King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

The match resumed — no reset, no mercy.

Emden's throw-in arced back into play before Julian had even finished catching his breath.

But this time, the tempo didn't crush him.

It called to him.

The rhythm no longer felt like chaos — it was a drumbeat, sharp and alive, thundering through the grass, through the boots, through his bones.

Every heartbeat synced with the flow of the game.

Every sound — the roar of the crowd, the slap of passes, the breath of defenders closing in — folded into one living pulse.

Julian's eyes narrowed, lungs steady.

He could feel it now — the current beneath the chaos, the order hidden in motion.

The pitch was alive.

And he was part of it.

"Alright," he muttered under his breath, jaw tight, gaze locked forward.

"Let's close this half… with a goal."

It wasn't just a line — it was a promise whispered into the storm. A quiet oath no one heard but the game itself.

…

From the touchline, Coach Soner watched in silence.

He'd seen the struggle from the first whistle — the heavy touches, the late reactions, the kid gasping to keep up with the rhythm of real football.

Not just him.

The whole bench had seen it.

Julian Ashford was drowning at first.

Outpaced. Out-timed. Outmuscled.

But minute by minute — no, second by second — something shifted.

His reads sharpened.

His steps aligned.

His body started to match what his mind demanded.

From crawling… to walking…

And now — he was beginning to run.

Soner's lips curved, the faintest smile breaking his calm.

It was like watching evolution happen in real time — a player learning the language of the pitch mid-battle.

David's words echoed back to him: This kid's different. He breaks his own limits.

"Limits, huh?" Soner murmured, half a chuckle under his breath.

He folded his arms, eyes never leaving the field.

"Let's see how far he can go."

He could already sense it — that trembling edge before transformation. The boy wasn't just adapting; he was ascending.

…

The first real duel came in the 38th minute.

Emden's captain, Dennis Engel, surged forward on the overlap —

Commanding. Relentless.

His voice carried through the rain-slick air, and his entire flank moved like a single organism.

A flick, a burst, a curling cross — perfect trajectory.

Julian felt it before it happened.

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.3: +30 To All Attributes]

He darted inward, intercepting the rhythm rather than the ball itself — timing the motion the way he once timed a blade's strike.

The contact wasn't clean, but the deflection was everything.

The ball spun wide, off its intended line — tumbling into chaos.

Mageed reacted first.

HSV II snapped into counter mode.

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.3: +10 To All Attributes]

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.3: +50 To Agility]

With his skill's latest breakthrough, Julian could direct the flow now — shaping the boost instead of just receiving it.

He turned and ran.

No hesitation. No thought.

Just instinct and acceleration.

Appiah's pass curved through the gap — a perfect through-ball behind the defensive line.

Julian lunged, shoulder-to-shoulder with the center-back.

The man was heavier, stronger —

But Julian's timing was perfect.

A feint left.

A sudden push right.

Half a step of daylight.

The defender's hand caught his arm — desperate, clinging —

Julian rolled with the pull, spinning it into motion, not resistance.

The ball danced forward.

The keeper charged out — eyes sharp, stance wide.

Julian didn't shoot.

He waited.

Perception flared — every sound, every breath, every twitch magnified.

Then he tapped it sideways, threading it clean into Mageed's path at the edge of the box.

One touch.

Strike.

The shot screamed past the keeper — grazing the post by inches.

The crowd exhaled as one.

So close.

From the sideline, Coach Soner didn't shout or gesture.

He simply folded his arms tighter — expression unreadable, eyes tracking every movement.

But deep down, Julian felt it — the silent acknowledgment.

Now you're learning.

He didn't need applause. Just the silence of recognition — that moment when a coach sees you not as a kid, but as a weapon.

…

The game evolved.

Each minute became clearer, sharper.

Julian learned to read pressure before contact, movement before the pass, intent before sound.

He began anticipating the invisible — the space that existed before someone stepped into it.

That was when the crowd began to notice him.

A few murmurs.

A new player, new number, new rhythm.

Not flashy, not loud.

But present — like gravity.

Every time Emden tried to build through their pivot, Julian pressed not the man, but the passing lane itself.

Forcing errors by existing where no one expected him.

Even the camera caught him now — the silent shadow drifting into space before danger could form.

The commentators murmured in German over the PA system:

The forty-fifth minute approached.

Julian's lungs clawed for air, legs heavy with fire — not from weakness, but from demand.

Every motion now carried weight. Every breath had purpose.

The match no longer felt like chaos.

It moved like a living tide—

And he was finally moving with it.

Then came the test.

Tobias Steffen — the commander himself — drifted into the half-space, receiving a loose ball with that eerie calm of experience.

One glance, one shift of balance, and it felt like he saw the future.

Every defender moved where his eyes told them to.

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.3: +50 To All Attributes]

"Let's do this," Julian muttered under his breath.

