Normally, this hour belonged to the grind — drills, push-ups, sweat before sunrise.

But today, he'd been warned.

No heavy training.

No extra sets.

Workload management, the staff called it. Protecting the body before battle.

So instead, he laced up his shoes and stepped out into the dawn.

The air was cool, tinged with salt and dew. Emden still slept — streets empty, windows glowing faintly as morning crept over the rooftops.

Julian started a light jog — no more than five kilometers, a rhythm meant to loosen, not strain.

Each step tapped softly against cobblestones slick from the night mist.

He passed narrow canals, their waters still and mirror-like. A distant gull cried, cutting through the quiet.

Shutters creaked open, fishermen stirred awake, and the smell of baked bread drifted from a nearby café.

This wasn't training. It was centering — the calm before the storm.

Julian breathed deep, eyes lifting to the gray horizon.

"...You running too?"

The voice cut through the still air beside him.

Julian startled—nearly stumbled—then turned.

Omar Sillah.

The striker's shadow matched his own stride for stride, breath steady, expression unreadable.

"Ah—man, you scared me," Julian exhaled, half-laughing. "Didn't think anyone else was crazy enough to be up this early."

Omar didn't smile. "You're too easy to surprise."

Julian studied him—sharp eyes, composed, the kind of calm that came from confidence, not courtesy.

"What's wrong?" Omar asked, tone flat but edged. "You afraid of me?"

Julian shook his head, lips curling. "No. Just didn't expect you to show up out of nowhere."

For a moment, silence stretched between them—just their footsteps and the quiet hum of the waking town.

"Yeah... I know we've never really talked before. Kinda awkward, huh?" Omar said, his breath even, eyes forward.

Julian nodded with a small chuckle. "Yeah, maybe that's it. You run too?"

"Every morning," Omar replied. "Can't let the body go soft. Movement's a habit."

"Same here," Julian said, a hint of a grin on his lips. "Guess we're built from the same cloth."

Omar gave a short laugh. "So—how's HSV II treating you? Heard you came straight outta high school?"

Julian's gaze flicked toward the distant harbor lights. "This place... it's something else. Talent everywhere. Discipline. Structure. Tools built to make you sharper. Yeah—came from a high school team back in the States."

"Then you've landed in the right forge," Omar said. "This is where players are made."

He slowed slightly, turning his eyes on Julian—focused, hawk-like. "But don't get comfortable. That spot you've got? It's mine. I'm letting you borrow it. Just this once."

Julian's smile turned razor-sharp. "Then you'd better be watching tonight. 'Cause once I step on that pitch, Coach Soner won't be swapping me out again."

Omar barked a laugh, shaking his head. "We'll see, rookie. We'll see."

And with that, they fell back into rhythm—two rivals side by side, running through the dawn, toward the storm waiting under the floodlights.

They didn't talk after that. The silence between them became its own language — steady, measured, filled with meaning.

Each stride felt like a test of will.

When Julian pushed forward, Omar matched it. When Omar lengthened his stride, Julian countered with control.

It wasn't hostility. It was something sharper — respect sharpened into rivalry.

At one turn, Julian caught Omar's shadow stretching across his own and realized — this was the level Soner wanted him to reach.

Where competition wasn't emotion. It was necessity.

…

HSV II's kickoff was set for 7:00 PM.

That meant the day stretched long ahead—hours to manage, meals to time, minds to steady.

By afternoon, the team gathered for their pre-match meal—fuel measured with precision. No excess. No shortcuts. Every plate balanced, every bite a building block for what was to come.

Conversation was scarce — only murmurs between bites, the occasional clink of cutlery breaking through the hum.

Julian sat between Mageed and Anssi again, gaze fixed on his plate. His heartbeat was calm, but his thoughts were a storm of patterns — movements, rotations, pressing cues.

Every play Soner had drilled flickered behind his eyes.

Gray before glory — he repeated it like a mantra. Be invisible until impact.

Four hours before kickoff, preparation shifted from quiet focus to sharpened intent. Boots checked. Tape wrapped. Jerseys folded and laid out with care.

Staff moved through the halls with calm efficiency, ticking off lists—water, med kits, warm-up cones. The players moved with them, shoulders squared, bags slung, every motion echoing routine.

Together, they filed out under the late coastal sun, boarding the team bus once more.

The ride was short—barely enough time for thoughts to settle. The closer they drew, the more the pulse of matchday began to hum.

Outside the bus windows, the landscape shifted from still harbor streets to banners and color. Blue and white flags fluttered in the wind, kids in Emden jerseys waving, shouting at the passing bus.

Julian watched them in silence. Every stadium, every city — another test, another layer of the climb.

He could feel the hum through the floor of the bus — a low, living energy waiting for ignition.

When the Ostfriesland-Stadion finally came into view, it rose like a modest fortress—low stands, weathered steel, banners swaying in the northern wind.

HSV II—blue and bold—stepped off the bus in unison. Cameras flashed. Murmurs rippled.

They walked through the tunnel, the scent of grass and salt air thick around them, into a locker room humming with quiet purpose.

Outside, local supporters were already gathering—voices rising, scarves waving, drums echoing faintly from the stands.

The battlefield was waiting.

…

The team stepped into the locker room—white walls, blue trim, the faint tang of liniment and turf.

Metal lockers clanged open, zippers hissed, and boots thudded against the tiled floor.

HSV II players began changing into their away kits—crisp white with dark blue accents, the badge stitched over every heart.

Julian pulled on his jersey, the fabric cool against his skin, then clasped the familiar black bracelet around his wrist.

Finally, he laced up the gray boots—his unnamed weapon.

Anssi glanced down. "Those are your boots?"

Julian smiled faintly. "Yeah. Maybe not the best now—but they'll become the best."

"Man, they look like a default skin in a video game," Mageed muttered, smirking from the next bench.

A couple of teammates snickered, the sound light, teasing.

Julian just shrugged. "It's my preference."

Let them laugh. They'd see soon enough.

Minutes passed—fabric rustled, tape stretched, studs clicked against the floor. Then Anssi rose, captain's armband already wrapped tight around his bicep.

"Alright, warm-up time. Let's hit the pitch."

"Let's go!" Mageed clapped his hands, the room coming alive.

Together, HSV II streamed down the tunnel—boots striking the concrete, echoes rolling like distant drums.

They stepped out into the open.

The Ostfriesland-Stadion greeted them with salt-tinged air and the murmur of gathering fans.

Julian's gaze swept across the field—freshly cut grass glistening under late sunlight, white lines sharp and clean.

He took a slow breath, feeling the firmness beneath his soles.

In the distance, the Kickers Emden squad were already warming up — flashes of white and blue darting across the pitch. Julian spotted the captain, Engel, shouting orders, and Tobias Steffen orchestrating passes with eerie calm.

Julian's pulse quickened — not from fear, but anticipation.

He could already feel the rhythm forming — Emden's order versus Soner's chaos.

And somewhere in that clash, he intended to carve his own space.

Soon, this ground would remember his footsteps.

Soon, it would witness his name.

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