Chapter 127: Chapter 127: The Storm That Wouldn’t Break
The second half thundered forward.
Blue and gold crashed again and again, bodies colliding like waves against a cliff, neither side breaking, neither side willing to yield.
Lincoln’s lines bent but did not snap. Every tackle scraped the grass, every clearance bought only a breath. The crowd roared with each clash—half triumph, half terror—as the storm swelled heavier and heavier.
And then, in the center of the chaos, it began.
Leo.
His steps no longer dragged. His chest rose, steady, measured. The haze in his golden eyes flickered—then burned.
Not fully. Not yet. But little by little, the Maestro’s trance returned.
It was like watching a conductor lift his baton, the silent promise that the orchestra would follow.
Every touch of his boots had weight.
Every glance carried direction.
Even before his rhythm was complete, the midfield began to tilt back toward Lincoln.
Julian felt it instantly. The current in the grass, the pulse of a pattern only he and Leo seemed to hear. His instincts sharpened, his blood burning with recognition.
The tempo of passes quickened.
Aaron found Felix. Felix cut it back to Riku.
Riku, pressured hard by Elijah, fed it sideways into Leo’s orbit—
One touch. Smooth. Certain.
The ball didn’t stop. It flowed, humming under Leo’s command.
The crowd reacted in waves—first a gasp at the calmness under pressure, then a roar as the blue shirts began stringing passes again.
Even the scouts in the shadows of the stands leaned forward, pens poised above paper, sensing something rare, something electric.
San Dimas felt it too. Miles’s sharp eyes darted, his mind calculating angles as fast as any machine, trying to break the flow before it crescendoed.
Kai stalked the flank, twitching, waiting to unleash another Blitz the moment the rhythm faltered. And Victor—restless, coiled—kept drifting closer to midfield, unwilling to let Leo dance freely.
But Leo didn’t need freedom.
He only needed a beat.
Every second, every pass, every turn of his hips—his zone deepened. The Maestro’s state edging closer, note by note, until the field itself began to hum in Lincoln’s key once more.
Julian’s lips curved into the faintest grin.
The storm hadn’t passed. But their conductor was returning.
And when the song reached full force—Lincoln would strike.
The ball spun across the pitch, San Dimas pressing higher, hungrier. But Lincoln moved in twin harmony. When Miles slipped a coded pass through the line, Julian’s foot was already there, cutting it off. When Victor darted into the channel, Leo ghosted across, guiding Riku with a tilt of his body.
The crowd gasped at every touch. Lincoln weren’t just defending—they were conducting, orchestrating, bending the tempo back into their hands.
"LEO! LEO!" voices from the Lincoln stands roared, the chant surging without anyone needing to start it. They could feel it—the connection, the rhythm, the impossible bond carving into San Dimas’s armor.
Victor felt it too. His jaw tightened, his chest heaving, but his eyes didn’t flicker. Instead, he grinned.
"Good," he muttered under his breath, sweat gleaming under floodlights. "Then I’ll kill you both at once."
...
The duel shifted.
Kai blitzed forward again, tearing open the flank like lightning splitting sky. His speed was merciless, his stride eating grass faster than the eye could track. But Julian had already felt Leo’s pulse tighten in warning. The maestro state pulled him into motion before thought, his body surging into the channel.
Kai’s eyes widened for a split-second.
He had never been chased like this.
Julian’s boots hammered turf, his lungs tearing, his system skills screaming at the strain.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +
25 To All Attributes]But he clung to Kai’s shoulder like a shadow. When the San Dimas fullback whipped a cross toward Victor, Julian leapt—body twisted, fist clenched—meeting it with a crushing header that cleared the line.
The Lincoln crowd erupted.
Julian landed hard, pain shooting down his spine, but Leo’s rhythm steadied him, whispering through the eyes: Stay standing. Stay sharp.
On the sideline, Crest’s fingers tightened around her arms. Her expression barely changed, but the smallest nod slipped from her chin.
That was her boy—still fighting, still climbing. Laura clapped beside her, voice hoarse, screaming Julian’s name until it blended into the stadium noise.
...
Lincoln countered.
Felix tore down the right wing, Noah carving inside. Leo collected at the center circle, his boots velvet, his eyes blazing gold. He didn’t shout—he didn’t need to. Julian already knew. Their thoughts overlapped, their choices fused. It just like the link between them still in there.
A flick of Leo’s ankle. A surge from Julian.
The pass threaded between three gold shirts, slicing the pitch open. Julian stormed into the gap, the crowd rising as one—
But Malik was waiting.
The San Dimas keeper wasn’t just quick. He was clairvoyant. His eyes locked on Julian’s stride, his body coiled like a spring.
Julian cut left, unleashing his strike.
Malik dove, gloves snapping around leather with impossible certainty.
The golden half of the stadium detonated—
"MA-LIK! MA-LIK!"
Lincoln’s momentum choked on the catch.
Julian rolled back to his feet, teeth clenched. Leo felt his fury, his burning need to break through. He sent calm in return—a soft pulse of rhythm: Patience. Wait. The storm hasn’t peaked yet.
...
Minutes bled away.
The tempo rose, suffocating, relentless.
Victor clawed for every ball, his body a blade honed sharper with each strike. Riku marked him tight, shoulders slamming, breath ragged. But the San Dimas striker was merciless—spinning, shoving, feinting until space cracked open.
Miles pulsed behind them, his passes slicing through Lincoln’s lines with surgical precision. Each ball was a riddle, each flick a trap. One moment he dragged Noah wide, the next he lured Riku off balance, creating pockets Victor almost devoured.
And in goal—Cael.
The wall reborn.
A low strike from Victor—caught.
A looping header from Kai—punched clear.
Another coded pass from Miles slipped inside, a shot screaming for the corner—Cael flung himself, fingertips brushing leather, forcing it wide.
Every save ripped a roar from Lincoln’s side, their chant battering against the tidal wave of San Dimas’s support.
"CAEL! CAEL! CAEL!"
For every Malik, there was Cael.
For every predator in gold, a wall in blue.
...
The clock bled into 78:23.
Still, the storm didn’t break.
Leo, wrapped in his trance, kept San Dimas at bay, his rhythm anchoring Lincoln. But Julian saw it—heard it. The ragged draw of breath, the way sweat streamed down Leo’s jaw, dripping into the grass.
Julian’s gaze locked with his captain’s. Fire still burned in Leo’s eyes, stubborn and unyielding. But Julian felt it too—the weight dragging at his own legs, each stride heavier, each cut slower.
The ball clung to Leo’s boots, his every touch still golden—until Elijah thundered in. A crunch of studs, a jolt of contact.
Leo toppled onto the grass.
"Leo!" Julian surged forward, dropping beside him, hands reaching.
"You okay?" His voice cut through the roar of the stands.
Leo winced, then forced a crooked grin. "Just a hard tackle... but hey, at least we get some breathing time, right?"
A strained chuckle escaped his lips.
Julian couldn’t help but laugh, the tension breaking for a heartbeat. He clasped Leo’s hand, grip firm, and hauled him back to his feet.
Two soldiers, still standing.