting for.
He slid another paper forward. "This here—your wages, benefits, health coverage, the whole package. Standard for a first-year foreign signing. But—" he lifted a finger, "—it’s a one-year contract.
My choice. If Hamburg can’t contain you, I don’t want them caging you. In a year, if you blow up the way I think you will, bigger teams will co calling."
Julian’s eyes narrowed, but a spark flickered there. Short. Clean. They can’t lock down.
"I like it short," Julian muttered, more to himself than to David.
David leaned back, satisfied. "Exactly. For Hamburg, it’s a gamble on a player they’ve never heard of. For us? It’s leverage."
Julian’s gaze dropped to the page. "Where do I sign?"
"Right here. This is the pre-agreent," David explained. "The official contract will be signed after your dicals at their facility."
Julian’s brow creased. "Says March. What date?" He glanced toward the calendar in his head—it was already late February. Four days until March.
David flipped through his folder, then nodded. "Your start date’s Monday, March 8th. Which ans... we fly out on the 5th."
Julian sat back, exhaled slowly. "Alright. March 5th."
He pressed the pen down, scrawling his na with steady strokes. The sound of it felt like a seal slamming shut.
"Perfect." David scooped up the signed sheets. "I’ve got more fires to put out before tonight, so I’ll leave you to it. Keep these—" he tapped the leftover docunts on the table—"read through them when you can."
By the ti the door clicked shut behind him, the house felt quieter. Heavier.
Crest stepped forward, gathering the remaining papers into a neat stack. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were iron.
"I’ll make sure your place there is secure. Be ready."
Julian glanced up, lips quirking. "Thanks, Crest. But don’t make it too fancy. I don’t want a palace. Just... a room. Like anyone else."
His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. "I need to live like them."
Crest studied him for a long mont, the silence between them sharp enough to cut.
She could’ve argued—could’ve reminded him he wasn’t like them, that his path wasn’t normal. But instead, she only inclined her head, accepting his will.
Behind the steel of her gaze, there was sothing else too. Pride. A Guardian pride, carefully hidden beneath her armor.
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