The second half began under gray Hamburg skies.

The air was thick and cold — the kind that clung to lungs, turning every breath metallic and every sprint into a test of will.

Raindrops stitched faint lines across the pitch, glimmering under the floodlights.

The tempo hadn't caught fire yet.

HSV II's supporters clapped in steady rhythm, their voices echoing through the stands like a heartbeat trying to wake something sleeping.

Julian sat forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the field.

He wasn't just watching the game — he was inside it. Every movement, every rotation, every breath of space on the pitch mapped itself in his mind.

The ball shifted through midfield, and his gaze tracked it like a hunter following prey.

When Lohne's deep midfielder dropped between the center-backs, Julian's brow furrowed. There. That's the trigger. They're resetting the tempo. Baiting the press.

Coach Soner Uysal stood at the edge of the technical area, coat slick with rain, arms folded like a general observing the front line. His voice came in sharp, precise bursts — never yelling, just slicing through the wind.

"Stay compact! Watch the sixes! Don't lose the second ball!"

Julian's pulse kept pace with every command. His leg bounced, restless. He could see the rhythm of the game — and where it faltered.

The press was mistimed. The spacing uneven. The counter-triggers off by half a beat.

His fingers tightened around the bench edge.

They're closing space too early. If the midfield collapses again, the backline will split open.

The chants swelled through the stands — "HSV! HSV! HSV!" — rolling like thunder under the gray Hamburg sky.

Rain drummed softly on jackets and turf alike, blurring sound into rhythm — the steady clash of boots, breath, and motion.

But on the pitch, the rhythm had shifted.

Blau-Weiß Lohne had adjusted.

Not by chance — by command.

Their midfield no longer sat deep; it ruled the center like a throne.

Jakub Westendorf, the captain, anchored it — broad stance, chin high, every movement deliberate.

His presence rippled through the formation like gravity.

One raise of his arm, and the line pushed forward.

One flick of his wrist, and the tempo snapped into place.

His Legendary skill, Tempo Command, wasn't just a name — it was a pulse, a current that ran through the eleven men around him.

He didn't need to shout. He didn't even need to look. His teammates felt him — a shared instinct that dictated when to breathe, when to strike.

When he slowed, the pitch exhaled.

When he accelerated, the entire team became a storm.

Beside him, Alessio Arambasic prowled like a warhound unleashed — thick shoulders, crouched balance, eyes sharp as broken glass.

Every time HSV tried to pierce through the middle, he was there first — intercepting, tackling, breaking momentum before it even existed.

Last Stand — the perfect name for a man who turned duels into barricades.

Julian's gaze tracked their spacing, his mind unfolding the geometry of their control.

Westendorf held the center like a magnet; Alessio drifted slightly right, sliding into the half-space whenever Mageed or Anssi tried to advance.

One pressed, the other covered.

A hinge and a lock.

"Every pass dies in that pivot," Julian muttered, eyes narrowing.

And if Westendorf and Alessio were the lock—

then Nico Thoben was the dagger hidden behind it.

Every time Lohne won the ball, Nico dropped from his advanced pocket like a shadow peeling off the light.

One half-turn — and the pitch split open.

A diagonal flick. A pass that sliced through space before minds could register movement.

His Shadow Burst wasn't flashy; it was terrifying in its subtlety.

He didn't move fast — he moved unseen.

Always between lines, always arriving where eyes refused to look.

"Watch him!" Anssi's voice cracked through the rain after one of those moments.

"He's between!"

But it was always a beat too late.

By the time awareness reached their feet, the ball was already gone — slipping wide to the left.

There, Leonard Bethol waited.

A tank of a man, shoulders broad as a wall, yet his stride carried a sprinter's rhythm.

He ruled his flank with raw force and frightening balance.

His Legendary skill, Sky Dominion, made every long ball a loaded weapon — his timing in the air almost cruel in precision.

And when he didn't jump, he pressed.

Hard. Ruthless.

Like a storm closing in.

In the 52nd minute, that dominance finally broke the line.

A long ball from Lohne's center-back arced under pressure —

Bethol surged through the wind, chest first, brushing aside Mikelbrencis like a fly, and flicked the ball across the face of goal.

Felix Schmiederer, the quiet killer, ghosted off Seifert's shoulder —

one touch to set,

one pivot,

one clean drive into the far corner.

The net rippled.

The crowd roared.

0–1.

For a heartbeat, the stadium froze — a stunned silence washing through the stands before the roar of the away fans crashed in to fill it.

Even from the bench, Julian felt it — that cold, creeping weight that crawled down the line of players like a shiver shared between hearts.

Coach Soner didn't flinch. Didn't pace. Didn't shout.

His jaw flexed once. His eyes hardened.

"Regroup."

A single word. Sharp enough to cut through the noise.

But Lohne didn't stop. They smelled weakness.

