King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

Today was a rest day.

No tactics, no drills, no coach shouting his lungs out.

Just silence.

Julian leaned against the car door as David parked outside his apartment.

"Remember the quest from Sabrina," David said, tapping the steering wheel. "Three viral clips. Don't slack off."

Julian grinned, already halfway out the door. "Don't worry, I'll finish it. Definitely."

He gave a quick wave before jogging off toward the entrance, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the quiet street.

Inside his apartment, he threw his bag aside and collapsed onto the bed. The sheets were cool, the air soft — the kind of calm he hadn't felt in days.

His phone buzzed.

Leo: Nice debut, bro. Congratulations.

Julian smiled faintly and hit the video call button.

The screen filled with familiar faces — Leo, Ricky, Noah, and half the Lincoln High squad, gathered inside The Final Whistle café.

Coach Owen's café. Their old home base.

Laughter filled the screen instantly.

"Yo, look who's too famous for us now!" Ricky shouted.

"Three goals, man. THREE. You're a freak!" Aaron added, grinning from ear to ear.

Julian chuckled, leaning back on the bed. "Still the same idiots, huh?"

"Dark horses, baby!" Leo said, holding up his drink. "We won our second match. Two in a row. The school's losing its mind right now."

Julian could almost smell the familiar mix of coffee and fried food through the call — that same chaotic, warm energy that once carried him through those early games.

They talked about everything — tactics, jokes, who messed up in practice, who still couldn't shoot straight.

For the first time in weeks, Julian laughed without restraint.

But beneath the laughter, a small fire stayed burning inside him.

He'd come far from Lincoln High…

But he wasn't done yet.

He closed the call and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. The laughter still echoed faintly in his ears, but his focus had already drifted back to the mission.

Three viral clips. Not luck, but design. Every move he made now had to feed that story Sabrina wanted to build — his story.

…

The next day came fast.

Just like always, the morning began with the usual routine — breakfast at the canteen, the meal carefully prepared by the club's nutritionist.

But today wasn't a normal training day.

It was check-up day.

The medical staff moved from player to player, assessing their condition after the match. The smell of antiseptic and the soft hum of machines filled the room.

"Hmm…" the doctor murmured, pressing gently against Julian's thigh and shoulder. "You're fine overall, but your muscles are under strain. You pushed too hard, too long."

Julian exhaled, already guessing the result.

That level of intensity always had a price.

"It's nothing serious," the doctor continued, tapping something on his tablet. "But you need rest — at least a few days. No full-contact training until the tension clears."

Julian nodded. "Got it. Thank you, doctor."

The result was clear: he might not start the next match.

But that didn't bother him. Not really.

He'd been through worse.

After the medical session, he received a personal recovery schedule — light stretching, breathing drills, and the R.I.C.E. protocol: Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation.

He sat in the recovery room, wrapping ice packs along his legs when a familiar voice called out.

"You get injured?"

Julian glanced up. It was Anssi, holding a cup of protein shake, watching him with that calm veteran's gaze.

"Not really injured," Julian said, managing a small grin. "Just strained muscles."

Anssi nodded, pulling up a chair beside him. "You pushed your body hard out there, kid. Be careful. Even engines need cool-down time."

Julian smirked. "Yeah. I'll keep that in mind."

"Good," Anssi said, standing up and patting Julian's shoulder. "Because the next time you go that hard, make sure it's in a league match."

Julian chuckled softly as Anssi left. Then he leaned back, closing his eyes, feeling the cold seep into his skin and the faint ache beneath it.

Pain was temporary.

But progress — that was permanent.

…

The week passed in a blur.

Training.

Meals.

Recovery.

Each day slipped into rhythm — discipline, repetition, focus.

HSV II's next match loomed on the schedule: Blau-Weiß Lohne, a name that sounded like a mouthful but carried real weight in the league.

They were no amateurs.

A 3–5–2 setup — thick in midfield, always hunting for control.

Their style was clear: crowd the center, dominate possession, and suffocate the opponent's rhythm.

Coach Soner's notes painted a clearer picture: their central trio pressed aggressively between the lines, while both wing-backs collapsed inward to overload the ball side.

A risky but suffocating pattern. It killed slow teams — but left acres of space behind.

But every fortress had a crack.

Blau-Weiß Lohne's defense was fragile once you broke through their midfield wall.

If you pierced that center line, their backline crumbled fast.

And they loved to attack early — throwing numbers forward like a wave.

"That's our next opponent," Coach Soner said, standing before the team with the tactical board glowing behind him. "They like to dictate tempo. Don't let them. Force them to react to us."

He tapped his marker against the board, circling positions as he spoke.

"Formation stays the same. But discipline — that's non-negotiable."

Julian watched carefully from his seat, eyes following every shift of the board. He could already visualize the rhythm: intercept the overload, transition wide, attack the exposed half-spaces. The type of chaos he thrived in.

Then came the lineup.

Julian straightened, his pulse steady, waiting.

"Striker… starter: Omar Sillah."

"Substitute: Julian Ashford."

For a heartbeat, the room seemed quieter.

Julian didn't flinch — not outwardly — but the spark in his eyes dimmed for a moment.

Coach Soner noticed. Of course he did.

He knew that look — the burning mix of pride and hunger.

But he also knew the report from the medical team.

The kid's muscles had strained far beyond their limit last match.

He was young, still developing — and Soner wouldn't let him burn out too early.

But he didn't explain that.

He simply gave a small nod, closed his clipboard, and dismissed the team.

"Alright, that's it for now. Rest, hydrate, and be sharp tomorrow."

The locker room buzzed again with chatter — excitement for some, disappointment for others.

Mageed was the first to break the silence beside Julian.

"Well… benched, huh?"

Julian gave a dry smile. "Yeah. Looks like it."

Mageed nudged him with an elbow. "Hey, better benched than unlisted. You'll still get your minutes if the coach wants to shift tempo."

Julian blinked. Then, after a pause, he chuckled.

"Yeah… right. Still a chance."

The fire returned to his eyes — quieter this time, but sharper.

Hope wasn't gone.

It was waiting for its whistle.

He tied his shoelaces tighter, already planning in silence. If he couldn't start the story, he'd finish it.

The second half would be his moment — one clip, one goal, one spark toward the Architect's quest. Rest day or not, the Emperor was calculating.