Julian’s voice cut through the chaos, low and sharp like the flick of a blade.
"Ti to gamble."
Leo caught the signal with a nod. His eyes flicked to Felix.
That was all it took.
Felix dipped deeper into midfield—dragging his marker with him, peeling open space where there hadn’t been any seconds before. The rhythm shifted. Lincoln began to warp Bellre’s shape like heat through glass.
Julian drifted wide, just a few ters, subtle, deliberate.
Not enough to scream danger—just enough to test the line.
It was bait. A thread pulled loose.
And finally—soone bit.
One of Bellre’s center backs stepped forward, eyes locked on Felix, eager to shut him down. The mistake wasn’t big. Just a few feet out of position.
But it was enough.
Leo pounced.
A diagonal pass, low and slicing through the space between midfield and defense—threaded with precision only a maestro could deliver.
Julian exploded into the seam like a fired arrow.
One touch.
Two.
The ball kissed the grass under his boots, skimming forward.
But already—Adrian was there.
Too fast.
He closed the gap with chanical grace. No wasted motion. No panic. Just the silence of a predator whose trap had already been set.
Julian feinted a shot to freeze him, then nudged the ball wide with the outside of his foot, trying to slip past.
Adrian didn’t blink.
He read it.
Anticipated.
And with a single, surgical touch—poke.
The ball was gone.
The crowd groaned in unison. A ripple of disappointnt across the bleachers.
Julian spun around, frustrated, fists clenching—but then his gaze locked onto Adrian’s.
Still calm. Still expressionless. Not smug. Not mocking.
Just—in control.
A wall, not a rival.
"Damn," Julian muttered through his teeth. "He’s good."
Bellre rotated instantly. Their formation didn’t break—it shifted. As if the players were gears turning inside a giant machine.
Yuan was already dropping deep to receive the clearance. He didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.
He accelerated.
One smooth turn and he was gliding past the first wave of pressure, head up, picking lanes.
Coach Owens’s voice barked from the sideline.
"Wide left! Watch Malaka!"
Too late.
Malaka had launched.
From stillness to sprint, he detonated off the line like a thunderclap—
exploding up the left channel, a silver blur with coiled spring legs and razor-sharp form.
Every stride slamd the turf. His torso leaned into the run. Arms slicing air.
A living missile.
Miles chased—desperate, lunging—but it was like trying to catch a lightning bolt with your bare hands.
Julian joined the pursuit.
But Malaka didn’t slow.
Not after forty minutes.
Not after the last duel.
Not at all.
His stamina was insane.
Even his damn hair barely moved—like the wind bowed out of his way.
Julian clenched his jaw.
[Activating Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: 5 To All Attributes]
Power surged. Limbs lightened. Breath deepened.
The gap didn’t vanish—but it shrank.
He wasn’t catching Malaka.
But now, at least... he was there.
Bellre launched a one-two. Yuan skimd a pass into the wing and cut inside.
Malaka caught it in stride—
—but didn’t cross.
No, he baited.
Faked one way. Stepped over. Then the other.
Leo stepped up—
A leader’s instinct.
Too late.
Nutg.
"Shit—!"
Leo twisted, eyes wide, as the ball ghosted between his legs.
Malaka coiled and cracked a low cross across the face of goal.
Near-post striker broke in—
—but Damien roared off his line.
THUD.
Full body extension. Chest first. Arms wide.
He smothered the ball like a lion shielding its cubs.
Whistle.
Foul. Elbow to the keeper.
Free kick. Lincoln ball.
Julian jogged back, lungs burning. Sweat streaked his face, muscles vibrating.
"Why the hell is their wingback playing like a striker?" he panted.
Leo groaned beside him. "Because he can."
...
Lincoln High reset slow. Cautious. Possession-first.
Control the pulse. Reset the tempo.
Julian drifted wide again—dragging Malaka with him this ti.
Felix dropped deeper. Tyrell stretched far right.
A slow triangle.
Testing the waters.
Bellre bit.
Adrian Bellamy stepped up—just a step too high.
That was all Leo needed.
[Activating Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: 7 To All Attributes]
Ti snapped. Lines sharpened.
Every heartbeat felt like a countdown.
