King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

The tunnel smelled of wet turf and rubber, the air still humming with leftover rain.

Only one local reporter waited there — microphone in hand, camera crew behind her, lenses fogged from the storm.

It wasn't a national broadcast, not yet.

This was Regionalliga Nord — the kind of league where victories vanished by morning headlines.

But tonight felt different.

And Julian had a feeling why.

This had Sabrina Weiss written all over it.

The reporter stepped forward — tall, sharp posture beneath a red scarf, her smile professional but edged with curiosity.

"Julian Ashford," she began, voice smooth through the mic. "Two goals, one assist — a remarkable performance. Can you describe what went through your mind in those last minutes?"

Julian stopped, the faint echo of boots on concrete filling the pause.

He searched for the right word. Not a soundbite — a truth.

"Silence," he said finally.

The reporter blinked, taken aback. "Silence?"

He nodded once. "When everyone's shouting, you listen for the quiet parts. That's where the game tells you what it wants."

Her eyes flickered — maybe confusion, maybe fascination. She scribbled the quote anyway.

"Some call you the 'Emperor' now," she said, her tone almost teasing. "Does that title mean anything to you?"

Julian's gaze met hers — steady, unreadable beneath the bright tunnel lights.

"Titles are noise," he said. "What matters is the pitch. That's where you earn your words."

The reporter hesitated, then smiled faintly. "Very poetic."

Julian gave a polite nod. "Danke."

And just like that, he walked past — quiet, composed, leaving the sound crew scrambling to refocus their camera.

Behind him, the monitor flickered — replaying his image in real time.

Drenched in rain. Calm in victory. Eyes that didn't quite belong to a seventeen-year-old.

It wasn't the face of a prodigy anymore.

It was the face of someone becoming inevitable.

…

The apartment lights were dim when Julian returned.

Most of the team had already gone out — bars downtown, neon lights, laughter spilling into wet streets.

He preferred the quiet.

He peeled off his soaked training jacket, dropped it over a chair, and sat by the window.

Rain still whispered against the glass — softer now, almost tender.

The glow from the city below painted ripples of gold and blue across the floor.

Outside, the Elbe River shimmered faintly beneath the fog, barges drifting like dark silhouettes through a sea of rainlight.

The city had its own rhythm — distant sirens, the muffled bass of nightlife, the hum of trams cutting through puddles. It felt alive, yet separate, as if Hamburg itself was holding its breath.

He exhaled slowly, opening his system menu.

Lines of faint blue light shimmered before his eyes.

There it was — the boots.

The same worn gray pair he'd used since his debut.

Now pulsing with quiet light.

[Custom Boots – (No Name)– Ready to Evolve]

[Evolve Item? Yes / No]

Julian's finger hovered for only a moment before pressing Yes.

The air thickened.

A soft hum rose from the ground — low, alive.

Silver threads of light crawled across the shoes, outlining every seam, every scar left from matches past.

Rainlight refracted through them, filling the room with quiet starlight.

[Evolution in Progress…]

[Please assign a name.]

The words lingered in the air — quiet, expectant.

Julian leaned back, staring at the faintly glowing boots before him.

Naming a thing had weight. Power. Meaning.

He remembered.

In his past life, there had been a weapon.

A sword not forged by hands nor tempered by fire.

It was born — from the world itself.

A blade that cut through heavens and defied kings.

No one made it. No one could.

It was the will of creation given form.

He'd called it Ashenstride.

And now, looking at the boots — their gray surface pulsing with the same faint silver light, alive with quiet resonance — he felt that name echo again.

Not as nostalgia. But as continuation.

"This world took my blade," he murmured. "So I'll make it walk with me instead."

His voice dropped to a whisper.

"The Ashenstride."

[Confirm name: The Ashenstride?]

[Yes / No]

"Yes."

[Name confirmed. Evolution beginning.]

The room dimmed instantly.

A low hum filled the air — the kind that wasn't sound but vibration, like the world itself answering.

Then — light.

The boots blazed.

Silver and gray and gold, radiating in threads that spread across the floor like veins of starlight.

The glow pulsed once, twice — then surged, a silent burst that made the air tremble.

Julian squinted through the brilliance.

He could hear her voice — faint, melodic, within the storm of light.

[Acknowledged, Host. The Ashenstride has awakened.]

And just like that — the light vanished.

