The stadium lights burned brighter as the clock struck 80:00.

The scoreboard glared coldly: HSV II – 0, Blau-Weiß Lohne – 2.

Soner Uysal stood on the touchline, arms folded tight. His expression gave nothing away, but the weight behind his eyes said enough. Around him, the bench was silent — tense, heavy, waiting.

Lohne's machine still hummed perfectly.

Westendorf and Alessio — two engines, one will — had smothered HSV II's rhythm, bending every phase of play to their control. Their empire stood tall, two walls of precision and pressure, squeezing the life from the game.

Soner turned.

"Julian. Warm up."

A quiet command — sharp, absolute.

Julian rose without a word. His pulse steadied, his steps already measured. He jogged down the sideline, loosening his shoulders as the murmurs from the stands began to rise.

The air was thick — rain and breath and tension woven into one.

Across the pitch, Lohne's captain barked orders, every gesture a line drawn in iron. Westendorf's composure didn't crack. Even two goals up, he demanded perfection.

Julian's hand brushed over his gray boots — faintly pulsing beneath his touch, as if alive.

The Emperor's Boots. Still unnamed. Still waiting to earn their legend.

"Come on!" Mageed shouted from the field, voice raw. "Bring the chaos!"

Julian's lips curved faintly. "You'll get it."

The substitution board flickered to life.

#9 OUT — Omar Silah.

#77 IN — Julian Ashford.

A faint electronic beep echoed across the stadium, and at that moment—

[System Quest Alert]

Quest: Reverse the Game

Objective: Win the match.

Reward: Legendary Item

[Accept Quest?]

[Yes] [No]

Julian's lips curved slightly. Of course.

He didn't hesitate — his mind already pressed [Yes].

Omar met his gaze, breath heavy but eyes steady. "Your turn."

Julian nodded once. "Then let's finish it."

He stepped past the white line.

The floodlights hit his skin like fire. The pitch opened before him like a battlefield waiting to be rewritten.

The whistle blew again.

Julian's boots kissed the turf — one step, one breath — and the system inside him stirred.

No voice. No interface. Just instinct.

Just rhythm.

Every sound of the stadium folded into his awareness — the clash of boots, the hum of the crowd, the distant echo of rain hitting steel.

His heartbeat synchronized with the field's pulse.

Battlefield Mind came alive — quiet, sharp, surgical.

He could see it.

The invisible strings pulling each player.

The shifting weight of intention before motion even began.

Lohne still moved with the arrogance of control —

Westendorf commanding from deep, every touch measured like a metronome.

Alessio hovered just behind, shadowing the line with brute efficiency, his presence thick as armor.

And Nico Thoben — the blade — carved invisible cuts between them, dictating chaos in silence.

Julian pressed forward — not reckless, not desperate.

He hunted rhythm.

He waited for imbalance.

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.3: +20 To All Attributes]

His body aligned. His breathing slowed.

He wasn't chasing the ball — he was tracing the current.

Each pass, each rotation, was another pattern drawn across his mind.

Minute 83.

The system flared again, sharper this time — like a forge reigniting.

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

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.3: +30 to Perception]

His world sharpened.

Every sound cut cleaner.

Every motion slowed just enough to read.

Mageed slipped a short pass forward — looking for movement.

Julian checked back, dragging Leonard Bethol half a step out of shape.

Small. Deliberate.

A hairline crack opened in Lohne's geometry.

Julian's pupils constricted.

"Now."

He surged — not fast, but right.

Boots sliced through damp grass just as Westendorf received a lazy back pass.

One heartbeat.

One mistake.

Julian struck.

A slide — clean, surgical — steel against silk.

The ball ricocheted free.

He was up before anyone else reacted.

One turn.

One motion.

The shot — low, fast, ruthless.

The net rippled.

Goal. 1–2.

The HSV Campus exploded — the sound was a wave, crashing through the gray drizzle.

But Julian didn't celebrate.

He simply turned, expression still, eyes burning beneath the floodlights.

He didn't need to shout.

The roar of the crowd was his echo.

Power thrummed through his veins — quiet, heavy, alive.

Every sense expanded until the pitch itself seemed to move with him — the grass breathing, the wind vibrating against his skin.

For the first time that night, the rhythm belonged to him.

…

Lohne scrambled to steady themselves. Alessio barked orders, voice rough with urgency.

"Compact! Hold the line!"

But the calm that once defined them — was fracturing.

Westendorf's gestures came a heartbeat too late. Nico's timing slipped half a step.

The empire's rhythm wavered.

Julian was a storm disguised as silence.

Every step drew gravity. Every press bent their shape.

Minute 86.

The tempo spiked. HSV II's wingers surged high; Anssi and Mageed carved triangles through midfield — quick, sharp, seamless.

The ball zipped between boots like a current of electricity.

Then came the trigger.

Anssi saw it — that thin, perfect line in space.

A diagonal slicing behind the full-back.

Julian moved — ghostlike. He slipped between the defenders, rhythm syncing with the ball's arc.

Leonard Bethol reacted instantly, body twisting, muscles coiling as he rose — Sky Dominion flaring to life. His leap cut through the rain, a wall of power.

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

[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 15 Seconds]

Julian didn't need something complex.

He used the most basic principle of combat — Flow.

A technique older than fists or swords.

Redirect, never resist. Turn force into advantage.

He didn't meet Leonard's power head-on.

He shifted — a subtle lean, a breath's delay. Let gravity work.

Leonard's leap carried him forward, strength turning into overcommitment.

Julian pivoted — half a turn, weight perfectly aligned.

Everything slowed. Rain froze midair. His breath vanished. Only motion remained — simple, pure, inevitable.

The ball fell.

One touch — chest.

Second — knee.

Third — volley.

The strike cracked through the air like thunder splitting stormclouds.

A streak of silver light curved past the keeper's outstretched gloves.

The net bulged.

2–2.

The roar that followed didn't just shake the stands — it erupted.

This wasn't celebration. It was instinct. Primal. Raw.

Benches leapt. Players screamed. The HSV Campus felt alive.

Soner didn't move — not much. But his lips curved upward, barely, the kind of smile that carried both pride and warning.

Julian turned toward the sideline, chest heaving, eyes cold under the floodlights.

"One more."

The chant rose like a heartbeat — Ash-ford! Ash-ford!

Each syllable hit like a drum, feeding the rhythm in his veins.

He could feel the fatigue creeping in — the burn behind his knees, the weight in his lungs.

But pain was just another kind of fuel.

He'd burned through worse before.

And he wasn't finished yet.

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