King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

The day rolled into the afternoon grind.

After the tactical drills, Soner blew the whistle for individual sessions.

Players split across the complex—some toward the technical grids, others toward the gym.

Julian didn't hesitate.

He went where the iron waited.

The weights clinked softly in rhythm, mirrors catching the golden hue of late sunlight. Sweat carried the faint scent of metal and salt, the air dense with effort and focus.

Julian wrapped his hands, inhaled deep, and began.

Bench. Pull. Core.

Rep after rep.

Each motion carved strength into muscle, each breath forged control into will.

He'd felt it during training—Germany wasn't just fast. It was heavy.

Every duel. Every shoulder clash.

Even without his boosters, he'd been pushed back more than he liked.

That wouldn't stand.

If this country demanded iron, he'd forge it in his own bones.

By the time the clock neared 16:00, his arms trembled faintly, lungs full of clean ache.

Across the room, others worked too—Melvin grinding through squats with ruthless consistency, Wiesnet pounding out reps on the pull-up bar, sweat dripping onto the floor.

No one joked. No one slacked. It wasn't a high school gym anymore where half the players wandered off for water breaks.

Here, even the "rest" was calculated—stretching bands, ice baths waiting, recovery tablets already lined up. Every movement screamed one thing: survival.

A sharp whistle cut across the gym.

Coach Soner's voice carried through the corridors.

"Alright, that's it for today! Recovery, dinner, then rest! Tomorrow, we sharpen again!"

A chorus answered in return—

"Yes, Coach!"

The HSV II squad broke apart, laughter and chatter echoing faintly down the hall.

Julian grabbed a towel, wiped the sweat from his neck, and slung his bag over his shoulder.

Anssi Suhonen caught up beside him, still rolling out his calves with a stretch band.

"So—you live in the dorms?"

Julian shook his head. "No. Got an apartment outside. Closer to the city."

Anssi's brows lifted. "Lucky. Most of the guys under nineteen stay on-site. Easier for the staff to keep track."

Julian offered a faint smile. "Guess they trust me to keep myself in line."

"Or they're scared of you," Anssi joked, grinning.

Julian chuckled softly, adjusting the strap of his bag. "Either way works."

They stepped out into the cool Hamburg evening.

The sky stretched wide, painted in gold and gray, the air sharp with a hint of sea breeze.

Julian paused just for a moment on the steps, pulling the air deep into his lungs. Back in Lincoln, the air had carried dust, asphalt, and the faint tang of cheap concession food.

Here? It was cleaner, sharper, touched by the North Sea. It tasted like opportunity—and pressure.

Before Julian could take another breath—

"Julian!"

Crest's voice rang from the curb, crisp and commanding.

A black car idled nearby, headlights cutting through the dim.

Julian jogged over, spotting David in the passenger seat, phone in hand.

"How was your first day of training?" David asked as Julian climbed in.

Julian exhaled, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Tough. That place is full of talent. Feels like every player's built different."

David chuckled. "Good. You'll fit right in, then."

Crest shifted gears smoothly, eyes flicking to the rearview. "We'll head to your apartment first. You'll need a proper base before tomorrow."

The car glided through the city, weaving between quiet streets and glowing shopfronts. Hamburg at dusk carried a rhythm of its own—steady, alive, and clean.

"It's called Alster Heights," Crest said as they turned down a tree-lined avenue. "Close to the training complex. Quiet area. You'll have privacy, space, and enough time to rest."

Julian nodded, gaze drifting to the passing lights. "Sounds perfect."

They crossed a bridge, the Alster river glimmering beneath, dotted with swans drifting like pale ghosts. On the banks, cyclists rode past, couples walked hand in hand.

Life outside football existed here—but for Julian, all of it blurred into background. He was only here for one thing.

It didn't take long before the car slowed to a stop.

Before him stood a sleek, mid-rise building, its façade bathed in soft amber from the street lamps. Glass balconies, pale wood panels, green plants by the entrance—modern, minimalist, grounded.

He stepped out, eyes tracing its lines.

Not lavish. Not cold.

Just… balanced.

Crest killed the engine and turned to him. "Your keycard's in the envelope. Fridge's stocked. Bed's made. Gym's on the third floor if you want extra sessions."

Julian met her eyes, gratitude glinting beneath the calm.

"Thanks, Crest."

She nodded once, all business. "Rest. Tomorrow, you build again."

Julian smiled faintly. "You two heading back to the hotel?"

"Yeah," Crest replied, starting the car. "We'll wait to see your first appearance in the match, after all."

David leaned back in his seat with a grin. "No pressure, huh?"

Crest glanced at Julian again. "I already bought you a bicycle—it's parked in the storage area. You can use it for short trips or morning rides."

Julian's eyes lit up. "Thank you. Really."

"Don't thank me," Crest said simply. "Use it."

Julian chuckled softly. "Got it. I'll head in first."

He waved as he walked toward the entrance, the soft hum of the engine fading as Crest's car pulled away.

The glass doors parted with a quiet hiss.

Just as Julian stepped inside—

"Julian!"

A familiar voice called out.

He turned to see Omar Megeed, the team's attacking midfielder, jogging up the walkway with an easy smile.

"Omar," Julian greeted, surprised. "You live here too?"

"Yeah," Omar said, stopping beside him. "Didn't expect to see you here. Guess we're neighbors now."

Julian laughed. "My guardian just dropped me off. Looks like we're stuck with each other."

"Good," Omar said, grin widening. "At least someone to talk to. I was starting to think this place was too quiet."

They walked together through the lobby, the echo of their footsteps filling the calm.

Moments later, they reached their floor—

and realized their apartments sat right beside one another.

Omar blinked, then laughed. "Seriously? Side by side?"

Julian smiled. "Looks like it."

Omar bumped a fist lightly against his chest. "Then let's be good teammates—and good neighbors."

"Yeah," Julian said, returning the gesture. "Take care of me."

"Count on it." Omar waved and slipped into his room.

Julian turned his keycard and entered his own apartment.

Warm light greeted him. The space was modern, minimalist—everything in its place.

A comfortable bed by the window. A small dining corner. A sleek TV setup.

And on the shelf—

A gaming console.

Julian's lips curved. "Nice."

He stood at the window for a moment, gazing down at the city. Cars drifted by like fireflies, streetlamps glowing amber against the darkening sky.

Somewhere in the distance, he swore he could hear faint stadium noise—like a heartbeat carried on the wind.

He dropped his bag by the door, stretching once before heading straight for the bed.

Soft sheets. Quiet room.

Tomorrow would bring another battle.

Tonight—

He let himself rest.