The air stilled, the faint hum fading into silence.

When Julian opened his eyes, the boots before him were no longer the same.

The dull gray had deepened into something richer — black as the night sky before dawn, a darkness that seemed to breathe.

Along its edges ran a streak of silver, sharp and clean, with threads of gold woven faintly through the seams.

It didn't shine — it radiated, like something alive yet patient, regal in stillness.

A crown forged not of jewels, but of purpose.

He reached out, brushing his fingers across the surface.

It was warm. Responsive. The faint pulse beneath the leather matched the rhythm of his own heartbeat.

A weapon reborn — not to cut the sky, but to rule the ground.

The faint scent of ozone lingered in the air — sharp, pure, like the aftermath of lightning. His fingertips tingled.

He could almost feel energy breathing beneath the surface of the boots, as though they too were adjusting to existence again.

Julian exhaled slowly, a faint smile curving his lips.

"Welcome back," he said softly.

The interface flickered before his eyes — clean lines, silver light.

[The Ashenstride]

Type: Item

Rank: Mythic

Effect: +20 to All Attributes

Skill: Locked

He stared at the text for a moment, silent.

The word Mythic carried a certain gravity — the kind that felt earned, not gifted.

A soft hum echoed from the boots again, like the purr of restrained thunder.

Julian could feel it — power coiled beneath the surface, not yet awakened, waiting for a command it already knew would come.

"Locked for now, huh…" he murmured. "Then I'll just have to reach the key."

His reflection stared back at him from the glass — eyes burning faintly gold in the city light, the Emperor half-drenched in the afterglow of something divine.

For a moment, he could almost feel the pitch under his boots again — wet grass, cold air, the rhythm of a thousand heartbeats waiting to obey.

That calm silence he spoke of earlier returned, not as emptiness but as sovereignty. The quiet was his kingdom. And every inch of that soaked field belonged to him.

He flexed his right foot slowly, the new boots glimmering faintly with dormant light. He could sense how they responded — not as gear, but as extension.

Like muscle. Like memory. Each movement sent tiny ripples of energy through his veins, subtle, electric. It wasn't overwhelming power — it was discipline made manifest, strength shaped by restraint.

Julian smiled faintly. "So this is what evolution feels like."

Outside, lightning flashed across the city skyline — pale gold against the dark.

Inside, beneath that quiet stormlight, the Emperor's next conquest had already begun.

…

Far across town, Coach Soner sat in his office at the training ground.

The rain had softened to a steady drizzle, coating the windows in silver.

He hadn't gone home yet — not after that match.

He was still watching the footage, the same highlight reel looping over and over: Julian's second goal.

The slow-motion replay froze on that exact moment — the strike, the balance, the composure.

He could still hear the roar when it hit the bar and went in.

But what lingered wasn't the crowd — it was the expression that came after.

Cold. Focused. Complete control.

"Seventeen…" Soner muttered. "You shouldn't look like that at seventeen."

He reached for his phone, thumb hovering over a familiar name in his contacts.

[HSV – First Team | Coach Merlin Polzin]

Soner hesitated for only a heartbeat, then began typing.

He's ready.

Julian Ashford. Two goals, one assist tonight. More than that — he controlled the storm.

If you're still watching the academy reports, start paying attention. He's not just potential anymore.

He hit send.

The message left with a soft ping — barely audible over the rain tapping the office window.

Soner leaned back again, gaze drifting toward the frozen frame on the monitor.

Julian's eyes — cold, clear, relentless — stared back.

"Let's see how far you'll go," he whispered.

He didn't know it yet, but the text had already been read.

Across the city, in a higher office overlooking the Elbe River, Merlin Polzin's screen lit faintly. He didn't respond — not immediately. He just replayed the clip attached to the report, silent, thoughtful. Then, with a slight smile, he whispered, "Control the storm, huh? Let's see if he can control the Bundesliga."

He leaned back, eyes narrowing in curiosity. "The Emperor of Hamburg… maybe it's time he meets the kings."

The wind shifted outside his office window — cold and clean, sweeping through the night like a herald.

The river lights rippled, their gold reflections bending across dark water. Somewhere below, a church bell rang midnight.

Outside, the lights of Hamburg shimmered against the wet streets — a city sleeping under rain, unaware that somewhere within it, an empire had just taken its first true step toward the throne.