Halftime came with the score 1–0.

The whistle carved through the roar, sharp and final. Players slowed, breath heavy, boots dragging through the grass as they headed for the tunnel.

Sweat shimmered beneath the floodlights, steam curling from their shoulders like ghostly armor.

Julian's chest rose and fell, lungs burning, every muscle still trembling from the aftermath of battle.

Mageed jogged up beside him and slapped his shoulder. "You're tripping out there, man."

Julian smirked, the corner of his lip twitching. "Yeah—barely survived it."

Mageed laughed, the sound light against the thunder of the crowd. "Just make sure you've got another half in you."

"Don't worry," Julian said, voice steady now. "I'm not done yet."

Anssi caught up, face calm but eyes sharp. The captain's presence steadied the air around him.

"You read their shape well," he said. "Especially Steffen. Keep that up—and let's kill the rhythm in the second half."

Julian nodded once, the faintest grin forming. "Understood."

The three of them disappeared into the tunnel, the noise of the stadium fading into a dull echo behind them.

Inside, the air was thick with heat and adrenaline. The smell of turf, sweat, and tape clung to the walls. Players dropped onto benches, pulling at jerseys, gulping water, hearts still thundering.

Julian sat at the edge of his seat, elbows on knees, eyes fixed forward. The glow of the scoreboard still burned in his mind.

One goal wasn't victory.

It was a declaration.

The second half would decide whether it became legend.

…

Steam rose from their bodies as they entered the tunnel — the air thick with breath, adrenaline, and the echo of a thousand voices still chanting above.

The sound of studs against concrete filled the corridor — sharp, rhythmic, alive.

Every step reminded Julian this wasn't a dream. This was war, and he had just claimed the first strike.

Inside the locker room, the heat hit harder — the stench of sweat, grass, and tape mixing with the hum of focus.

Players dropped into their seats, towels over heads, water bottles cracking open.

Julian sat down last, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, breath finally slowing.

His heart still thundered, but his mind… razor-sharp.

Coach Soner entered. No shouting. No fist-pumping. Just quiet authority.

"Good first half," he said, pacing before the whiteboard. "But don't lose focus. We have forty-five more minutes, and Emden will come harder. They will test our shape. They will test your composure."

He looked directly at Julian.

"You," Soner said. "That goal — good. But now they'll hunt you. Expect double pressure, tighter marks. Don't fight it head-on. Draw them in, then release early. Let them chase shadows."

Julian nodded, expression unreadable. "Got it."

Soner tapped the whiteboard, marking zones with his pen. "Their right-back, Engel, is pushing too high. We use that. Fabio and Melvin, hold wider. Stretch them.

Julian—when the line drifts, drop between their center-backs and pivot like a false nine. Make them guess whether you're there to receive or drag them out."

The coach's voice hardened. "Control the tempo. No wild pressing. We play on triggers. When Steffen receives with his back turned, that's when we press.

When their pivot looks up, block the passing lane, not the man. Compact, vertical, organized."

He looked across the team, gaze like steel.

"Remember — control isn't about possession. It's about rhythm. Whoever dictates when the next mistake happens… wins."

Julian's lips curved faintly. He could feel it — that tactical language translating perfectly into his inner rhythm. The field wasn't just a pitch anymore; it was a chessboard of space and pressure.

"Remember," Soner continued, his tone shifting from calm to steel, "you're not here to protect the lead. You're here to finish the match."

The players straightened, nodding one by one.

As the whistle outside called the teams to return, Anssi clapped Julian's back.

"Second half," he said. "Let's make it count."

Julian rose, rolling his shoulders, feeling the fire surge back through his veins.

The system's hum whispered faintly in his mind — quiet, patient, waiting.

He smiled to himself.

"Let's finish what we started."

…

The restart brought new energy — sharper, heavier, colder.

Emden pressed higher. Their rhythm quickened, as if angered by HSV II's discipline.

Julian adapted again.

He was no longer shocked by contact or speed.

He was learning to use them.

When the defenders leaned into him, he absorbed it.

When the rhythm accelerated, he cut across it like a knife, making chaos out of order.

And with every touch, Rule the Pitch pulsed quietly beneath his boots — the regeneration effect steadying his lungs, his stamina refilling slower, steadier.

He started guiding the press. A nod here, a shout there. "Shift left! Cut the line!" His voice blended into the pattern Soner had drawn.

HSV II pressed as a unit — no chaos, only triggers. When Emden tried to play out, Julian blocked the pivot's turn; when they forced it wide, the wingers collapsed inward, suffocating options. It was discipline turned into movement.

