Chapter 143: Chapter 143: Welcome to Hell, Kids
Morning light spilled through the blinds, and Julian rose with it. His body no longer felt heavy when waking; it thrummed, restless, like a blade eager to cut.
He washed his face, tied his hair back, and began the routine.
Horse stance. The foundation of every fighter. His thighs burned, but the strain was lighter than before, his balance unshakable.
Shadow sparring came next—his fists slicing air, his feet gliding across the floor. Each movement landed with frightening precision, like his body had already rehearsed it in dreams.
Then came the weights.
What once demanded grit now lifted cleanly.
The treadmill groaned under his speed.
Sprints stretched longer, sharper, until sweat poured but his lungs refused to falter.
Every bead of sweat wasn’t exhaustion—it was proof. His body didn’t feel like it was breaking anymore. It felt like it was testing its limits, like the ceiling he once knew had been torn down and rebuilt higher.
His perception stretched too—he caught the faintest creak of the floorboards, the twitch of the curtain, the rhythm of his own heartbeat as clearly as footsteps in combat. Instinct sharpened, his body reacting before thought.
Finally, the ball.
He let it roll, kissed by the morning air.
One touch. Then another.
Each contact sang—delicate, precise, a knife carving lines into the field only he could see. Step-overs bled seamlessly into feints, his control tighter, his acceleration snapping like a bowstring. Even shots at the net cracked with a cleaner violence.
Julian stood there, chest heaving, lips curving.
"This upgrade..." he murmured, eyes gleaming. "Perfect. But I need a match to truly feel it."
The system’s numbers were real. His body was proof.
But football was not weights or drills.
It was eleven against eleven.
Only in battle would this sharpened edge reveal its true cut.
And he still had one more week before Germany.
...
Since there was nothing more to do, Julian drowned himself in games until the day slipped by. His controller clicked through menus, his simulated team climbing tables, but every win felt hollow compared to the thrum of grass under his boots. The itch in his chest grew sharper with every digital cheer.
The next morning, he exhaled deeply and walked to school. But when the final bell rang, he didn’t head home. He lingered. His chest tightened as the field called to him.
He missed it.
The rhythm.
The clash.
The game.
By the time classes ended, his feet carried him straight to the club room.
Inside, the team was already buzzing, strapping on shin guards, lacing cleats. Heads turned the moment he stepped in.
"Ho—our emperor wants to train with us?" Leo leaned against the bench, smirking.
Julian rolled his shoulders, joints cracking as if in answer. "Yeah. I need to move my body before it rusts."
Laughter rippled around the room. He dropped onto the bench and pulled his kit from the bag. The familiar Lincoln blue slid over his skin, the number 7 shining on his back.
The fabric felt heavier than usual—not because of weight, but because of memory. Every goal, every tackle, every scream from the stands—it was all stitched into that shirt. He pressed his palm briefly against the number, then stood ready.
Minutes later, the door opened. Laura stepped in, followed by Coach Owen. The coach’s brows shot up the instant he spotted Julian.
"All of you here already? And Julian?" Owen’s voice carried surprise.
Julian met his gaze, steady. "I need to move my body, Coach. Please—let me train."
A pause. The team waited, silence heavy.
Then Coach Owen exhaled and nodded. "Alright. Join them."
Laura walked forward, taking the spot at the front like she was standing on a stage. Her tone was steady, but her eyes carried weight.
"Well," she began, "we didn’t just become league champions. We finished the season undefeated. And because of that, the association has given us something no one thought possible—" she paused, letting it land, "—a place in Division One."
A low murmur rippled through the locker room.
"Woah..." Cael muttered under his breath, eyes wide.
Division One.
The peak. The place reserved for the best of the best—programs with history, with dynasties, with reputations carved over decades. Lincoln, a team that hadn’t even broken out of obscurity until this year, suddenly stood among giants.
Laura pressed on, voice sharp. "We get one week’s rest. By Monday, the playoff structure will be released. And Friday, next week, will be our first CIF match."
That line dropped like a hammer. The buzz dulled, heads turning serious.
Her expression tightened. "Here’s the reality. First time in the playoffs, and we’ve drawn one of the top-seed programs."
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
"To make it easy for you to understand," she continued, her tone almost grim, "San Dimas—last year’s Round of 16 team—are projected to break into the top eight this year thanks to their core players’ development. That’s the level we’re stepping into. Every team we’ll face is that good—or better."
The air in the room chilled. For a heartbeat, even the sound of laces being tied stopped. San Dimas wasn’t just a name—it was a warning.
A reminder that Lincoln’s miracle season had only opened the door. Now they were stepping into a room full of predators.
Her words hung in the air like a scythe, slicing through the brief celebration of Division One glory. The locker room felt smaller, colder, every player staring at the floor, at their boots, or at each other.
Then Leo leaned back with a grin, breaking the silence.
"So what? We beat San Dimas. Even without Julian, we can win that."
"Yeah, we can do that," Cael chimed in, eyes blazing.
Julian crossed his arms, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Then I’ll train you guys. How about that?"
Aaron slammed his fist into his palm. "Hell yeah, let’s do it."
Coach Owen’s grin spread like a shadow. The kind that made stomachs drop.
"Alright, kids. You know the drill. If you’re going to face the best, then I’ll make sure tonight feels like hell."
Goosebumps raced across every arm in the room—even Julian’s.
"Run, kids. Run." His voice turned into a roar, his eyes gleaming like a devil’s. "Hahahaha!"
And just like that, the celebration was gone. The locker room burst alive with the chaos of players scrambling, boots thundering against the floor.
The sound was a battle cry—benches slamming, bags dropping, cleats pounding against tile. Hearts pounded in sync with it. The team wasn’t walking into practice. They were walking into war.
It wasn’t practice anymore. It was survival.