Chapter 135: Chapter 135: Reflection Match
The mist parted.
Julian’s lips twisted into a scowl. "Really? Again?"
The figure—his reflection in crimson and black—tilted his head back and laughed, the sound echoing across the clouds like broken glass.
"Hahaha... come on. Let’s say my first entrance was... clumsy. I didn’t quite know the rules of this world then." His grin sharpened. "But I’ve been inside you long enough now. I’ve learned. So no more old-man duels with swords and fists."
A ball shimmered into existence at his feet, spinning with unnatural light. He tapped it up, juggling casually, every motion crisp, fluid, professional.
"Football, Julian," he said, smirking. "Let’s play football."
The sea of clouds shuddered. Lines of white fire carved themselves across the void, shaping into walls, nets, and seats. The ground hardened, black glass turning to painted wood. In seconds, the endless sky transformed—into a small stadium.
Futsal-sized. Close. Trapping. No room to breathe.
The sound of the transformation wasn’t silent—it thundered through his bones, every line of fire buzzing like molten veins across the air.
The clouds hissed as they condensed into barriers, the echo of phantom crowds rising like whispers, then screams, before fading back into hollow silence.
Even the smell shifted, a faint tang of wet leather and ozone clinging to the air as though the dreamscape itself remembered every storm Julian had lived through.
Julian blinked as a ripple washed over him. His damp clothes dissolved into fabric heavy with memory. Lincoln blue. Number 7 stamped bold across his back.
Across from him, his darker self spun the ball once on his finger, eyes glowing like embers. "So?" He spread his arms wide, mocking. "Do you like it, Julian? My stadium. Our battlefield."
Julian just frowned, unimpressed. Not fear—disgust. His chest tightened, not at the challenge, but at the way this shadow of him grinned, juggled, mocked.
At least have some dignity.
The dark reflection’s laughter cracked like thunder against the hollow stands.
"Hahaha... oh, don’t give me that look. You’re curious. Admit it. You want to know what happens when we play."
Julian’s lips curled into a dry chuckle. "Yeah. Because after I beat you this time, I’ll walk out stronger. Boosted. So of course I’m interested."
The shadow’s grin widened, sharp as a blade. "Good. Then let’s make it real."
He spun the ball once on his palm, and the air warped.
"Fifteen minutes. No rules—except handball. Every skill you own, every weapon in your body, unleash it. The only law here is scoring."
The pitch trembled. From the mist, two figures emerged—goalkeepers, one guarding each side. Their presence radiated like iron walls, identical down to the way their eyes glowed.
"Equal strength," Dark Julian said smoothly. "Equal tools. Only will decides."
He dropped the ball, its echo like a heartbeat. His aura surged, red and black flames writhing, spilling like smoke across the tiny stadium. The air tasted of ash and blood. His laughter deepened, devilish, unhinged.
"Fight me your way, Julian. And when you break—" the shadow’s eyes flared crimson, "—I’ll devour you whole."
...
The dark Julian dropped the ball and moved in a blur. His foot cracked against leather—
BOOOOOOM.
Scarlet thunder erupted at impact, the sound like a hundred storms colliding at once. The ball tore forward, but not toward the keeper. No—its path screamed straight at Julian himself.
The shadow smiled, fangs bared in triumph.
Julian’s breath sharpened. His heel slammed against the ground.
"Seven Hell Gates," he whispered.
With that murmur, the air split. Seven blackened gates shimmered into being before him, each one etched in fire. The ball crashed through the first, splintering it to shards. Then the second. Then the third—
CRACK.
But at the fourth, it faltered. Lightning bled away, speed shattering. The storm-ball froze in place.
Julian was already moving. His body blurred, splitting into three afterimages.
Dark Julian blinked—then laughed, splitting as well, his own trio materializing to match.
Three against three.
The clones collided, each pair locking into duels across the shadowed futsal pitch. Feints and tackles, flicks and strikes—chaos with no whistle, no order.
In the center, the true Julians met.
The ball ricocheted between them, every touch sparking thunder, every strike threatening to tear the pitch apart. Neither side sought control—only dominance. It wasn’t football anymore. It was war disguised as play, a storm of skill and violence spun into leather and laces.
