King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

The day passed in quiet rhythm.

Morning light spilled through the curtains, soft and golden, brushing against Julian's face as he rose.

No alarms. No shouts. Just peace.

He slipped into his gym clothes, tied his laces, and headed down to the hotel's fitness center.

Inside, mirrors stretched from wall to wall, the air faintly scented with eucalyptus and polished steel. A few guests moved quietly between machines, their footsteps soft on the rubber floor.

Julian set his routine with practiced ease—

stretches to wake the muscles,

cardio to steady the breath,

weights to keep his form sharp.

His movements flowed naturally, honed by years of repetition. The rhythm of breath and motion was a language his body never forgot.

Each push carried intention, each pull a whisper of memory—of mornings under the sun, of nights soaked in sweat, of all the battles that taught him discipline was its own kind of strength.

Crest appeared halfway through his session, watching from the corner with her usual composure—arms crossed, expression unreadable.

She didn't interrupt.

She didn't need to.

Her presence alone kept him aligned.

By the time he finished, sweat beaded along his brow, his heartbeat calm and steady.

"Good," Crest said simply, before leaving him to cool down.

After a quick shower, Julian returned to his room. He ate breakfast—a light meal prepared with precision: eggs, fruit, and toast—and spent the late morning exploring the lakefront nearby.

The air outside was cool and damp, carrying a faint mist off the water. Swans drifted lazily across the silver surface, their wings gliding through ripples like paintbrush strokes. The sound of distant bells mingled with the rhythmic pedal of passing cyclists.

The hours slipped by.

Lunch came, then a quiet afternoon spent gaming, reading, and exchanging messages with the Lincoln boys.

A few texts blinked on his phone:

[Leo]: Still feels weird without you, bro.

[Cael]: Team meeting tomorrow. Don't forget us when you're famous.

[Laura]: Hamburg looks gorgeous. Send pics!

Julian smiled faintly, typing back:

[Julian]: Don't slack off while I'm gone. Keep pushing.

Even across continents, he could feel it—their energy, their bond, that shared fire that had carried Lincoln through every battle.

They were far, yet close. A team stitched together by ambition, scars, and promise.

As evening settled, the city's lights began to shimmer across the water, casting reflections that danced like stars.

Julian sat by the window, watching the glow ripple through the lake.

Tomorrow would mark his first step into the world beyond Lincoln High.

A new test. A new chapter.

He exhaled softly.

Tonight was Sunday night.

Tomorrow morning—HSV Campus.

Medical check. Fitness assessment. Signing day.

The stage is set.

He turned off the lights, letting the room fade into quiet shadow.

One more sleep.

Then the next climb begins.

…

Morning light broke gently across Hamburg, washing the lake and rooftops in pale gold.

Julian woke early, his body already tuned to discipline. He dressed in the outfit David had prepared—black sportswear with blue stripes, sleek and simple, the kind of uniform meant for motion.

A deep breath centered him. Today wasn't just another day. It was the beginning.

He stepped out into the hallway, gym bag slung over his shoulder.

Right as he did, Crest emerged from her room—sharp as ever, hair tied neatly, eyes clear with purpose.

"Ready?" Julian asked.

"Yeah." She gave a small nod. "Wake David, too."

Julian turned toward the next door, but before he could knock, it opened.

David stepped out, adjusting his jacket, a sheepish smile on his face.

"Oh—I'm the last one. My bad."

Julian chuckled. Crest only sighed softly, already turning toward the elevator.

Together, the three made their way through the quiet corridors, their footsteps soft against the carpet.

Outside, the morning air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain and the hum of a city waking up.

Cars whispered down wet roads, and the soft clang of tram rails echoed faintly in the distance. Hamburg breathed differently at dawn—steady, focused, like a city that had learned the rhythm of progress.

They climbed into the car—same sleek, driverless model from before—and set off.

As the hotel faded behind them, Julian watched Hamburg unfold through the window: trams gliding across tracks, cyclists weaving through traffic, bakeries opening their doors to the scent of fresh bread.

The world outside felt alive. Focused. Moving forward.

So was he.

Today—HSV Campus.

Medical check. Fitness assessment.

His first official step into European football.

Julian leaned back, gaze steady, heart calm but burning inside.

It wasn't nerves that stirred within him—it was hunger. The familiar pull before battle. The instinct that said: You're about to test your edge again.

…

The drive cut through the heart of Hamburg, and soon, the cityscape gave way to open green and quiet order.

Then he saw it—the HSV Campus, officially known as the Alexander-Otto-Akademie.

The car rolled past the towering shadow of Volksparkstadion, its steel frame gleaming under the morning sun, before turning toward a stretch of glass and steel that rose sharp against the sky. The academy came into view—modern, disciplined, alive.

Broad windows caught the light like polished armor. Beyond the gates, pristine pitches stretched in neat rows, emerald ribbons carved into the landscape.

From his seat, Julian's chest tightened.

Out on the fields, young players in HSV's iconic blue kits moved like clockwork—passing, pressing, shouting commands that echoed faintly through the air.

Coaches stood on the sidelines, arms folded, eyes hawk-sharp.

Every movement out there spoke the same language he lived by—discipline, structure, intent. No wasted energy. No hesitation. Just football stripped to essence.

This isn't a dream anymore, he thought. It's real.

And he was about to walk into it.

The car slowed to a stop before the main entrance. The glass doors reflected his face back at him—calm, focused, but lit by something fierce beneath.

The academy loomed ahead—equal parts invitation and challenge.

Julian stepped out.

The crisp air bit gently at his skin, tinged with dew and cut grass. Above the entrance, the HSV crest gleamed: a white square, a black diamond at its heart, outlined in proud blue.

This was it. Hamburg. His next battlefield.

David was the first to move, spotting a familiar figure waiting near the doors.

"Loïc!" he called out, striding forward with a smile.

The man turned—Loïc Favé, assistant manager of Hamburger SV, dressed in training gear, posture confident yet welcoming.

"David," Loïc greeted warmly, shaking his hand. "You made it."

David gestured toward the others. "This is Crest Ashford. And of course—Julian."

Loïc extended his hand first to Crest, then to Julian.

"Ah, so this is our new star," he said, eyes crinkling with a grin. "Welcome to our humble Hamburg SV."

Julian shook firmly, matching his smile. "Thank you. It's an honor."

Loïc nodded, studying him for a moment. "You've made quite the buzz already. Let's see if the stories match the talent, eh?"

Julian met his gaze, steady.

Inside, that familiar spark flared—the thrill of a new test.

Little bit more, he thought. Just a little more… and the real climb begins.