They advanced with the precision of a trained army — not reckless, not desperate, but deliberate.

Westendorf dropped between his center-backs, arms stretched like wings, his voice steady beneath the wind.

"Hold. Hold… now."

A short pass. A pivot. A switch.

The ball slid across the field, tearing through HSV's right flank.

Fabio Baldé sprinted back, boots hammering against the wet grass — but Alessio was already surging forward through midfield, his timing brutal, his shoulders cutting through space.

One touch to bait pressure, one pass to release it — a disguised ball threading through two lines, straight into the path of Nico Thoben.

Nico didn't stop to think.

A single flick of the outside boot sent Felix Schmiederer free again.

Luis Seifert lunged, half a second late.

Felix cut inside —

and unleashed a low strike that ripped into the roof of the net.

0–2.

Two goals. Ten minutes.

Julian exhaled through his nose, slow and measured.

His pulse stayed calm. But his stare burned.

They weren't destroying HSV through chaos — they were dismantling them through order.

"Tempo Command," Julian muttered under his breath. "He's running them like a system."

He leaned forward, eyes locked on Westendorf.

Every pass. Every sequence. Every shift of weight.

The captain wasn't just playing football — he was composing it.

His touch dictated tempo; his rhythm manipulated time itself.

He didn't rush opponents — he made them late.

By the time HSV reacted, the next move was already complete.

Anssi tried to adapt — barking commands, reshaping lines, pressing higher — but every adjustment only opened a new wound.

Mageed dropped deep to link possession.

Omar Silah yelled from the front, "Press higher! Don't let them breathe!"

But their voices were swallowed by the machine.

By the 60th minute, the match's rhythm no longer belonged to HSV.

It belonged to Lohne — cold, calculated, mechanical.

They moved through Westendorf's axis like clockwork, every player a gear turning in perfect time.

Every pass looked simple.

Every run felt inevitable.

And yet — every moment tightened the noose.

Julian could feel the frustration bleeding through the team — small cracks appearing in the rhythm: clenched fists, tired glances, breaths drawn too hard.

Omar Silah, up front, looked stranded — chasing shadows, cut off from supply.

Julian's grip on his knees tightened. He wasn't angry.

He was calculating.

If he were on that pitch… where would the cracks appear?

Westendorf slowed transitions on purpose — forcing HSV's midfield to react on his rhythm, not their own.

Alessio baited pressing triggers like a trap, making them overcommit before slicing through the gaps.

Nico drifted into the half-space behind Mageed, tugging the center-backs a step too far forward — and that was all Felix needed to ghost behind the line.

They weren't just playing football.

They were controlling time.

"Enough sitting back! Compress the lines! Move as one!" Coach Soner's voice cracked through the rain.

HSV responded — slowly at first, then faster, urgency cutting through exhaustion.

Anssi surged forward, threading a pass to Fabio on the left.

A quick inside cut — a shot —

deflected off Alessio's leg.

"Damn it!" Fabio barked, clapping his hands, frustration spilling over.

The rebound dropped toward Mageed, who tried a first-time flick into Omar's path —

but Westendorf was there again.

Calm. Precise. Inevitable.

Every spark of momentum HSV found — he snuffed out with a single touch.

A commander orchestrating the chaos.

Julian's jaw tightened.

"That's what makes him dangerous," he murmured. "He's not faster. He's just right every time."

By the 70th minute, Soner had seen enough.

He turned toward the bench, eyes sweeping the line — and stopped.

On Julian.

"Warm up."

Julian rose without hesitation.

The fans stirred, a low hum of anticipation rippling through the stands.

The boy who'd shocked Emden was about to step in again.

He jogged down the sideline, stretching, rolling his shoulders loose — his grin faint, but sharp.

Two goals down.

Ten minutes before entry.

He watched everything.

The press.

The spacing.

How Westendorf barked orders before the ball even arrived.

How Felix drifted into blind spots like a predator waiting for weakness.

The empire of Lohne stood tall — a machine of rhythm, geometry, and discipline.

But Julian could already see the hairline fractures behind it.

Not yet.

Not while the song still played to Westendorf's beat.

He'd wait until the tempo broke —

then he'd rewrite the music himself.

By the 80th minute, the substitution board rose high — glowing red and green through the drizzle.

#9 OFF — Omar Silah

#77 ON — Julian Ashford

The crowd erupted — cheers, whistles, curiosity.

Julian jogged forward, gray boots glinting under the floodlights.

He met Omar's eyes; the older striker nodded once, firm and challenging.

"Your turn," Omar muttered.

Julian stepped over the white line.

The world sharpened.

The noise dulled.

The rhythm synced to his heartbeat.

Not the voice of the system — but something older, deeper.

The emperor had entered the field.

And he had twenty minutes

to turn an empire

upside down.

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