After the throw-in, the rhythm of the ga settled back into the sa brutal pattern from the first half—
San Dimas pressing.
Lincoln High enduring.
Only now, with Miles orchestrating and Kai prowling up front, every through ball from San Dimas cut like a scalpel.
Their passing wasn’t just quick—it was surgical, slicing into channels that barely existed until the ball was already there.
The gold-and-silver stands stayed on their feet, chanting in waves. The noise was a wall, pushing against Lincoln every ti they tried to breathe.
Even a simple clearance was t with jeers, the sound bouncing off the small tal bleachers and echoing across the pitch.
But Lincoln didn’t break. Not yet.
Every shot was blocked. Every cross deflected.
Every step forward fought for in a haze of grunts, sliding studs, and the sting of cold turf burns.
"This is frustrating," Aaron growled, sweat glistening on his temples despite the winter air.
"We wait," Leo said, calm but sharp, eyes never leaving the field. "There’s sothing there... a crack."
Julian’s gaze narrowed.
He could feel it too.
Miles was still dangerous, but his passes—those impossible Algorithm Passes—were losing their venom.
The curves weren’t quite as sharp. The weight, just a fraction off. His breathing had gone ragged, misting the air in heavy bursts.
Julian’s mind locked onto the pattern.
A specialist—brilliant, deadly—but one whose body couldn’t keep pace with his brain. A diamond still buried in rough stone.
It explained why Laura hadn’t flagged him as a threat before the match.
On paper, he was a ghost. On the pitch, he was a storm—but only for as long as his stamina held.
And the clock was their ally now. Every minute that ticked away was another chip at the edge of Miles’s ga.
Julian caught Leo’s eyes.
"You see it, right?"
Leo’s lips curled into sothing between a smirk and a snarl.
"Yeah... let’s tear the crack wide open."
...
The match tightened again, both teams coiling and striking, but Julian and Leo were patient.
All they needed was one opening.
One crack.
And then—there it was.
The ball found Miles’s feet.
Right in front of Julian.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: 10 To All Attributes]
[Martial mory – Active Mode: 5 Seconds]
He chose Absolute Area—the sa martial skill that had once turned the pitch into his personal hunting ground.
Perception spread out in all directions, a ten-ter radius blooming in his mind like a perfect sonar map.
Every breath, every twitch, every blade of grass inside that circle was his.
Julian moved in.
Miles tried to feint left.
Then right.
But Julian shadowed each step, eyes locked, reading him like an open book.
Sweat began to bead on Miles’s forehead, sliding down in heavy drops. His breathing rasped against the cold air.
The frustration crept in—how was he still locked down by a striker?
Then Miles saw it.
A gap.
Small, but there—between Julian’s legs.
A fake to the left, just enough to widen it.
He struck, sending the ball through.
Except—Julian had been waiting for that exact mont.
The world slowed. He saw the pass before it left the boot, the ball’s path etched in his mind like a glowing line.
His stance shifted in a flash, weight transferring, muscles uncoiling.
He was already moving before the ball crossed the space.
One step—
Then another—
The ball was his.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: 20 To All Attributes]
And now, so was the counterattack.
From the stands, the San Dimas fans’ cheers caught in their throats as Julian spun out of the interception, the away section exploding in noise that cut through the cold like a knife.
Julian’s cleats bit into the turf, the pulse in his veins pounding like war drums. His chest burned, his muscles coiled—
[Activating Blood Furnace – Lv.1]
Heat exploded in his core, roaring outward like a forge flaring to life. Every limb felt lighter, every step sharper.
The 20 surge from Rule The Pitch no longer felt like a strain—it felt natural.
He took off.
"Noaahhh!" Julian’s voice cracked through the cold air.
Noah’s head snapped up, and then he was sprinting.
Two predators, closing on the box.
Julian to Noah.
Noah back to Julian.
The defenders scrambled, legs tangling as they tried to adjust.
Julian’s run drew two markers out of position—exactly what he wanted. He shifted again.
[Martial mory – Active Mode: 5 Seconds]
Chosen technique: Serpent Strike.
The coiled motion surged through his body, muscle mory from another life.
His leg whipped out—not in a straight arc, but with a snake’s unpredictable sway.
"Take thisss!" he hissed, the sound more beast than boy.
To San Dimas, it was a shot.
To Malik, it was the shot—fast, heavy, lethal. But the flight was wrong. The ball danced midair, curving left, then snapping right, refusing to obey physics.
Except it wasn’t going for goal.
At the last instant, the ball swerved toward Noah.
Malik didn’t flinch. He aborted his dive halfway, reading the change—anticipating a chip or a high strike.
Bad read.
Noah’s eyes glittered as he t the ball. He leaned in, the outside of his foot wrapping around it in a trivela.
The strike spun viciously, starting wide before bending hard, kissing the inside of the post.
Net.
Goal.
2 – 0.
Noah tore away from the box, lungs burning, arms spread wide. He sprinted toward the away crowd, jabbing a finger at himself over and over—I’m back.
And I’m ready.
The Lincoln bench roared.
The stands trembled.
...
But the war wasn’t over.
San Dimas restarted like a wounded beast, throwing bodies forward, still pressing with teeth bared.
The passes ca sharp, but with Miles Becker’s legs spent, the edge dulled.
His movents lost that surgical crispness—his curves and angles becoming predictable.
Lincoln’s shape held.
Minute by minute, the pressure bled away.
Final whistle.
2 – 0.
Lincoln High—victorious.
And online?
The match detonated across social dia. Clips hit feeds before the sweat even dried—Julian’s interception, Noah’s trivela finish, Leo’s golden-eyed orchestration. Comnts stacked by the hundreds.
A Cinderella story in the making.
This Lincoln team wasn’t even in CIF last year.
Yeah, but San Dimas didn’t have Victor... injury saved them.
The defending champions, brought low by a team no one had marked for glory.
On the bench, Lincoln’s players sat slumped but smiling, steam rising from their jerseys in the winter air.
The ache in their legs was a small price for the scoreboard behind them.
They weren’t cooling down from a ga.
They were cooling down from a war they’d just won.
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