King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

Minute 87.

Both sides were spent.

Boots dragged through puddles. Lungs burned raw.

Rain fell in relentless sheets, silver lines stitching the night together.

Every pass carried the weight of survival.

Every touch, a test of will.

HSV's midfield drew in—compact, synchronized, breathing as one.

Julian's world had narrowed again: step, breathe, press, release.

A soldier's rhythm. A ruler's pulse.

Across the field, Bremen's line wavered.

They still pressed, but their feet betrayed them—half a beat slow, half a breath late.

Julian felt it before he saw it.

The fracture.

He turned to Fabio.

"Inside-run pattern six."

Fabio blinked rain from his lashes. "Now?"

Julian's eyes glinted—silver beneath the floodlights.

"Now."

The ball came from Anssi—short, slick, spinning through rain.

Julian received it with his back to goal, two defenders crashing in.

He dropped a shoulder right.

Both bit.

He flicked behind with his heel—deceptive, surgical.

Fabio cut inside on cue, slicing through the lane.

The pass curved perfectly, gliding between legs like it had a will of its own.

Fabio shot—

Blocked.

Rebound. High. Spinning.

Julian turned, chest heaving.

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.3: +120 Strength]

He leapt.

Time slowed.

Air.

Rotation.

Contact.

THUNDER.

The volley tore through the downpour—pure, clean violence.

The keeper punched at it in desperation—barely connecting—sending it crashing against the crossbar.

CLANG.

A sound that split the night open.

For a heartbeat, everyone froze.

Then chaos—

The ball dropped into a storm of bodies.

Anssi lunged.

Mageed swung.

Boots collided.

Mud and water exploded.

But the ball refused them all.

Bremen cleared—long, panicked, anywhere.

Julian hit the ground hard, rolling once before forcing himself up.

Pain flared through his leg, a cramp biting deep into the muscle.

"Julian!" Mageed shouted. "Sub?"

Julian shook his head, breath rasping through clenched teeth.

"Not yet."

He straightened, one hand pressed to his thigh, eyes locked forward.

Because he could feel it—

The field's heartbeat shifting again.

The air itself charged, humming.

That stillness before the world splits.

Before lightning.

The end was close.

Above the roar, he could hear the faint chant of the crowd—broken, breathless, carried by rain. His name. Not shouted in triumph, but in faith.

That was enough to steady him. Enough to remind him what he was playing for—

not glory, not numbers on a screen. Control. Discipline.

A vow made to a life he'd lost once, and refused to lose again.

…

Minute 90.

Bremen were rabid now.

Relentless. Unchained.

Their press no longer tactical—just hunger given shape.

Bodies crashed. Boots flew. Every clearance felt like survival.

HSV II bent under the storm, defending with breath instead of tactics.

Hermann deflected one shot, then another—palms slamming against wet leather, gloves skidding on rain.

The air was chaos.

"Hold!" Luis shouted, voice raw. "Just hold!"

But Bremen didn't stop.

Another cross. Another scramble.

Another corner.

Isak Hansen-Aarøen placed the ball at the flag, wiping rain from his brow.

His gaze swept the box—cold, predatory.

Julian stood alone near midfield.

Silent. Waiting.

The last ember of order left on the pitch.

He could feel it—the tension coiling, the moment condensing.

This is it.

Minute 91.

Isak's kick cut through the storm, spinning high into the air.

Bodies rose.

A hundred hearts held breath.

Imasuen—header!

Deflected.

The ball dropped, skipping once through puddles.

Dennis reacted—volley!

Bang.

Hermann flinched—but Luis threw himself across the line.

Impact. Pain. The ball ricocheted off his ribs and spun away—straight toward Mageed.

Mageed didn't think.

One look.

One heartbeat.

Then came the pass—

long, screaming through the rain, slicing open the gray world.

Julian saw it early.

Cutting through the dark like fate itself.

He ran.

Mud exploded beneath his boots, water flaring with every stride.

The ball spun ahead—still too far, still wild in its bounce.

He hadn't even reached midfield yet.

One touch.

Barely enough to settle it.

He looked up.

The referee raised the whistle.

Seconds left.

The Bremen keeper stood off his line—too bold, too high.

Julian's jaw locked.

No time for hesitation.

No time for elegance.

Only will.

He planted his left foot—felt the ground tremble beneath him.

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.3: +200 Strength]

[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 15 Seconds]

Giant Strength

Power flooded his body like molten iron.

His muscles compressed—dense, coiled, inhuman.

His frame didn't grow larger, but heavier, tighter, refined to pure force.

He drew his leg back.

And struck.

The sound cracked like thunder.

The ball screamed into the storm, tearing through sheets of rain.

Julian threw his head back and roared,

"Fly!"

