NOVEL NEXT Chapter 192: Order Ascends
The restart rolled beneath a gray sky.
Rain stitched fine silver threads through the floodlight haze.
Bremen's bench shouted, voices sharp with new life, but Soner's sideline stayed still—calm in the storm.
Julian's heartbeat steadied with every stride back into position.
He could feel the pulse of the match again—wild, alive, yet fragile.
Freedom is fire, he thought. Control is the forge.
The stadium air carried that metallic scent of rain and sweat, an electric heaviness that clung to every breath.
The pitch shimmered under the floodlights, half mud, half mirror, reflecting the restless sky above.
Beyond the field, banners fluttered like torn sails in the wind—red, blue, white—each ripple whispering a thousand hearts caught between prayer and madness.
He glanced left and right: Fabio fixing his socks, Mageed wiping rain from his face, Luis pounding a fist into his chest like a vow.
They were ready.
The whistle blew.
Bremen tried to ignite another blaze, pushing numbers high, chasing a spark that was already fading.
But HSV moved like water poured into stone. Their lines shifted, their shape compressed, every step measured against the tempo Julian dictated.
Julian felt the awareness bloom—angles, distances, hearts beating in sequence.
He didn't see players anymore—he saw geometry. Triangles folding, lines tightening, spaces breathing then dying in rhythm.
Even the rain seemed to obey that tempo, falling slower where control reigned, harder where chaos dared to rise.
He waited until Bremen's winger over-touched, then pressed.
One interception.
One turn.
A spark.
Mageed caught the outlet and launched the counter—Fabio sprinting left, Julian cutting through the middle, boots carving the soaked grass into rhythm.
The crowd rose again, their chant no longer hope but hunger.
Freedom lunged.
Order answered.
…
Minute 78.
Bremen came again—flooding forward with that same chaotic beauty.
Their movement shimmered like broken glass in motion—unpredictable, dangerous, mesmerizing.
The ball zipped through their pattern: one-touch, two-touch, backheel.
Rhythm without restraint.
Dennis Lütke-Frie, the Vision Crafter, grinned through the rain. He dragged Mageed wide with a sudden burst of pace, twisting the shape of HSV's midfield.
For a second, space opened—a wound bleeding green between lines.
Julian saw it first.
Always.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.3 : +70 Perception | +60 Instinct]
The world tilted into clarity.
The angles, the weight of every step, the exact heartbeat before a pass left a boot—it all lined up like coordinates on a map only he could read.
Every sound sharpened—the thud of cleats, the hiss of rain, the distant crackle of a flare in the stands.
He could even hear the rasp of his own breath, the faint drum of his pulse against the storm's percussion.
He moved before the ball was even played.
A diagonal sprint across the pitch—controlled, silent, perfect.
The switch pass never reached its target.
Thud.
His boot met the ball clean, redirecting it into motion again, his body already pivoting.
"Set!" Julian barked.
Anssi understood.
One touch. Back pass.
No hesitation.
The ball came rolling to Julian's right foot, slick and alive under the floodlight glare.
Three Bremen shirts converged, closing fast—wet boots slicing mud, arms out for balance.
Julian exhaled once.
And then—surge.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.3: +60 To All Attributes]
A flash — gray boots biting into soaked turf.
Julian feinted left, burst right, slipping through Bremen's press like water through fingers.
A blur of motion. A single breath.
He found Mageed — a quick give-and-go, no hesitation.
One heartbeat of rhythm—then he was gone.
Rain exploded around him as he broke into open space, boots tearing streaks through puddled grass.
The penalty arc loomed ahead, the floodlights blazing silver above.
Fabio's voice cut through the storm.
"Far post!"
Julian looked up — the keeper already cheating left.
He didn't cross.
He curved.
His body twisted, every muscle coiling in precise defiance.
Then came the strike — the outside of his foot slicing through water and air.
[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 15 Seconds]
Julian chose control.
Telekinesis — a basic skill in name, a divine trick in execution.
He wrapped the ball in his soul's pulse, his will threading through its spin.
For a moment, he could feel the resistance of the world itself — the weight of gravity, the quiet law that forbade manipulation.
But he didn't need mastery.
Just a whisper of control.
The ball bent wickedly — a cruel, impossible curve carving through rain-heavy air.
The keeper dove late.
Glove brushed leather — too soft.
Thud.
The ball kissed the inside post and snapped the net.
GOAL. 3–2.
The stadium detonated.
Noise surged like a tidal wave, crashing through stands and sky alike.
Fans rose as one, scarves twisting, voices lost in the storm's echo.
