King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

The air inside the HSV II training ground was sharp with turf and cold steel.

Julian stepped through the gates still wearing his new jersey — the white and blue of Hamburg glinting under the morning sun.

"Gather!"

The command cracked across the pitch like a whip.

Coach Soner's voice — deep, commanding — rolled through the air.

Within seconds, the players closed in — a mix of faces, builds, and attitudes.

Some curious.

Some dismissive.

Some already judging.

Soner folded his arms, gaze sweeping the group. "Listen up. We've got a new face joining us."

He turned, chin lifting slightly toward Julian.

Julian took one step forward.

Eyes locked ahead.

Posture straight.

Voice clear.

"My name's Julian Ashford. I came from America to play football. Forward."

For a moment — silence.

Then — a low chuckle broke through the line.

One player smirked, elbowing another.

An American striker.

Probably thinking of hand-egg, not football.

Julian caught it.

He didn't flinch. Didn't bite.

He let the sound fade — cold, irrelevant.

Mock me now, he thought. You'll bow later.

Coach Soner's gaze flicked between them — sharp as glass. "That's enough."

Then, with a nod toward Julian: "He'll be training with us from this point onward. Treat him as one of your own."

Julian inclined his head. "Yes, sir."

Soner jerked a thumb toward the facility. "Go change. Training gear. Move."

Julian didn't hesitate.

He turned on his heel and jogged toward the locker room.

Inside — the air shifted.

The smell of detergent, sweat, leather. The murmur of players already settled into their routines.

Julian peeled off his jersey and slipped into the training kit — navy top, white shorts, the HSV crest pressed over his heart.

In the mirror — a new reflection stared back.

The boy from Lincoln.

The warrior reborn.

Now — a professional.

His pulse quickened for a moment as he studied the crest. It wasn't just a patch of cloth — it was a banner. A weight.

Every player here bled for it. Every player here would fight him for the right to wear it on match day. That was the unspoken law of the locker room: only the strongest earned the shirt when the whistle blew.

He tied his laces, rolled his shoulders once, and stepped out.

No words.

No nerves.

Only intent.

A new pitch.

A new battlefield.

…

Coach Soner's voice cut through the crisp morning air.

"Alright, Julian. Come on. Today's physical testing. You ready?"

Julian stepped forward without hesitation. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Then join the group."

He jogged into the crowd — a sea of blue training kits, cleats crunching against turf.

So many players.

So many competitors.

Every one of them fighting for a place under the same crest.

Julian's eyes flicked from face to face. He counted at least thirty players — some tall and rangy, others compact and powerful.

Not boys, not amateurs. Their frames told stories: thighs sculpted from endless sprints, shoulders thick from battles in the air, torsos hardened by years of drills.

These weren't kids chasing a dream. They were soldiers sharpening knives.

Damn… how many are here? Julian thought, scanning the faces, the builds, the quiet intensity.

"Warm-up. Ten minutes," Soner called out. "Move!"

The team broke into motion, forming a loose line along the track. Julian followed, muscles loosening with each stride.

As he settled into rhythm, a voice came from beside him — friendly, curious.

"Hello."

Julian turned.

A blonde-haired player matched pace with him. Short-cut hair, lean frame, steady eyes. He looked around Julian's height — built for endurance.

Julian offered a small smile. "It's okay. I can speak German."

The man chuckled. "Good. I'm Anssi Suhonen. Midfielder. You can call me Anssi."

"Julian," he said simply, reaching out a hand mid-jog. "Just Julian."

Their hands clasped briefly — a simple greeting, warrior to warrior.

"Nice to meet you," Anssi said, matching Julian's rhythm. "You picked quite the day to join. Today's test is brutal."

Julian smirked, eyes ahead. "Good. I like brutal."

Anssi grinned, shaking his head. "You'll fit right in."

As they jogged, the tension of strangers slowly eased into conversation. Their breaths came steady, shoes brushing softly against the turf.

"So—where'd you play before?" Anssi asked, curious.

Julian glanced over. "High school. Back in America."

"High school?" Anssi blinked. "Like… academy level?"

Julian shook his head. "No. Just school league. Started less than a year ago."

Anssi's stride faltered for a heartbeat. "Wait—one year? That's it?"

Julian nodded. "Yeah."

Anssi stared at him like he'd misheard. "So you've only played high school level… and you're seventeen?"

Julian gave a quiet hum of confirmation.

Anssi let out a low whistle. "Unbelievable… They must've seen something extraordinary in you." His eyes narrowed, studying Julian not with scorn but with the sharp gaze of a veteran midfielder — measuring angles, weight, potential. "HSV doesn't gamble. If you're here, you've got fire."

Before Anssi could respond, another voice chimed in from the left—light, teasing, with an edge of confidence.

"So you're one of our youngest, huh?"

Julian turned.

A brunette forward matched his pace, eyes sharp, grin wild.

"I'm Otto Stange. Forward."

Julian clasped his hand briefly, gaze steady. "Julian Ashford."

For a split second, silence hung between them. Then Otto chuckled, eyes narrowing playfully.

"Those eyes… a predator, huh?"

Julian didn't deny it. He met Otto's grin with quiet calm.

Inside, something stirred—instinct, assessment.

Scan.

[Activating Scan Lv.3…]

…

User: Otto Stange

Position: CF

Best Attributes:

-Strength: 114

- Agility: 96

- Technique: 99

Skills:

- Set-Piece Threat (Rare)

- Target Man (Rare)

Age: 17

Total Attributes: 619

…

Julian's gaze shifted subtly, turning back toward Anssi.

[Activating Scan Lv.3…]

…

User: Anssi Suhonen

Position: CM

Best Attributes:

- Perception: 125

- Instinct: 121

- Agility: 98

Skill :

-Midfield Comander (Rare)

- Vision Plus (Legendary)

Age: 17

Total Attributes: 701

…

Julian's eyes narrowed slightly as the numbers flickered in his vision.

701.

Those weren't schoolyard stats. Not even amateur.

This was the ceiling of what he'd faced so far—no, beyond it.

Anssi Suhonen — 701.

Already brushing against the professional tier.

And Otto Stange—619, the mark of an Amateur League elite.

Julian's pulse quickened.

His own base sat at 531—strong for a high schooler, but modest in this arena.

Even with his passive bonuses, he barely grazed 601.

And if he truly wanted to rule this field…

He'd need to push deeper.

To draw from the skill etched into his soul.

[Rule the Pitch – Lv.3: +350 to All Attributes (Max Output)]

With full release, he could stand toe-to-toe.

Maybe even break through.

But even as the thought passed, he didn't smile.

Because matching them wasn't enough.

He hadn't come this far to blend in.

I'm not here to compete, he thought. I'm here to dominate.

Not Regionalliga Nord.

Not just HSV II.

But the Bundesliga itself.

Germany—the cradle of order, precision, and footballing gods.

To rise here, to rule here—

That was the true war.

His gaze sharpened, senses aligning with the rhythm of the pitch.

The air smelled faintly of dew and iron. Boots scuffed against grass. The hum of energy built around him, steady and growing.

Then—

Pweeeeeet!

Soner's whistle split the air.

"All right!" the coach barked. "Warm-up's done. Form up! Let's see what you've got!"