Leo pivoted—
Foot slicing under the ball.
Threaded pass.
Perfect weight. Perfect spin.
Julian shot forward like a bullet.
Malaka chased.
Not just fast—flawless. His form didn’t break. No stutter. No panic.
Julian reached the edge of the box.
The pressure behind him was real.
Footsteps. Breathing. Heat.
Malaka was still there.
So Julian stopped.
Dead halt. No stutter. No drag.
He let the ball roll, untouched, deliberate—like bait tossed into the jaws of a beast.
Malaka blinked. Just once.
And that was enough.
Julian spun—a razor-turn, fluid and sharp.
His boot flicked the ball left, just past the edge of Malaka’s cleat.
A gap opened. Tiny. Breathing. Alive.
A window.
His heart slamd.
Now.
Or never.
He pulled back his leg to shoot—
BOOM!
Blocked.
Malaka Jas slid in like a missile. Clean. Brutal. Precise.
A wall of muscle, instinct, and perfect timing.
The ball deflected, skidding off the defender’s boot and out of bounds.
Corner kick.
Julian stood frozen, chest rising and falling, a breathless grin tugging at his face.
"What the hell is he made of?" he muttered, still in disbelief.
Even the referee gave a silent nod. Respect.
Leo jogged to the corner flag.
Julian and Tyrell moved into the box.
Riku and Tariq followed, looming like towers among the shifting mass of bodies.
Bellre set a high line. Compressed. Aggressive.
Leo raised his hand.
Whip. Fire.
The corner ca in low—fast and venomous.
Riku lunged—missed.
The ball ricocheted—chaos in a sea of legs.
Tyrell turned—
Shhhfff!
Side netting.
The crowd gasped.
So close.
So damn close.
Still no goals.
Still no break.
Julian wiped the sweat from his brow, his gaze flicking to the scoreboard.
43:52.
The first half was nearly over.
But it felt like the war hadn’t even begun to bleed.
He jogged back into position, lungs still burning.
Leo caught his eye and flashed a tired thumbs-up.
"Hold. Just hold."
But Bellre had other plans.
From the goal kick, they snapped forward with surgical intent.
No rest. No hesitation.
Only fire.
Adrian read Leo’s next pass like it was etched in stone—
Interception.
Pivot.
Pass.
Malaka was already gone.
A blur down the left flank. A human storm.
It didn’t matter that they’d played forty-four minutes.
He ran like it was the first.
Miles chased, teeth gritted—
Julian tried to cut the lane—
Too far. Too slow.
Yuan ghosted in behind Riku, his timing eerily perfect.
He took the ball in stride—
First touch to kill the bounce.
Second to draw Damien off his line.
Julian’s stomach dropped.
"No—!"
Felix sliced the ball sideways—smooth, calm, surgical.
The goal was empty.
Wide open.
And Malaka—again—ca flying in for the finish.
Julian saw it.
Felt it.
No ti to think.
[Martial mory – Active Mode: 5 Seconds]
His mind opened like a war manual.
Pages flipped.
He chose:
[Absolute Area]
A martial skill that expanded his perception like sonar.
Ten ters around him beca clarity. Precision. Control.
Everything slowed.
Malaka’s stride.
The twitch of his thigh.
The twist of his hip.
Julian read it all.
He dug in.
Lunged.
A desperate slide.
Cleats screeched against wet turf.
Malaka swung.
Ball t boot—
BOOM—!
Crack!
Julian’s foot clipped it—just barely, just enough.
The ball curved—
Off course.
Damien, mid-dive, twisted violently—hands stretching, fingers reaching—
THWACK!
He punched it clear.
Out.
OUT!
WHISTLE.
Halfti.
0–0.
But it felt like sothing more.
Like they’d just survived a storm.
Julian lay on the grass, chest heaving, heart thudding like a war drum.
Damien stood, arms wide, shouting into the sky like a madman.
Malaka crouched, hands on knees, sweat dripping, still breathing steady.
Adrian walked off without a word. Composed. Calculating. Cold.
Leo pulled Julian up.
"Hell of a save."
Julian just nodded.
Because he knew it.
That wasn’t the end.
It was only the beginning.
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