The match day had come.

By 3:00 PM, HSV II was already on the pitch, warming up under the faint spring sunlight. The stands buzzed with the soft murmur of early-arriving fans, scarves and flags fluttering in white and blue.

Julian stretched by the sideline, wearing the same white kit as his teammates — the HSV II crest glinting faintly on his chest.

His boots, the now-iconic gray pair some fans online called "the default shoes," dug lightly into the grass.

He bounced a pass off Mageed's foot, feeling the ball's weight, its rhythm.

"Is this team strong?" Julian asked, voice steady but curious.

Mageed chuckled, juggling once before passing back. "Not really. They're middle of the table, same as us. Kickers Emden were tougher, for sure."

He adjusted his shin guards, glancing toward the opposing side warming up across the field. "But, you know what they say — football's round. You can win, you can lose. The game's unpredictable. One mistake, one spark, that's all it takes."

Julian nodded slowly. "Unpredictable, huh."

He looked toward Blau-Weiß Lohne's squad as they filed onto the pitch — tall, physical, wearing deep navy kits.

Their warm-up was sharp, disciplined. The sound of synchronized passes echoed like thunderclaps across the grass.

A faint breeze swept through the field, carrying the scent of grass, sweat, and adrenaline.

Julian rolled his shoulders and exhaled.

His first battle had already been won.

Now came the next.

The calm before the whistle.

…

Julian's eyes sharpened.

The crowd faded into background noise — only the hum of the wind and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat remained.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and the world tilted into that familiar digital clarity.

[Activating Scan Lv.3…]

Lines of light traced over the opposing team's formation, scanning one by one. The system whispered in his mind — smooth, mechanical, absolute.

…

User: Jakub Westendorf

Position: DM

Best Attributes:

Instinct: 113 Perception: 112 Charisma: 103

Skills:

Tempo Command (Legendary) Tactical Compass (Legendary)

Age: 32

Total Attributes: 705

…

User: Alessio Arambasic

Position: DM

Best Attributes:

Strength: 123 Stamina: 113 Charisma: 118

Skills:

Last Stand (Legendary) Voice of Command (Legendary)

Age: 23

Total Attributes: 704

…

User: Nico Thoben

Position: AM

Best Attributes:

Agility: 118 Technique: 114 Strength/Perception: 112

Skills:

Split Pass (Rare) Shadow Burst (Legendary)

Age: 21

Total Attributes: 708

…

User: Leonard Bethol

Position: LM

Best Attributes:

Strength: 132 Perception: 112 Stamina: 112

Skills:

Sky Dominion (Legendary) Intercept Instinct (Rare)

Age: 24

Total Attributes: 701

…

User: Felix Schmiederer

Position: CF

Best Attributes:

Agility: 123 Stamina: 120 Perception: 120

Skills:

Velocity Break (Legendary) Precision Cut (Rare)

Age: 29

Total Attributes: 692

…

The data flickered, vanishing from his view.

Julian opened his eyes slowly.

Five key threats — five different rhythms.

Their average level wasn't far from Emden's, but their coordination… their structure… was cleaner.

"Control the midfield, choke the tempo," Julian muttered under his breath.

It was clear what Lohne wanted.

They'd build through pressure and possession — dominate through rhythm.

Julian's gaze slid to their captain, Jakub Westendorf, standing tall in the center circle, barking orders like a field general. His aura was calm but suffocating — the kind of presence that dictated games without ever touching the ball.

Julian exhaled softly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Alright then…" he whispered.

"Let's see what kind of empire you've built."

…

Prittt.

The whistle pierced the air — sharp, commanding, final.

Kickoff.

Julian sat on the bench, elbows resting on his knees, eyes locked on the field like a hawk tracking prey.

His body might've been still, but his mind wasn't.

Every shift, every run, every line of pressure — he was reading it all.

Lohne started strong. Their midfield moved like a tide — three men forming a living wall between defense and attack.

Pass, reposition, press, retreat.

It wasn't chaotic. It was orchestral.

Julian's gaze followed the ball, tracing invisible geometry across the pitch.

Triangles. Angles. Passing lanes.

They overlapped and reformed with frightening precision.

He leaned forward slightly, murmuring to himself,

"Tempo Command… that must be Westendorf. He's dictating everything."

Beside him, Mageed glanced over. "You're analyzing again?"

Julian didn't answer. His eyes didn't blink.

Every detail — every spacing — every fraction of hesitation — he memorized it all.

He wasn't just watching the game.

He was learning the rhythm of a new battlefield.

He could almost feel the data aligning in his head — the map of the game reconstructing itself. Every pass had a pattern. Every movement left a trail. To others, it was football. To him, it was code, and he was learning the syntax.

Julian's mind clicked like a machine — each sequence recorded, each weakness logged. Westendorf shifted left to cut angles. Alessio shadowed the second line. Nico dropped deep whenever the tempo slowed. It wasn't random. It was calculated dominance.

'They're controlling space,' Julian thought. 'Not just the ball. They're controlling choice.'

The realization stung — and thrilled him.

Because systems could be broken.

He watched how HSV II's midfielders reacted — a half-second late every time, moving after Lohne dictated the tempo. Soner's system worked on transitions, but only if the opponent's rhythm broke. Right now, Lohne was untouchable.

Julian's jaw tightened. He could see the invisible strings — the tempo locks Westendorf was setting across the pitch. One snap, one misread, and the entire pattern could crumble. He just needed the timing… and the entry point.

Julian's pulse steadied. The System was syncing. The match was no longer a game — it was a simulation, and he was inside it.

Luis Klatte the backup goalkeeper nudged him again, whispering, "You're gonna burn holes in the grass with that stare."

Julian gave a faint grin. "Maybe that's the plan."

The first fifteen minutes ended 0–0. Lohne had dominated possession, but HSV II held firm — a fortress of patience.

Still, Julian saw the fatigue building, the small missteps multiplying.

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. His fingers twitched slightly — not from nerves, but anticipation. "If they keep pressing like that, they'll overextend. Once the anchor loses alignment, they'll split open."

Luis frowned. "You mean…?"

Julian didn't respond.

Inside his mind, he was already rewriting the playbook — crafting triggers, breaking down patterns, testing counterloops. Each second was another puzzle piece.

When the whistle blew for halftime, the scoreboard remained untouched.

0–0.

But to Julian, the result didn't matter.

Because while Lohne played to control, he played to decode.

And by the time he stepped on the pitch, he'd already know how to dismantle them.

He sat back, eyes glinting with quiet confidence, the hum of his system fading beneath the roar of the crowd.

"The empire looks strong," Julian whispered under his breath. "But every empire falls — once you know where to strike."

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