King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

The press conference began.

Light pooled across the podium, soft but sharp beneath the lenses.

Rows of cameras lined the room—reporters poised, fingers ready, murmurs low but constant.

Julian stepped forward.

Each stride steady. Composed.

Behind him, the HSV backdrop shimmered with sponsor logos and the club's proud blue-and-white crest.

At the podium stood Merlin Polzin, head coach of Hamburger SV.

He extended a hand, his smile equal parts warmth and curiosity.

Julian clasped it firmly.

"Here's to a better future," Merlin said, voice calm yet carrying the weight of expectation.

Julian met his gaze. "Yes, Coach. I'll give everything I have."

The PR manager raised a hand. "Alright—photos!"

The room lit up in a storm of flashes.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Julian shifted through the standard poses—

a polite handshake,

the club scarf draped across his shoulders,

a football balanced in his hand,

and finally a thumbs-up toward the crowd.

He didn't need to overdo it. His presence said enough.

A few more minutes, and the camera shutters eased. The PR manager gave a nod.

"Alright—questions."

A reporter from a local station stepped forward, microphone in hand.

"Julian, may I ask the first question?"

Julian nodded. "Go ahead."

"Will you be starting directly with the HSV first team, or will you begin with HSV II?"

Julian didn't hesitate. "I'll be starting with HSV II. The transfer window's closed, so I'll use this time to adapt—learn the system, earn my place."

A murmur rippled through the crowd—measured, approving.

Another reporter raised a hand.

"And when August comes? Do you believe you'll be called up to the first team once the window opens?"

Julian's gaze sharpened, voice steady but fierce.

"I'm confident. My performance will speak for itself. If they don't call me up…"—a faint smirk touched his lips—

"…then you can call them idiots."

For a moment, silence.

Then a beat—

and laughter.

Merlin blinked, caught off guard, before breaking into a grin. "You've got fire, I'll give you that."

From the sidelines, David nearly choked on his breath, eyes wide.

Even Crest looked momentarily frozen—then sighed through a small, helpless smile.

The reporters chuckled, jotting down notes, cameras flashing again.

One leaned closer, amusement bright in his tone.

"Alright then, Julian Ashford—let's see if your football matches your words."

Julian tilted his chin slightly, eyes glinting under the lights.

"It will."

Confidence—not arrogance.

The kind born from scars and sweat, not spotlight.

In that room, filled with strangers and flashes,

Julian Ashford arrived twice—

Once as a player,

and once as a promise.

…

After the press conference ended, Julian followed Merlin Polzin, the HSV head coach, and Soner Uysal, the HSV II manager, through the stadium corridors.

Behind them, the hum of conversation faded—the flashes, the noise, the chaos of media giving way to the heartbeat of football itself.

David and Crest had already left, heading back to the hotel to rest and finalize paperwork.

Julian, though, had one more step to take.

He was heading straight to the training facility—

to meet his new teammates,

to learn the ground he'd soon call a battlefield.

Coach Soner glanced over, amusement flickering across his face. "That was a bold move back there—with the reporters."

Julian's mouth curved. "A bold move to burn myself, you mean, Coach."

Merlin chuckled under his breath, eyes glinting. "No, I like it. Confidence with a spark. Just make sure your feet can match your mouth."

He slowed, turning to face Julian fully.

"Follow Soner to the HSV II training ground. Get settled. Train hard. If you show that same fire on the pitch…"

He met Julian's gaze head-on, voice lowering.

"…then make me call you up. Don't wait for it. Earn it."

Julian nodded, smile firm. "Yes, Coach."

Merlin clapped his shoulder once—solid, approving—then turned away, his figure fading down the hall.

Julian followed Soner out toward the training complex.

The air outside carried a faint chill, wind brushing across the open fields beyond the stadium.

"You'll like the squad, kid," Soner said as they walked. "We've got talent. Real talent. Our star player's something special. Let's see if you can keep up."

Julian raised an eyebrow, a small grin tugging at his lips.

"Guess I'll find out soon."

A quiet fire lit in his chest at the word special. He wanted to measure himself against that standard immediately.

Rivalry wasn't something to fear—it was fuel. If there was already an Emperor in HSV II, then Julian intended to challenge the throne.

He glanced at Soner again—and only then noticed.

The man's bald head glistened faintly under the afternoon sun.

Julian's lips twitched.

Another bald coach. First Coach Owen, now this guy. Is this… a trend? Some kind of hidden football rule?

Before the thought could settle, Soner broke the silence again.

"Your German's good, by the way. Where'd you learn it?"

Julian shrugged lightly. "I like history."

Soner blinked—then burst out laughing. "Ha! That's a good one."

Julian smiled faintly. Not a joke, though.

Their footsteps echoed across the pavement as they crossed toward the far pitches.

Then Julian saw them.

HSV II.

A group of players already gathered near the edge of the field—blue kits, sharp eyes, voices low.

The drills paused. Heads turned.

Julian felt their gaze land on him—dozens of silent appraisals, weighing, judging, measuring.

That familiar pressure wrapped around him—not hostility, not welcome—

but challenge.

Good.

He welcomed it.

Each of those stares was a question: Who are you? Why are you here? Julian didn't flinch from any of them.

He had faced worse eyes before—mocking ones, doubting ones. These weren't enemies. They were future comrades, rivals, tests. And he would answer them all with his play.

From afar, his eyes locked on theirs.

His expression calm.

His aura steady.

Unbowed.

Come.

Each step forward carried intent.

Each breath, quiet fire.

He wasn't here to blend in.

He was here to rise.

And as he crossed the final stretch of grass, his presence settled across the field like a silent declaration:

The Emperor had arrived.