Chapter 119: Chapter 119: Our Emperor
The days bled together.
Training. Drills. Shadows of San Dimas playing in their minds.
Every sprint. Every pass. Every tackle carried the same weight—no loss run.
Even the smallest mistakes in practice felt heavier now. A misplaced pass wasn’t just a mistake—it was a warning.
A lazy press wasn’t just fatigue—it was betrayal to the team’s goal. Every breath of training carried urgency, a sense that time itself was running out.
The locker room door slammed open on Thursday, and a familiar voice boomed.
"I’M BACKKKKKK!"
Cael strode in like a conquering hero, his grin wide, his hands already thrown into the air. The bandage that had once crowned his head was gone, stitches vanished. Only the faintest scar remained above his brow.
Riku didn’t even look up from tying his cleats. "But?"
The room chuckled, remembering the last time.
Cael froze mid-pose, then puffed his chest out, planting both fists on his hips like a comic-book villain. "No but! I’m cleared. I can play tomorrow. Hahaha!"
His laugh echoed off the lockers—loud, obnoxious, but filled with raw relief.
Noah let out a whoop, tossing his tape roll across the room like confetti. "The wall returns!"
Aaron banged his shin guard against the bench like a drum. The rhythm turned into a chant: "Cael, Cael, Cael." For a moment, the locker room felt alive again—like a heartbeat had been restored.
Then the door creaked again. Coach Owen stepped inside, Laura right behind him with her clipboard tucked tight against her chest. The atmosphere shifted instantly. Cael snapped into his seat as if struck by lightning.
Coach’s sharp gaze locked on him. "You may say you’re back, Morgan. But I’ll be the judge of that. Today—practice. I need to see your form. I need to see if you’re sharp enough. If you’re truly ready to protect that net."
Cael sprang to his feet, saluting like a soldier reporting to the front line. "Yes, Coach! I’ll prove it. I’ll let you see it with your own eyes!"
The team grinned, energy buzzing through the room. Noah slapped Cael’s shoulder on the way past. "About time, keeper."
Julian only watched in silence, arms folded, eyes steady. Deep inside, his blood stirred. Cael’s return wasn’t just another player back on the pitch—it was Lincoln regaining its wall, its anchor.
And tomorrow, against San Dimas, they would need every brick of that wall.
Coach Owen’s voice cut through, calm but firm. "Good. Because today isn’t just practice. This is rehearsal for war. Tomorrow, everything comes to a head. No mistakes. No excuses. Show me you’re ready."
The room exploded with a unified roar. "YES, COACH!"
Boots slammed against the concrete floor. Sweat already slicked palms before they’d even touched the ball. The stakes were carved into every heart.
The no-loss run. The last test before the world came calling.
Their final practice had begun.
They drilled until the sky burned gold with the setting sun.
Set pieces. Tactical rehearsals. Simulations of San Dimas’ relentless press. Every whistle, every sprint felt heavier than the last—like each moment carried the weight of the season.
When the final whistle of practice shrieked, the players gathered by the bench, lungs heaving, sweat dripping down their faces. Laura moved through them with quiet efficiency, handing out bottles and towels, her presence as steady as the rhythm of their heartbeat.
The late-February air was shifting—winter’s bite fading, warmth creeping in. The kind of warmth that promised spring, but tonight it only made the sweat cling tighter.
Coach Owen stood tall, clipboard under his arm, eyes hard but burning with belief.
"Tomorrow," he said, voice carrying across the huddle, "we play our last match before CIF. Our final test. And we go in with our strongest lineup."
His gaze landed on the keepers.
"Cael—you’re back in the post. Damien, you’ll be on the bench."
"Yes, Coach," both replied in unison.
But only one was grinning ear to ear.
Cael couldn’t hold it back—the wild, unshakable smile of a man who’d been waiting to step back onto the battlefield.
Coach Owen nodded once. "Good. Go home. Rest. Tomorrow, we leave nothing behind."
The team broke apart, one by one filing out of the locker room. Cleats clattered, voices faded. The anticipation hung like smoke, thick and inescapable.
Julian slung his bag over his shoulder, his mind a storm of fire and silence. He wasn’t nervous for San Dimas. No, what gnawed at him was what came after.
The thought of standing in front of Noah, Leo, Cael, Riku—telling them he was leaving—stabbed at his chest sharper than any tackle.
How could he abandon them at their peak? Yet how could he not? His destiny waited beyond this league. He walked with that weight pressing every step.
A light tap on his back broke his thoughts.
He turned.
Tress.
Back in her glasses, her hair loose and neat again—her "nerd look," as he’d come to think of it. Ordinary on the surface, but her presence always carried a strange gravity.
"Hey," she said softly.
"Hello," Julian answered, his voice quieter than usual.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "How do you feel?"
Julian let out a slow breath, gaze drifting down. "...Nervous."
Not about the match. About leaving. About breaking the truth to the brothers who had become his family.
"It’s okay," Tress said, as if she could read him. She gave his shoulder a gentle pat, her touch grounding. "It’s okay."
For once, Julian didn’t argue.
Together, they walked out into the dusk. The streetlamps flickered on above them, their shadows stretching side by side as the night carried them home.
...
Friday came.
Julian stepped out of his lecture hall, bag slung over his shoulder, and made his way toward the pitch. Even from a distance, he felt it—the hum, the vibration in the air.
Crowds.
Not just students, not just families. The stands were already flooding with people, a wave of noise rolling from the gates. It felt less like a school match and more like the final of a tournament. Every step closer to the stadium, the roar grew louder, the scent of turf and sweat mixing with popcorn, smoke, and anticipation.
He pushed through, slipped into the tunnel, and entered the locker room.
Silence.
Not weak silence, but tense silence. Heavy. Like a battlefield before the first arrow is loosed.
One by one, players tightened laces, strapped on shin guards, tugged their kits into place. No laughter. No chatter. Just the scrape of tape, the clatter of studs on concrete, the creak of benches.
Julian sat, methodical as always, pulling on his kit, buckling into armor he had worn twelve matches now. His mind was fire, but his body was calm.
Then—Leo stood.
"Hear me, my fellow people."
Heads turned. Noah. Riku. Even Cael paused mid-lace.
And then Cael burst out laughing, his voice cracking through the tension like a hammer.
"The fuck are you saying?!" He doubled over, laughter booming.
The room broke for a moment, chuckles spilling out, tension snapping like glass.
Leo smirked. "Relax, relax. Don’t be too tense." His voice hardened, his golden eyes locking on each of them in turn. "You’ve seen the crowd. You know the stake. There’s only one mission tonight." He pointed at the door, toward the roaring stands. "Win. Nothing else matters."
Then his gaze cut to Julian.
"Our emperor. What do you say?"
Julian rose, calm as a storm about to break. His lips curved faintly.
"Let’s rule the pitch."
The words hit like steel.
"Let’s rule the pitch then," Leo echoed.
"RULE THE PITCH!"
The locker room erupted, voices crashing together like thunder.
The chant shook the walls. Fists pounded lockers, studs hammered against tile, the sound swelling until it felt like the whole building was vibrating.
For one heartbeat, they weren’t high schoolers anymore. They were soldiers, united under a single banner, ready to march into battle.
And one by one, armored in blue, Lincoln walked out into the pitch. Toward the floodlights. Toward war.