Chapter 130: Chapter 130: The Last Three Minutes
With Julian’s stamina blazing back to its peak, there was no hesitation.
He moved. Everywhere.
Midfield, striker, even sliding back into defense—his presence bled across every blade of grass.
To San Dimas, it was as if a second sun had risen on the pitch, burning them wherever they turned.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +30 To All Attributes]
He kept the skill burning, ignoring the toll. Every tendon, every muscle screamed—but Julian roared louder inside.
He would not let go.
Not here.
Not now.
The clock ticked past 85 minutes. Fifteen remained in this war, maybe less if fate cut short.
Lincoln’s fans surged in voice, chants crashing like thunder against San Dimas’s golden wave.
The scouts scribbled furiously, eyes wide as they followed Julian’s trail.
He intercepted Elijah’s pass at midfield—then a blink later, he was sprinting forward, combining with Noah.
When Victor tried to counter, Julian dropped deep, body slamming the lane shut, forcing him wide.
Everywhere they turned, the Emperor was there.
"Shit—he’s everywhere!" Kai shouted, breath ragged as he tried to recover.
Miles, drenched in sweat, glanced up, eyes calculating—but even his perfect lines were collapsing under Julian’s shadow.
It wasn’t just tactics anymore. It was will.
Crest, watching from the bench, leaned forward, her knuckles white.
Laura whispered under her breath, "He’s not playing football anymore... he’s waging war."
Julian’s lungs seared, but his eyes gleamed. His perception burned hotter with every tick of the clock.
He felt every heartbeat of the pitch—the way Malik shifted on his toes, the twitch of Victor’s ankle, the rising panic in San Dimas’s defenders.
He wasn’t chasing the ball anymore.
The ball was chasing him.
The storm was his.
...
87
88
89
The clock bled away, each second pounding louder than a war drum. Both sides clashed, bodies crashing, lungs tearing.
Julian raged across the field like a wildfire, but his teammates—Noah, Riku, Aaron—were reaching their limit. Their breaths came ragged, legs heavy as iron.
Meanwhile, San Dimas kept marching forward. Their stars—Victor, Miles, Elijah, Kai—still gleamed under the floodlights, carrying the weight of their arsenal.
Every breath fogged into the wet night, steam rising from their shoulders like smoke off a battlefield.
Boots struck the sodden ground with sickening splashes, mud streaking up shins and jerseys. The air stank of churned grass, sweat, and rain-soaked polyester. Every shove, every tackle, rattled bones like iron bars colliding. The game wasn’t football anymore—it was survival.
On the sideline, Coach Owen’s voice split the chaos.
"KEEP PUSHING!"
His throat was raw, but his fire hadn’t dimmed.
The clock hit 90:00.
The board rose—+3 minutes.
Three minutes.
The only window left.
Win or bleed out into a tie.
And right now, San Dimas held the blade.
Elijah carried it from deep, sweat streaking down his face, but his eyes cold as steel. He nudged the ball to Miles.
One touch.
To Kai.
One touch.
Back to Elijah.
A triangle carved in gold. The ball zipped between them—sharp, fluid, unrelenting.
Tiki-taka. A rhythm of suffocation.
The ball’s path was a blur, a cruel geometry that mocked Lincoln’s desperate defense. Every pass hissed across the wet grass like a blade being drawn.
The tempo was maddening, each touch so clean it rang in Julian’s ears like a metronome set to kill. Lincoln’s blue shirts chased, turned, spun, but the triangle carved them apart one pass at a time.
Each pass drew Lincoln further, dragging them step by step, slicing the field open.
Julian’s perception blazed, every flick of their boots imprinting itself on his mind.
And ahead, Victor lurked.
Prowling between shadows of defenders, hunting space like a hawk circling prey.
Julian’s chest tightened. His feet pounded back into his own box, lungs on fire.
And then—he saw it.
Victor’s smile.
It wasn’t arrogance.
It wasn’t joy.
It was hunger.
The smile of a predator who had already seen the kill.
...
Lincoln snapped back.
Leo locked onto Miles.
Riku shadowed Elijah.
Noah clung to Kai.
Not diving in. Not biting.
Just guarding. Just waiting.
But San Dimas’s triangle cut deeper, sharper. The ball spun like a blade, passing from Elijah—snap—to Miles—snap—to Kai—snap.
Each touch tore another seam in Lincoln’s defense.
The chants from the stands blurred into one roar, gold and blue colliding, but Julian heard only the whistle of the ball and the hammering of his own pulse.
His teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached. Sweat mixed with rain, dripping into his eyes, blinding him with salt—but still he tracked every pass, every shift of weight, every twitch in Victor’s shoulders.
Riku’s patience broke first. He lunged.
"Got you!"
Too late. Elijah danced past, ball sliding into Miles’s feet.
Chaos. Lincoln’s shape ripped open.
The triangle churned once more, Miles slipping it wide, Kai blitzing onto it. His stride never faltered, his eyes glinting.
A chipped pass.
Arcing. Falling.
Victor’s run was already alive, a blur of gold streaking through the gap.
Julian moved too, shadow pressed to Victor’s back, every muscle screaming. His eyes narrowed. His pulse roared.
First touch—perfect. Victor cradled the ball as if the pitch bent for him alone.
But Julian was there. He forced himself in front, boots stabbing into the turf, body closing the lane.
Victor’s grin sharpened. He didn’t hesitate. He snapped the shot—through Julian’s legs.
Julian had cut the angle, forced him narrow. But the ball still flew, skimming toward the post.
Cael’s silhouette blurred in the corner of Julian’s sight—but he didn’t wait to see.
[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 10 Seconds]
The memory surged.
His very first game.
His first win.
The crash through the net.
That reckless, impossible strike.
The breath that tore thunder into his lungs.
Thunder Breath.
Julian’s chest swelled, fire racing up his throat.
This time, it wasn’t to score.
It was to stop destiny itself.
He inhaled—deep, dragging the storm into his body.
The air sharpened, metallic, burning.
The world slowed, sound fading to a hollow hum.
This technique was born from breath.
Each inhale tied to a step.
Each step struck the turf harder, sharper, faster.
The rhythm pounded through him like a war drum.
Then he moved.
Step.
Boom.
Step.
Boom.