The stands rattled with phantom echoes, as though an invisible crowd screamed for blood instead of goals.
And in that madness, Julian realized—
This wasn’t about the score.
It was about survival.
...
With every breath, the pitch warped under their duel. Skills flew like storms loosed from cages.
Thunder cracked.
Flames roared.
Clones multiplied.
It wasn’t football anymore—it was cinema, it was myth, it was war. Every impossible thing from manga panels or anime reels had come alive here.
"Hahahahaha!" Dark Julian’s laugh cut through it all, manic, jagged. His eyes gleamed like burning coals. "You like it, don’t you?!"
He kicked again. The ball screamed forward, gravity itself bending around it, pulled into its orbit like a collapsing star.
Julian’s pupils sharpened. His voice came out low, steady.
"Absorb."
A shadow tore open beneath the ball—an abyss swallowing light itself. The ball vanished into the void, the pitch trembling under its weight.
But it wasn’t gone.
A heartbeat later, leather ripped through the clouds above, plummeting like a meteor.
Julian’s body moved before thought. Reflex sharpened into instinct. Now.
The time—thirteen minutes. Two left. He needed to end this here.
He split again, three versions of himself burning across the pitch, teleporting in streaks of light and shadow.
The first clone rose, fire igniting his strike, a comet blazing down. But instead of shooting at goal, he angled the pass to the second.
The second clone’s leg crackled with thunder, lightning lashing the ball as he volleyed it onward.
And then—
The real Julian.
Shadow rippled from his form, aura dripping like black oil, and his boot cut through reality itself.
The three strikes met, fusing.
A flame-fed thunderball wrapped in shadow.
Julian’s voice came out like a growl, almost reverent.
"The Trinity."
The ball screamed toward Dark Julian’s goal, a storm forged from fire, thunder, and shadow.
Dark Julian only grinned, eyes wild.
"Nice... nice... nice!"
Behind him, the pitch warped. Shadows swelled, rising like a tide until the entire field was swallowed in black. The ball itself vanished into the abyss, drowned in his darkness.
But Julian did not falter.
Something inside him cracked open. His hair shimmered pale, strands turning white as gold fire bled into his irises. His aura flared, not just power—authority.
It wasn’t just energy. It was weight. The dream bent around him, clouds warping, even the phantom crowd falling silent as though forced to kneel.
His every breath radiated sovereignty, a crown of fire forged not by gift but by defiance.
"Emperor’s Might—Light."
He leapt into the shadow itself, golden eyes burning like a blade trying to cleave the void. His boot met the ball again; light detonated against darkness.
"You think they love you? Wait until you leave them behind. You’ll see their smiles turn to knives." Dark Julian roared, every syllable soaked in contempt.
"Just go die, you motherfucker!" Julian answered, voice ragged, everything in him a raw, desperate thrust.
The shot tore free, a single, roaring promise. It carved through the abyss — shadows split like ragged cloth, peeled apart by the brightness — and the ball streaked into the net, a blinding slash of motion: unstoppable, undeniable.
For a heartbeat the world held its breath; then the stadium exploded.
Goal.
The whistle of the endgame echoed in his chest. The match—the trial—was over.
The stadium unraveled. Darkness collapsed. The world dissolved until only clouds remained, white and endless beneath Julian’s feet. His uniform flickered back to Lincoln blue, the weight of war fading from his shoulders.
From the mist, Dark Julian reformed, face still wearing that razor grin.
"Okay. You win again... but what else can I expect from the Emperor?"
His body fractured, disintegrating piece by piece, until only his mouth lingered, whispering into the void.
"Every stage, I’ll return. Stronger. One day, you won’t just fight me—you’ll become me"
Then he was gone.
Julian exhaled, lifting a hand in a half-hearted wave. "Yeah, yeah. Do whatever you want."
A bed materialized from the clouds, soft and absurd in the silence of the sky. He trudged toward it, exhaustion weighing more than victory.
"Let’s go back. I need to sleep."
He collapsed onto the bed, and the dreamscape folded into darkness once again.