He wasn't sprinting through the storm anymore.

He was riding it.

…

The moment came in the 64th minute.

HSV II regained possession in midfield — Posadas cutting through a passing lane before sliding the ball forward to Mageed.

Julian drifted off the line, hovering just outside the box.

Not in a striker's lane.

Not marked.

Invisible.

Mageed caught his movement — one flick, smooth and deliberate, threading the ball between two Emden midfielders.

Julian's perception flared.

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.3: +35 To All Attributes]

He caught the ball on the half-turn, spun—

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.3: +50 To Technique]

—and struck.

Not power.

Precision.

The ball sliced low, curving toward the far corner like it was pulled by fate itself.

The keeper dove, fingers brushing the air—

too late.

The net rippled.

Goal.

For a second, sound vanished. Then the crowd erupted.

Julian sprinted toward the stands, arms outstretched, pulse hammering like war drums.

He could see them — Crest and David in the front rows, standing, shouting, alive in the roar.

Julian raised three fingers to the crowd.

He wasn't done.

He wanted the hat-trick.

But deep down, he wasn't chasing glory. He was chasing mastery. That feeling of total control — when the ball obeyed thought, when teammates moved like extensions of your mind. That's what he wanted. That's what every minute trained him for.

The stands went feral — some fans cheering, others swearing in disbelief, a storm of voices crashing over the pitch.

His teammates surged toward him — Mageed first, laughing and shoving him in the chest.

"You're insane, Ashford!"

The others followed, arms wrapping around him, jerseys pressing together in heat and noise.

And through it all, Julian just smiled — breathless, burning, unstoppable.

…

The match tightened.

Emden adjusted — their formation folding back a few meters, their backline dropping half a step deeper every time Julian moved.

It wasn't fear.

It was respect.

Every run he made bent their defensive line.

Every press he triggered forced their midfield to turn early, sideways, safe.

That was control.

That was rhythm.

That was what it meant to rule the pitch.

Soner gestured from the touchline, calling short commands. "Compact mid-block! Don't bite, wait for the cue!" The team obeyed.

Julian mirrored the instructions with small signals — palm down for slower tempo, raised hand for counter trigger.

He wasn't just playing anymore; he was commanding space like an extension of Soner's will.

Under the floodlights, with sweat drying on his skin and the night wind cutting through the roar, Julian felt it — that rare, terrifying calm that only came when instinct and mastery became one.

He wasn't the boy chasing the tempo anymore.

He was the one setting it.

The crowd's noise blurred into a steady pulse.

The world narrowed again — just ball, breath, movement.

The Emperor had arrived.

…

Minutes bled away — 70, 75, 80.

Bodies slowed, but minds stayed sharp.

Julian's stamina should've been gone by now, yet Blood Furnace still burned beneath his skin — a steady, molten pulse that refused to die out.

Sweat streaked his jaw; his breath came in clouds.

The crowd was a storm of voices — cheers, curses, drums, the sound of belief and defiance colliding in the night.

And through it all, he felt alive.

Then came the moment.

A loose pass rolled through midfield. Julian read it, lunged, intercepted — and instantly fed it wide to Appiah.

The winger tore forward down the flank, cutting inside on his right foot.

A flash. A whip.

The cross screamed across the box — low, fast, merciless.

Julian dove for it.

Missed by inches.

He should've let it go.

He didn't.

He couldn't.

This was the last chance.

The mark. The statement.

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.3: +100 To All Attributes]

His body roared in protest, every muscle stretched past its edge — but he kept going.

The keeper relaxed for a split-second, certain the cross had flown past.

Then Julian bent his body — unnaturally, impossibly — twisting through the air.

His boot met the ball with the faintest touch.

No power. No force.

Just precision.

The ball's path shifted — a slow, perfect glide toward the far post.

The keeper's eyes widened.

He dove late—

Too late.

The net rippled.

Bang.

A collision — keeper and striker slammed into the turf, bodies tangled.

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then sound erupted like thunder.

Julian pushed himself up, eyes locked on the net.

The ball rested inside.

Goal.

Hattrick.

He stood. Straightened his back.

And with a faint, knowing smile —

Julian turned to the roaring stands and bowed like a butler before a king, offering his respect to the crowd that had witnessed his first masterpiece.

Inside, he didn't think of the glory. Only the lesson. Every pattern, every cue, every space he'd ruled — memorized and stored. This was his data, his blueprint, his next evolution.

The Emperor didn't just arrive.

He reigned.

...

BSV kickers emden 0 – Hamburger SV II 3

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