Rain blurred into sound.
The world dissolved into victory.
Julian slid on his knees toward the corner flag — head bowed, fists clenched, breath fogging in the cold air.
Behind him, boots thundered across the pitch.
Fabio's arm locked around his neck.
Mageed was shouting something incoherent.
Luis was screaming from midfield, voice cracking in joy:
"Ash–ford!"
Even Coach Soner, on the sideline, allowed the faintest ghost of a smile.
The Emperor had risen again.
And this time, the storm itself bowed.
…
Bremen's reaction was instant—and furious.
Their freedom turned feral, every pass a roar, every run a desperate claw at order.
They attacked like men trying to drown logic beneath sheer volume.
But HSV held.
Coach Soner's structure locked into perfect form.
Luis commanded the line—steady, immovable. Jeremy mirrored his every step, a reflection of discipline.
Anssi anchored the midfield, timing tackles like a pendulum.
Mageed dictated tempo, each pass struck like a conductor's baton cracking through thunder.
Every clearance found feet, not sky.
Every shift of formation clicked with military precision.
Julian dropped deeper, the storm's eye amidst motion—linking defense to attack, turning chaos into coherence.
This is what he meant, he thought, Soner's voice echoing in his mind.
Don't fight wind with wind. Build walls.
Minute 83.
Bremen forced a corner—their first real threat in minutes.
The ball curled in through the rain, heavy with spin and desperation.
"HERMANN!"
The keeper's voice tore through the noise.
"MEINS!"
He surged forward, fists clenched, and punched it clear—knuckles slicing droplets into mist.
The ball spun out toward the edge of the box—
—and Julian was already there.
Chest control.
Drop.
Turn.
He ran.
Fabio flared wide left. Mageed tore through the middle.
Julian's boots hammered the soaked ground, water spraying behind him like smoke trails.
Three defenders scrambled—closing, shouting, slipping.
He feinted right.
Cut left.
Threaded a pass so clean it split the line like silk under a blade.
Mageed caught it—fluid, perfect.
One touch to steady.
One to strike.
Low. Hard. Unstoppable.
The net rippled.
4–2—
No.
Whistle.
Offside.
The flag gleamed cruelly under the floodlights, an executioner's verdict.
The roar collapsed into groans.
A hundred cheers died mid-breath.
Mageed threw his head back, shouting wordless fury into the storm.
Julian jogged over, calm in contrast, laying a steady hand on his shoulder.
"Next one counts," he said quietly.
Mageed barked a breathless laugh, half bitter, half alive. "You and your prophecies."
Julian's lips curved faintly—sharp, unshaken.
"Trust them."
The rain fell harder, like the sky itself was applauding the inevitability of what came next.
Because everyone could feel it—
Order wasn't defending anymore.
It was ascending.
…
Minute 85.
Bremen refused to die.
Their coach threw his arms wide, barking orders, and three substitutes sprang from the bench like reinforcements charging into battle.
Fresh legs. New chaos.
Instantly, the pressure rose again.
Green surged forward—wave after wave.
HSV's shape bent, dragged backward toward the box under the storm's weight.
"Hold! HOLD!" Soner's voice cut through the rain like a blade.
Julian's lungs burned.
His pulse thudded in his ears, matching the rhythm of boots pounding on soaked turf.
His world had narrowed—movement and color, green and white, rain and steel.
A cross ripped in from the right.
Luis launched himself skyward—forehead connecting with a crack—but the ball didn't die.
It dropped perfectly at Lütke-Frie's feet.
One touch.
A quick turn.
Then a shot through a crowd of bodies—
fast, low, venomous.
Hermann reacted.
Gloves flashed.
Deflection.
But the rebound fell to another Bremen player, charging in with blind instinct.
A single jab of a boot—
Thud.
The net rippled.
3–3.
The away end exploded.
Bremen's bench erupted from their seats, a storm of fists and screams.
Their captain tore at his shirt, roaring into the sky like a man reborn from the chaos.
Julian didn't move.
He stood at midfield, rain dripping from his chin, chest rising and falling slow, deliberate.
He watched Bremen celebrate, bodies tangled in wild joy.
They never stop.
He looked to the sideline.
Coach Soner hadn't flinched.
Not a word. Not a step.
Just one gesture—
A single hand raised.
Flat. Steady. Unbroken.
A signal.
A vow.
Julian's jaw tightened.
The fire returned—not the wild burn of emotion, but the cold, clean blaze of purpose.
He nodded once.
"Alright," he murmured.
Then louder—enough for the rain to carry his voice down the pitch—
"Then we finish it."