The word ripped from his chest like a command to the heavens.

The ball obeyed.

It flew—not rising clean, but fighting the wind itself,

a duel between gravity and will, rain and steel.

Every droplet that touched it seemed to scatter into silver dust.

The floodlights caught it mid-flight,

turning it into a streak of light through the darkness—a comet across the storm.

The stadium fell silent, mouths open, eyes wide,

watching the silver blur vanish into the dark sky.

For a heartbeat, no one breathed.

Even the keeper froze, squinting into the downpour—

trying to track it.

Then—

the ball began to fall.

Slowly.

Beautifully.

Dead center.

The keeper realized too late.

He lunged—mud flying, arms outstretched—

but the ball cut through his fingers like a phantom and slammed into the net.

GOAL. 4–3.

The stadium erupted.

The stands shook; thunder rolled with the crowd's roar.

Players screamed—disbelief, joy, chaos.

Coach Soner clenched both fists once, silent fire in his eyes.

Fabio reached Julian first, grabbing his shoulders.

"He's insane!"

Mageed tackled him mid-celebration, both crashing onto the soaked turf, laughing through exhaustion.

Julian didn't move.

He just closed his eyes, spreading his arms wide as rain poured down his face.

His chest rose. Fell.

And beneath him—the pitch hummed.

Low. Deep. Alive.

Silver light crawled faintly along the seams of his boots,

veins of power threading through mud before fading back into silence.

The Emperor stood.

And even the storm bowed.

For that moment, he wasn't just a player.

He was a truth the storm couldn't wash away—a declaration carved into rain and roar.

He had commanded the field. And it had obeyed.

Finally—

Prrrttt!

Full-time.

HSV II – 4, Werder Bremen II – 3.

The whistle tore through the night, and the world exploded.

The roar wasn't pure joy—it was disbelief turned to thunder.

Players collapsed where they stood; some laughed, some sobbed into the mud.

Fabio dropped flat on his back, arms open to the rain.

Mageed grabbed Luis in a rough, breathless hug that nearly crushed him.

Even Hermann punched the air with both fists, screaming wordless victory.

Julian remained still at midfield.

Breathing shallow. Eyes closed.

The pitch beneath his boots pulsed faintly—crowd, rain, heartbeat—all blending into one rhythm.

His rhythm.

Across from him, Bremen's players stood bent over, hands on knees, rain streaking down their faces.

Freedom had given everything it had.

And lost.

Bremen's captain approached, chest heaving, hand outstretched.

Julian opened his eyes, calm again, and accepted the handshake.

"Hell of a fight," the captain said, his accent thick, his tone sincere.

Julian met his gaze.

"Freedom's beautiful," he said quietly. "But order lasts longer."

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then the Bremen player smiled, half-exhausted, half-defeated. "Maybe. Until freedom learns order's rhythm."

Julian's mouth curved faintly. "Then we'll meet again."

The man nodded, turned, and jogged back toward his team.

Julian stayed where he was.

Alone in the storm.

Rain running down his face like silver threads.

Lightning flickered somewhere beyond the stands, illuminating the field one last time—mud, sweat, victory.

He exhaled.

Slow. Controlled.

Julian's eyes glowed faintly for a moment—silver flicker, gone in a blink.

He tilted his head toward the bench where Coach Soner stood, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

The coach gave a single nod.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

That was enough.

The war was over.

The empire had risen.

And under the storm's dying rain, Julian Ashford—the Reborn Emperor—walked off the pitch in silence.

…

Soner finally stepped onto the field, coat soaked, expression unreadable.

He stopped in front of Julian.

For a long second, neither spoke.

Only the hiss of rain and the echo of distant cheers filled the silence.

Then Coach Soner said, quietly, "Now you understand why I don't chase chaos."

Julian's reply came steady, absolute.

"Yes, Coach. Because we make it chase us."

For the first time all night, Soner's lips curved into that rare, razor-thin smile.

"Good. Tomorrow—rest." He turned, voice rising as he barked orders to the team. "Then we build again."

Even in victory, the discipline never left him.

And that, Julian realized, was why he respected the man.

As the crowd slowly thinned and the floodlights dimmed, Julian walked toward the tunnel.

Every muscle screamed. Every breath burned.

Yet inside, he felt weightless.

Somewhere behind him, he could still hear the chant—"Ashford! Ashford!"—muffled by rain, fading into the night.

He didn't turn back.

He didn't need to.

Because tonight, the pitch had already spoken for him.

He glanced back one last time.

The scoreboard still glowed against the mist and rain—

HSV II 4 – 3 WERDER BREMEN II.

The numbers shimmered like a crown above the battlefield.

The Emperor had ruled the storm.