Chapter 101: Chapter 101: The Strings of War
With Corpse Control burning through his veins, Julian’s vision split. Threads of will stretched outward—Felix on his right, Ricky on his left. Puppets? No. Partners, bound by the same pulse.
The ball rolled at his feet.
Tap—Julian to Felix.
Tap—Felix back to Julian.
Tap—Julian to Ricky.
The rhythm built, seamless. The passes weren’t just quick—they were unnatural. Julian’s feet moved, but so did theirs, perfectly timed, like a single body stretched across three players.
He drove a pass into empty space—no one there.
But Ricky appeared, cutting in like Julian’s shadow had pulled him forward.
One glance, one flick of the boot—Ricky’s long pass bent through the air.
Felix caught it on the run. He never even looked up, never even adjusted. It was as if another set of eyes whispered the ball’s path into his soul.
Riverside flinched.
Silas’s calm cracked, his head snapping from one link to the next.
Nico and Damian surged, shoulders slamming into Ricky and Felix, trying to tear the rhythm apart.
Even the defenders scrambled, desperate to choke the lanes.
But the puzzle kept spinning. Click. Click. Click.
Every pass locked into place. Every movement overlapped. Three bodies, one emperor.
They carved forward.
Eight seconds from halfway into the box.
Two more before Julian’s borrowed strings would snap.
Felix slotted a cut pass into the penalty area.
Noah darted in—Julian dragged him into the current. A fourth thread snapped into Julian’s skull, pain lancing through him. His mortal body screamed, his head splitting, but he held on.
The world tilted. The roar of the crowd muffled, replaced by the thunder of his pulse in his ears. It felt as though nails were being driven into the back of his eyes.
A copper taste filled his mouth—he had bitten his tongue without realizing. Still, he clenched his jaw and forced the strings to hold.
Noah’s eyes glazed, just for a heartbeat. He understood.
The ball sailed waist-high.
Julian leapt—rising for the header.
Except he let it glide past.
A deliberate miss.
The defenders bit, following Julian’s rise—only for the ball to slip through his shadow.
Noah let it roll between his legs, snapping his boot back like a feint, freezing the keeper.
And then—
Ricky burst forward, the final blade of the trinity.
Bang!
His strike ripped through the box, smashing past the stunned goalkeeper.
The net bulged.
The stadium erupted.
1 – 0.
Julian landed, chest heaving, his skull pounding like a war drum. Blood roared in his ears, but his lips curved into a wolfish grin.
His knees buckled for an instant. Black dots peppered his vision, his lungs clawing for air. Corpse Control had dragged him to the brink.
But even as his body trembled, he forced himself upright—because emperors didn’t kneel after victory.
Then, without hesitation, he sprinted toward the home stand.
And bowed.
A mocking butler’s bow—low, graceful, deliberate.
The crowd exploded.
Hands slapped against railings, voices howled his name, but their screams blurred in Julian’s ringing ears.
He only saw Leo in the distance, leaping from his seat, shouting something he couldn’t hear.
Arms wrapped around him—Noah first, then Felix, then Ricky, all crashing into him at once.
The four of them tangled, breathless, laughing, fists pounding shoulders. Lincoln High had drawn first blood.
On the other side, Silas stood frozen.
His chest rose and fell, but his rhythm—the sacred pulse he had woven since kickoff—was shattered.
It was like Julian had cut the strings of his harp mid-song.
His teammates didn’t hear him. Didn’t feel him. For the first time, the shaman’s command fell silent.
...
The ball rolled back into motion, Riverside kicking off again, but the pitch had changed. Something unseen still clung to Lincoln High like smoke after fire.
Felix’s first touch was sharper, Ricky’s positioning unnaturally precise, Noah’s runs perfectly timed. They weren’t just teammates anymore—they were threads of the same cloth, woven together by Julian’s will.
Even though the corpse-control skill had faded, a residue lingered, like phantom strings still tugging at their bodies.
Riverside tried to break them apart. Silas slowed the tempo, ghosting passes left and right, trying to drag Lincoln’s shape out of rhythm.
Nico threw his weight around, charging into duels like a bull, while Damian slid across the turf with his hunter’s timing, snapping at ankles and cutting angles. But Lincoln didn’t crack.
Every time Nico shoved Felix, Ricky slid across to intercept, already there before the pass.
Every time Damian lunged, Noah flowed around him like water, spinning into space. And every time Silas sought to bend tempo, Julian’s shadow loomed beside him—cutting lanes, nudging space, pulling the invisible strings back his way.
It was more than football. It was transcendence.
The trio that had ruled the midfield all season found themselves staring at mirrors that moved faster than they did, sharper than they were, bound together by something they couldn’t name.
Silas’s face darkened. The beat he conducted no longer carried.
His teammates looked lost—hesitant, disconnected. And every time he lifted his eyes, Julian’s grin was waiting for him, daring him to play the next note.
For ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. The spell held.
Lincoln weren’t just holding their line—they were suffocating Riverside’s song, grinding them into silence.
...
The second half raged, and though the scoreboard read only 1–0, the match felt like a storm.
Riverside threw everything forward—Silas with his supernatural rhythm, Nico hammering challenges, Damian ghosting into passing lanes—but Lincoln had already stolen their breath.
Ricky and Felix played the match of their lives. With Julian’s influence lingering inside them, their awareness was heightened beyond anything Riverside could counter.
Felix pressed like a man possessed, shutting down channels Nico once dominated. Ricky intercepted pass after pass, distributing with a calm that cut through Riverside’s chaos.
Noah, released from doubt, became a phantom striker—darting in and out of shadows, forcing Riverside’s defense to break shape again and again.
And behind them, the wall stood firm.
Riku barked orders, Zion’s tackles rattled bones, and Damien’s gloves turned away every desperate shot.
Each save wasn’t just a stop—it was a message: not today.
The crowd lived and died with every clash. Scouts scribbled furiously in their notepads, sensing something more than raw talent—this was a team transcending its own limits.
The underdogs weren’t just surviving. They were dictating.
Silas tried everything. Long switches, disguised passes, tempo shifts. But every time he struck the drum, Julian’s blade cut through the rhythm.
One captain’s will, clashing against another. By the final whistle, Silas’s face was pale, jaw tight, his song broken.
The scoreboard said only 1–0, but the meaning was far greater.
Lincoln High had slain Riverside’s hydra.
And with it, they stood taller, sharper, closer to the throne