Chapter 52: Chapter 52: The Kill
With that, the first half came to a close.
Julian walked toward the Lincoln High bench.
Eyes followed him.
From Riverside’s players.
From the crowd.
They looked at him like he was a problem that needed solving.
A threat.
A rising celebrity.
A magician with the ball.
He dropped onto the bench, the winter air still hot in his lungs.
Leo slid in beside him, grinning ear to ear.
"Dude—you gotta feed the crowd. Give them a celebration next time."
Julian raised a brow.
Leo slapped his shoulder. "That wasn’t just a goal. That was magic."
Before Julian could answer, Cael came barreling over, arms wide.
"I LOVE YOU, JULIANN!" he roared, leaning in like he was going to plant a kiss.
Julian shoved his face away with one hand, muttering under his breath, but they kept moving toward the huddle.
Coach Owens and Laura were waiting—towels in one hand, water bottles in the other.
"Alright," Coach began, his voice calm but edged with steel. "Good first half.
You absorbed their pressure, played with instinct, kept your coordination tight. That’s how you survive out there."
Then his gaze cut to Tariq.
"But that body check? Bad."
Tariq dipped his head. "Sorry, Coach."
Coach nodded once, then turned to Cael.
"Nice save."
Cael puffed his chest out. "YES, COACH!"
But the coach’s eyes sharpened again.
"This isn’t a forty-five-minute game. It’s ninety. We’ve still got another half to play, and I don’t want to see you sit back and wait for them. I want you to go out there—"
He clenched his fist, crushing the air between his fingers.
"—and crush them."
"YES, COACH!" the whole squad roared back, the air between them vibrating like a war drum.
"Let’s crush them!" Leo echoed, fire in his voice.
"CRUSH THEM!" everyone replied, the sound rolling like thunder.
We weren’t just teammates in that moment.
We were a sect.
A clan.
Marching toward a battlefield where mercy didn’t exist.
Because this wasn’t just football anymore.
This was war.
...
The whistle shrilled.
Riverside kicked off, Silas rolling the ball to Damian, who swept it wide without hesitation.
They surged forward with fresh energy, the kind that made the pitch feel smaller.
Nico dragged Tariq out of position, creating a seam for Rafael to drive a diagonal pass into the path of their winger.
Studs tore into the turf. Cold air hissed in every breath.
Lincoln’s defensive shape shifted in response. Cael barked commands from the box, while Leo dropped deeper to disrupt the passing lanes.
But Riverside’s patterns were razor-sharp—each pass hitting like a drawn blade.
The winger whipped the ball low across the box.
Silas met it first-time, boot snapping through the ball.
Cael launched himself sideways, glove cracking the shot away. The rebound spilled into traffic. Damian lunged—
"OUT!" Julian’s voice cut through the noise.
Tariq reacted instantly, stabbing a toe at the ball to send it skidding toward Leo.
The captain absorbed the pressure, pivoted, and flicked it forward into space.
Now Lincoln attacked.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: +2 To All Attributes]
Julian accelerated down the right flank, Leo threading a pass perfectly into his stride.
The pitch unfolded ahead—green space, only two defenders to beat.
One stepped across his path. Julian cut inside, Battlefield Mind guiding every movement with surgical precision. The stands swelled in noise.
But Riverside’s captain, Silas read him early , sliding across to block the channel.
Julian switched the play to Tyrell on the left. Tyrell wasted no time—whipping the ball toward the near post.
The Riverside keeper leapt, fingertips pushing it over the crossbar.
A corner.
Lincoln’s supporters roared, Riverside’s fans firing back with chants of their own. The sound rolled over the field like thunder.
Leo’s delivery curled toward the penalty spot. Liam rose highest, forehead smashing through the air—but the ball clipped a defender’s shoulder and bounced away.
Riverside countered with lethal speed. Nico burst through midfield, ghosting past two Lincoln players as if their tackles were smoke.
He released Damian down the flank, and for a moment it felt like the whole field tilted toward Lincoln’s goal.
Cael squared his stance.
Damian struck low.
Cael’s foot lashed out, deflecting it wide.
The crowd gasped as the danger lingered.
The ball stayed alive, skittering toward the sideline.
Julian was already in motion—legs pumping, breath burning cold in his lungs. Every muscle pulled taut like a bowstring.
This half wasn’t about pretty touches anymore.
It was about who could stand in the fire the longest... and walk out still breathing.
...
The clock bled into 82:13.
Riverside made their move first—fresh legs, fresh lungs. A surge of energy to hunt for an equalizer.
Coach Owens didn’t hesitate.
"Match their tempo," he barked, already signaling.
#13 – Ricky Zhang IN
#12 – Tyrell Brooks OUT
#15 – Caleb Dominguez IN
#3 – Tariq Okoye OUT
Every substitution tightened the air.
Every second carried more weight.
The pitch became a furnace.
Riverside poured forward, their press relentless, each attack sharper than the last.
But Julian saw it.
The harder they pushed, the closer they came to cracking.
Pressure didn’t just break defenses—it made people clumsy.
And clumsy meant opportunity.
So he waited.
Coiled.
Breathing slow, heartbeat steady—ready for the kill.
Riverside’s press snapped like teeth—Nico hounding Liam, Silas barking commands like a field general, their fullbacks already pushed high.
They were hunting.
But hunters who smelled blood too soon... always forgot about traps.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: +2 to All Attributes]
Julian’s body honed like a blade. Breath slowed. Vision narrowed to a tunnel of green and black.
The ball’s dance played out in crystal clarity—Silas to Damian. Damian to Nico.
Crisp. Perfect.
Too perfect.
They were drunk on their own rhythm.
Nico tried to split Ricky and Caleb with a quick diagonal—
—but his first touch hung in the air, just a shade too heavy.
And half a heartbeat was all Julian needed.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: +3 to All Attributes
]He struck.
Boot slicing low across the turf—shoulders hunched, muscles coiled like a predator exploding from cover.
Studs scraped. Leather cracked with a sharp snap.
Possession flipped.
The Lincoln section erupted, the tension shattering into a wall of noise.
Julian didn’t even lift his head.
He already knew where Leo would be.
One quick snap pass into space—Leo was there, dragging a defender wide with him before stabbing it back with a precision cut.
The trap was sprung.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: +10 to All Attributes]
Every tendon in his legs screamed with strain, each stride hammering the turf like war drums.
Behind him—footsteps, frantic but fading.
Ahead—a defender lunging in from the left.
Julian feinted hard left.
Cut right.
His shoulder crashed into ribs, the impact cracking through bone. The defender staggered—broken, beaten.
The pitch yawned open before him.
Nothing but green between Julian and the kill.
Now it was only him and the keeper.
No feints.
No illusions.
Just the blade, cutting clean.
He read the stance—the weight shift, the lean, the desperate twitch of hands on the brink.
SHOOT.
BANG.
The keeper dove—too high.
The ball tore low, skimming the grass, a blur past his fingertips.
Net.
The crowd detonated—sound hitting like a tidal wave.
Julian’s chest swelled, heat burning through his veins. He sprinted toward the stands, leapt high, punched the air, and roared—
"YEAHHHHHH!"
Leo. Ricky. Caleb. Riku.
They slammed into him, laughing, shouting, locking him in a wild, bone-rattling embrace.
2–0.
The match played on, but the truth was carved into Riverside’s faces.
They kept running.
Kept pressing.
But deep down...
They knew.
It was over.