The whistle had long blown.
Final score: 1 – 1.
The ga was over—
but the silence afterward felt heavier than any defeat.
Each team huddled around their benches, shoulders slumped, jerseys soaked through with sweat and regret.
Lincoln High gathered quietly, their expressions tight, still replaying the last monts in their minds.
Julian sat at the far end of the bench, his legs wrapped in bandages and compression tape.
The throbbing in his calves pulsed with every heartbeat. His breath was steady now, but shallow—like each inhale ca with a cost.
Coach Owens stepped forward. No clipboard. No play diagrams. Just a raw, tired voice.
"That was rough," he began, eyes sweeping over the team. "This ga... it was bad."
No one flinched. They knew.
"The first half—we nearly drowned. The midfield collapsed. But I’m not here to scold you."
He looked at them harder now. Not with anger. With truth.
"Back-to-back gas like this? It’s brutal. I scheduled it to hurt—because pain shows you where your limits are. And what you need to break through them."
The bench stayed silent. Even Leo, who normally joked to break tension, simply nodded.
"Our next match is Friday. Brighton Catholic High. Two days from now. Use them well."
Coach turned his gaze to Julian, who t it without flinching—even as pain licked at the edges of his nerves like fire.
A beat passed before Owens shifted his eyes to Tess, who stood nearby with a tablet in hand and a sharp glint in her glasses.
"Condition?" he asked flatly.
Tess didn’t hesitate.
"Overstrain," she said, matter-of-fact. "Severe muscle fatigue, especially in the hamstrings and calves. He needs a full 48 hours before he can even think about playing again."
Coach grunted and nodded once.
"Understood. Take care of him."
Then he turned back to the team, voice firr now.
"You’ve earned your rest. All of you. I want everyone recovered, focused, and sharp for Friday."
He paused—letting the mont breathe.
"Get so sleep. You’ll need it."
And with that, he walked off.
Julian sat still, watching the shadows of his teammates move around him—so stretching, so laughing bitterly, so limping off toward the locker room.
He clenched his jaw.
His legs were shot. His body was near breaking.
But in his chest, sothing still burned.
Rage.
Not at the ga.
Not even at himself.
But at the weakness.
The limits.
The fragility of this human shell.
He had been the sword in a past life. Untouchable. Relentless.
Now he was flesh. Mortal. Failing.
...And yet...
This was exactly what he needed to rember.
Limits exist to be broken.
A hand waved in front of his face.
"Hey—hi? You’re scaring a little. Don’t make that face," Tess said, raising an eyebrow.
Julian blinked. Snapped back from the edge of his thoughts.
"...What?"
"Co on. You’re not done yet." She jerked her thumb toward the far hallway. "I’ll walk you through the recovery plan. If you actually want to play Friday, you’ll do exactly what I say."
Without waiting for confirmation, she turned and started walking.
Julian stood, wincing as the muscles in his legs tensed like wires ready to snap. Still—he could walk now. Barely. Progress.
He followed Tess through the school’s rear hallway, footsteps soft against the polished floor. As they moved, he glanced around and realized—
This school was bigger than he thought.
How did a public high school have facilities like this?
And sports dicine students?
Back in his last life, unless you were royalty or a sect heir, no one gave a damn if you were injured. If you were weak—you were forgotten. Just another body in the dirt.
But here?
They had clinics. People like Tess.
They treated weakness like a condition, not a curse.
Julian slid his phone out of his pocket and started typing with one hand as he limped along.
"Sports dicine... career path... student trainer roles..."
The results loaded instantly.
Smartphones.
Another absurd miracle of this world.
An entire library of knowledge in the palm of your hand.
No spirit crystals. No ancient scrolls. Just a glass screen and lightning-fast answers.
And the more he read, the more fascinated he beca.
dicine here wasn’t mystical.
It was systematic. Empirical.
X-rays. MRIs. Rehab protocols.
Of course, the world was still corrupted. He wasn’t naïve. The rich controlled too much. The poor bled more than they should. That part hadn’t changed.
But the ideology—the belief in equal opportunity, the obsession with advancent, with chasing sothing better for all mortals...
It was strange.
Beautiful, even.
Julian’s thoughts paused as Tess turned a corner and pushed open a wide double door.
A clinic. Inside a school.
White LED lights buzzed softly overhead. Cold linoleum floors stretched beneath rehab tables and neatly aligned machines. Posters of muscular systems and tendon injury diagrams lined the walls. Everything felt sterile—professional.
Too clean for a high school. Too quiet for a battlefield.
Tess strode in like she owned the place, her ponytail swaying with each step. Julian followed behind, eyes scanning everything.
At the far desk sat a man who looked more like a retired linebacker than a dical specialist.
One hand held a tablet. The other? A half-eaten protein bar.
Beard. Dad-bod. Wide shoulders. Warm grin.
Suburban gym teacher ets part-ti war dic.
Before Julian could speak, Tess gestured toward the man and said, "This is Mr. Sean Carver, our certified teacher in sports dicine." She even made air quotes with her fingers. "Certified."
Sean looked up, amused. "Hello, Tess. And you are?"
"Julian," he answered, stepping forward. "Football club."
"Soccer?" Sean asked, raising an eyebrow.
Julian cracked a dry smile. "Yeah. Soccer."
"Alright, take a seat."
Julian eased himself down into the nearest padded chair with a hiss through clenched teeth.
Sean snapped on a pair of gloves and moved around the table, crouching beside Julian’s legs. His hands moved with practiced efficiency as he unwrapped the bandage and gently pressed along the joints and tendons.
He whistled softly. "Nice wrap job. Good first response, Tess."
Tess smirked and gave him a thumbs-up. "Told you I was getting better."
Sean nodded. "Yeah, you’re wasted on classroom theory. You’ve got good hands, girl."
Julian didn’t say anything. His gaze was on his leg—still sore, but the swelling had started to calm.
Sean stood back up. "You’re gonna need to co in for treatnt twice a day—once in the morning, once in the afternoon. Ice, therapy, light mobility drills. No skipping."
"Got it," Julian replied, voice low but steady.
Sean gave him a look. "I’m serious, kid. You overexert again this week, and I’m pulling you out myself. We clear?"
Julian t his eyes. "Crystal."
He stood—slowly—and headed toward the exit. Each step still ca with a dull ache, but it was manageable. He could move.
Outside, the hallway was dim. Empty. The post-ga adrenaline was gone now, leaving only fatigue in its place.
Julian pulled out his phone and hit call.
The line clicked.
"Crest," he said, voice quiet. "I need a pickup. Got a bit of an injury."
She didn’t respond right away.
But then—
He heard it.
That low growl of an engine igniting.
Not just any car. Hers.
Sharp. Smooth. Vicious.
The kind of sound that made you think F1 driver with a vendetta.
Julian cracked a tired smile and lowered the phone.
"She’s coming."
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