Chapter 61: Chapter 61: The First Strike That Missed
The referee’s whistle cut through the cold morning air like a blade, sharp and unforgiving.
The hunt had begun.
Julian’s cleats bit into the turf as he exploded forward.
The ball rolled to meet him, each touch smooth and alive under his foot, as if it had been waiting for him all morning.
The cold in the air didn’t just bite—it burned along his lungs with every inhale, making his breath hiss between clenched teeth.
Each sound in the stadium seemed magnified: the snap of a banner in the wind, the faint thud of boots on the far side, the crackle of voices shouting instructions across the pitch.
San Dimas didn’t rush. They didn’t press.
They stalked.
Compact lines, patient spacing, their midfielders drifting like wolves—never lunging, just shadowing, waiting for the one mistake that would give them blood.
From the corner of his vision, Julian caught Elijah Kwon’s eyes. Calm. Unblinking. Calculating.
That wasn’t just a player—it was a wall with a mind. Iron Wall Intercept wasn’t a flashy name.
It was a warning: any lazy pass, any angle he thought was safe, Elijah would tear it apart.
Julian’s own numbers flashed in his mind—145 attributes, 159 with passives active.
Against most, that was enough. Against these three, it was just barely survival. He couldn’t brute-force it. He’d have to fight smarter.
A sharp pass to Leo.
Let the captain dictate.
Leo took it in stride, body turning like a compass needle scanning for true north.
His eyes swept the pitch, reading San Dimas’s shape. Their backline shifted with almost mechanical precision, tracking every runner without overcommitting.
A flicker of space opened on the left.
Leo saw Tyrell making the run—no, Felix wide on the wing.
A perfect curve pass whipped out, slicing through the air toward the flank.
Julian’s stomach tightened.
Left side.
That’s Kai’s territory.
Kai Mendoza wasn’t just a fullback—he was a predator in disguise. The gap wasn’t an opening; it was bait.
Even from twenty meters away, Julian could see the tension in Kai’s calves, the slight forward lean—like a sprinter coiled in the blocks, waiting for the gun.
Sure enough, before Felix could even stretch a boot, Kai ignited. His acceleration was instant, violent.
Like a soldier breaking from cover in a battlefield blitz, he stormed into the lane. The tackle wasn’t dirty—it was surgical. Ball gone in one clean, blistering touch.
But before Kai could wheel his hips to send it upfield—
Julian was already there.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: +5 to All Attributes]
The skill thrummed through him, sharpening every nerve. He lunged in, boot meeting ball with a crisp snap.
It skipped loose, spinning wildly across the grass.
Liam pounced first, sprinting in to corral it. A single touch, then a sharp pass to Aaron.
Aaron didn’t linger—he relayed it to Ethan, who cushioned the ball under his foot before threading it back to Leo.
Leo brought it in, head already up, scanning the chaos ahead.
One on one.
Leo vs. Elijah.
By the numbers alone, Elijah had the edge. But Leo wasn’t one to bow to numbers.
Elijah closed in—smooth, unhurried—cutting off every easy lane. The two circled in a slow-burning duel.
Leo rolled the ball left, then right, shoulders dipping in feints, trying to pry open a crack.
Elijah didn’t bite. His eyes tracked like a hawk’s, every shift of weight catalogued, every twitch of Leo’s ankle anticipated.
Then Leo made his move—an abrupt fake to the inside, exploding out to the right.
Elijah moved with him in perfect sync.
The tackle came—clean, decisive.
Leo tried to ride it, toe flicking the ball forward. For a split-second it worked—until Elijah’s trailing foot nicked the ball. It popped free, skittering into open space.
Aaron burst in from behind, sweeping it up in stride.
No hesitation—he launched a long, arcing pass upfield.
The ball carved through the cold air like a flare, making both San Dimas and Lincoln players snap their heads up.
Julian saw it—opportunity blazing in the sky.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: +10 to All Attributes]
His veins lit up. Across the field, Leo felt the surge too—palpable, electric—but the defender leaned into him, shoulder-first, trying to kill his momentum.
Julian cut in like a blade, lowering his own shoulder. The impact cracked through his frame, but he didn’t budge.
The San Dimas defender staggered a step back, startled.
Another came in hard—Julian braced, then snapped the brake. The defender’s weight carried him past, off-balance.
One touch—clean, controlled—and the ball was his.
He exploded forward, cleats chewing up turf. Another defender stepped up, but Julian was already slicing into the box, breath sharp in the cold air.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: +20 to All Attributes]
The skill roared through him like a second heartbeat. His body felt weightless, his legs pistons of steel.
Every step dug deep divots into the turf, the recoil snapping through his calves like compressed springs firing in sequence.
His senses flared—he could see the faint shift in Malik’s gloves before the keeper even crouched, hear the grit grind under the studs of the nearest defender.
He set himself—hips turning, striking foot coiled.
Bang.
The shot detonated off his boot, the extra +20 power ripping through the ball’s seams.
It screamed toward the far corner of the goal, a blur of black and white.
Malik’s eyes locked on it instantly—Eagle Catch primed. He launched, full stretch, fingertips grazing nothing but air.
CLANG!
The ball smashed the top bar, the metallic ring cutting through the stadium before it spun away into open space.
Gasps, groans, and scattered shouts rippled through the crowd like a wave.
One San Dimas defender clutched his head; another stomped the ground, relief etched in every tense line of his jaw.
"F—!" Leo’s voice cracked out, equal parts frustration and adrenaline.
He jogged up to Julian, still grinning despite the miss.
"Nice shot," he said, breath misting in the cold air. "But next time, let’s give them some real magic."
Julian’s lips curved into a smirk. "Alright."
Both of them turned back into position, the crowd’s energy still buzzing in their ears.
In the far corner of the stands, a cluster of San Dimas students began chanting in a slow, rhythmic beat, trying to drown Lincoln’s momentum before it could build.
The sound didn’t push Julian back—it pushed him forward.
From the bench, Coach Owens allowed himself the smallest smile.
Noah leaned forward, brows raised—he hadn’t expected that.
And Victor... Victor’s stare lingered longer. He’d heard about Julian, sure.
But this level of skill? This control under pressure? Sitting there in his bandaged state, he knew—if Julian kept playing like this, today’s game was going to be a battlefield worth watching.