Chapter 108: Chapter 108: The Wounded Beast
Monday came.
The gates of Lincoln High loomed ahead, familiar and steady, but Julian’s chest carried a weight he hadn’t felt before.
He stepped through them with his tumbler in hand, steam rising faintly from the top. Crest’s tea—bitter, strong, grounding. A small ritual, but today it felt like armor.
The cold morning air bit against his cheeks, but the heat of the tea coiled in his stomach like fire.
He could almost feel Crest’s quiet gaze in every sip, like she’d brewed not just leaves but discipline, carved into liquid.
Each swallow steadied his pulse, reminded him who he was and why he walked forward.
The hours of class blurred. Chalk on the board. Pages turning. Voices droning. His mind kept circling back to yesterday’s choice. I’m in. The words still echoed.
When the final bell rang, Julian exhaled, steadying himself, and made his way to the locker room.
He pushed the door open.
Cael was there first, perched on the bench, head still wrapped in bandages. The white cloth was stark against his tanned skin, but his eyes—sharp, burning—hadn’t dimmed.
"How’s your head?" Julian asked, lowering onto the bench beside him.
"Manageable," Cael said, grin tight but proud. "Doctor says if recovery keeps like this, I can play against San Dimas."
Julian’s lips curved faintly. He bumped his fist against Cael’s shoulder. "Good. Let’s finish this season together."
One by one, the others filed in—Leo’s easy grin, Riku’s iron presence, Noah with his restless energy, Ricky sharp-eyed and calm. The room filled with chatter, shoes clattering, gear shifting.
Then the noise shifted. Laura stepped in with Coach Owen at her side, a clipboard tucked against her chest. Her eyes scanned the room before she spoke.
"Big news," she said, her tone crisp. "D-Ro—one of the twins from Crenshaw—picked up an injury after their match with East Valley."
The locker room stirred.
"Yeah, I saw the clip," Ricky said, leaning forward. "They brawled, didn’t they?"
"They threw punches," Cael added, fire in his grin.
But Laura lifted her hand, silencing them. "That’s not all. Along with D-Ro’s injury, there were red cards. One of them was Tyrese, their central midfielder."
The words dropped like a stone.
The chatter died.
For a moment, the only sound was the soft creak of lockers opening. Everyone understood the weight—Crenshaw North, once a monster, was suddenly broken.
Julian narrowed his eyes. The twins—D-Lo and D-Ro—were feared together, a mirror duet that tore teams apart. And Tyrese, their CM, the spine of their rhythm. All gone.
Now only two of the four stars remained: D-Lo, the unstoppable winger, and Javion, the iron wall at center-back.
The giants had cracked.
Riku folded his arms, his jaw tightening. "So they’re weaker now."
Leo shook his head immediately. "Weaker doesn’t mean harmless. A wounded beast is the one that bites hardest."
Julian said nothing, but in his chest, the truth pulsed. A broken Crenshaw was still Crenshaw. Underestimate them, and you’d bleed for it.
"But don’t underestimate them." Coach Owen’s voice cut through the locker room, firm as steel. His eyes swept across every player. "Remember—you barely scraped past East Valley. Don’t let pride blind you. Crenshaw North, even weakened, is still dangerous."
The fire of victory cooled into focus. Heads nodded. A single reply came back, unified and strong.
"Yes, Coach."
"Good." Owen clapped his hands once, sharp, decisive. "Out. We start with the body."
The players rose in rhythm, benches scraping, cleats clattering against the floor as they filed toward the pitch.
The energy in the room shifted—no more chatter, no more speculation. Just the silence of men bracing themselves for work.
As the last of them moved out, Owen’s gaze locked with Julian’s.
A pause.
The coach’s expression didn’t shift, but his eyes said enough—stern, expectant, carrying weight. A silent command: Don’t forget. You owe them the truth.
Julian held the look, his chest tightening. Then he gave the smallest nod. Not now. Not yet. But soon.
Owen’s eyes narrowed, then softened. He gave the briefest signal—an almost imperceptible tilt of his chin.
Make sure you do it.
Julian exhaled, stepping into the cold evening air. The field loomed ahead, vast and waiting, like a battlefield sharpening its blades.
...
The day passed.
The school hours bled away.
Now Lincoln High rolled forward again—this time not as hosts, but invaders. Their destination: Crenshaw North High.
Inside the bus, the hum of the engine mixed with the tension of players bracing for war.
Boots tapped against the floor, bags shifted in laps, eyes stared out the windows at a city that blurred by too fast to remember.
Coach Owen stood in the aisle, voice cutting above the noise.
"I’ll repeat it once more. We’re back to our formation—Leo in midfield, captain’s band on his arm. Noah wide on the wing. Julian stays up top as striker." His gaze flicked from face to face, daring anyone to falter.
"In goal, Damien." His tone hardened. "Cael’s still recovering. That doesn’t mean we lose ground."
The bus was silent, every player absorbing it.
"Remember this," Owen said, voice low but burning. "Never underestimate your opponent. No matter what’s happened, no matter what they’ve lost—bite them hard. Use everything you have. Leave nothing behind."
The fire spread through them, sparking in their chests, filling the cramped bus with heat.
"Yes, Coach!" they roared, the sound bouncing off the windows like a war cry.
The bus slowed, hissed, and came to a stop. The doors opened. Cold air rushed in, biting at their faces.
The last two matches. The final gauntlet.
Julian’s hand curled into a fist on his knee. When will I tell them?
He already knew the answer.
After San Dimas.
After the glory was theirs.
After Lincoln stood unbeaten.
Only then would he speak.
Only then would he set them free.
...
The bus screeched to a halt.
Lincoln High rose one by one, filing down the narrow aisle and stepping into enemy territory.
Cold air slapped their faces the second they hit the pavement.
Together, they walked toward the bench area, boots striking pavement in rhythm, the kind of march that made even silence feel heavy.
Across the field, Crenshaw North were already waiting. Their white and teal kits cut sharp against the green. The thump of their warm-up drills echoed, a rhythm meant to intimidate.
Julian’s eyes swept the pitch—and froze on the bench.
D-Ro sat there, ankle bound tight in heavy bandages. He was suited up, uniform pressed, jaw clenched.
Can he even play? Julian wondered. Or is he just here to show he won’t bow?
Then his gaze shifted higher—to the stands.
Tyrese. The one sent off with a red card. He wasn’t on the field, but he was there in the crowd, arms crossed, eyes locked on Lincoln like he was carving them one by one into memory.
The weight of his stare pressed like a blade, but Julian didn’t flinch.
Lincoln stripped off their jackets, steam rising faintly from their bodies into the cold air.
They walked onto the pitch as one, grass crunching under their studs.
Julian’s vision burned blue with system text.
[Activating Scan Lv.2...]
Crenshaw North’s attributes flared before his eyes. Nothing had changed. No new growth, no hidden evolution. Their star players carried the same weight as before.
Same stats. Same skills.
Julian’s lips curved into the faintest smirk.
He could do this.
He would do this.
Victory here wasn’t just possible.
It was inevitable.