Steffen's aura pressed down on him — not through strength, but through certainty.

That calm was suffocating, precise, absolute.

Julian pressed from behind, steps measured.

Not diving in. Not chasing shadows.

Just bending the old general's rhythm.

Their gazes met for a heartbeat.

Age versus youth.

Master versus contender.

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.3: +100 To All Attributes]

Try me, old man.

Heat roared through his veins.

Each pulse felt molten.

Each muscle trembled on the edge of explosion.

Steffen smirked faintly—

A feint right.

Julian didn't bite.

His body moved on instinct—

[Martial Memory] flaring like an echo from another lifetime.

He mirrored, countered, waited.

Then, like striking at the perfect opening—

He moved.

A flash.

A touch.

The ball was gone—off Steffen's foot and into Julian's path.

Steal complete.

For the first time, the old maestro's composure cracked.

His eyes widened—just slightly.

"Zurück! Defense!" Steffen's voice ripped through the air. "Don't let him penetrate!"

But Julian was already gone.

Too fast. Too far. Too alive.

He could feel his body screaming beneath the boost, every fiber on the verge of tearing apart—

But his will cut through it all.

[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 15 Seconds]

The world sharpened.

And then—

[Ashen Emperor's Presence – Activated]

The air itself seemed to bend.

A dark pulse radiated from him, invisible to the crowd but undeniable on the field.

This was his creation—his ultimate technique.

A domain born not from the system, but from his will.

Inside it, Julian ruled.

Every blade of grass, every passing current of wind, every heartbeat in range—

He could see them.

The entire pitch unfolded in perfect clarity, like pieces on a living board.

But it wasn't just sight.

The players within his radius felt him.

A pressure that gripped the chest and clouded thought.

The weight of command.

The dread of standing before something greater.

That was the Emperor's might—

His will translated into domination.

Julian's muscles surged with borrowed lightning.

Every step carved faster, heavier, more precise.

Fifteen seconds.

That was all he had.

Fifteen seconds to break the line.

Fifteen seconds to score.

Fifteen seconds to win this game.

…

With the Ashen Emperor's Presence unleashed, the world bent around him.

Julian saw everything—

The ripple of grass beneath his boots,

The current of wind dragging across the pitch,

Every heartbeat, every motion of the Kicker Emden defenders closing in.

But when they stepped into his domain—

Their bodies slowed.

Their thoughts dulled.

Their instincts cracked.

Every player who neared him felt it—

The weight of something vast and merciless pressing down on their spirit.

And Julian?

He moved like he was cut from light.

One step—gone.

Another defender lunged—missed air.

A third tried to grab his shirt—he wasn't even there anymore.

The crowd roared at first.

"DEFENSE!"

"STOP THAT KID!"

But as he weaved through bodies, gliding like a phantom through a storm—

The noise died.

One by one, their voices fell silent.

Mouths hung open.

They weren't watching football anymore. They were witnessing something else — something primal.

Even time itself seemed to hesitate.

Then—

Only one man stood before him.

The goalkeeper.

Julian's eyes locked on him—two storms colliding.

And the Emperor's will bore down.

For a heartbeat, the keeper froze mid-charge.

Like a statue trapped between courage and fear.

Julian struck.

The shot rose clean and sharp—

a silver arc tearing through the night air—

and crashed into the net above the keeper's head.

GOAL.

Silence cracked.

Then came the roar.

It wasn't just celebration — it was disbelief, awe, thunder breaking from thousands of throats at once.

The skill faded.

The world returned—harsh and heavy.

Pain rippled through his body like electricity, nerves screaming in overload.

[Phoenix Pulse – Lv.2: Active]

Heat flooded his veins.

Not burning—reviving.

Every muscle that had screamed was soothed in warmth.

Every drop of fatigue—purged.

It felt like his body was being washed in firelight.

Alive again.

Reforged in motion.

Julian exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling.

The Emperor had struck his first decree.

…

His vision steadied.

The world snapped back into motion—

Sound, color, chaos.

The roar hit him like a wave.

A thousand voices crashing down from the stands.

His teammates sprinted toward him—blue blurs against green grass.

Before he could move, arms wrapped around him from behind.

"That was amazing, kid! Amazing!"

Anssi's laugh boomed right beside his ear, raw and proud.

"Ohhh, what the hell was that?!" Mageed came flying in next, nearly knocking both of them over.

Julian stumbled under the weight of celebration, his grin breaking wide.

More hands joined in—claps on the back, ruffles in his hair, someone shouting,

"Our future star!"

"Ashford! You monster!"

Julian could only laugh, breathless and light, his pulse still echoing the strike.

For a moment, the field, the crowd, the team—

It all blurred into one rush of heat and heartbeat.

And in the middle of it, under floodlights and chaos,

Julian smiled like someone who'd finally arrived.