CHAPTER 86: CHAPTER 86: SEAL IT IN THE FIRST HALF

Friday came fast.

Julian sat on the bench, Lincoln’s away kit—#7 stitched proud on his back—already clinging tight to his frame. Blue on his chest, fire in his veins.

On his right wrist, a glint: the new bracelet. [Stamina +10]. His first true item from ASHI, a weapon disguised as jewelry.

His eyes locked forward, cold and sharp.

Coach Owens’s voice thundered in front of the squad, laying down tactics, burning belief into tired bones. But Julian’s mind drifted elsewhere.

Fifty EXP.

That’s what he had now. A fortune—or maybe nothing.

Ten attribute points... or save it for later. After what happened with San Dimas, keeping something in reserve might be smarter.

But what he needed wasn’t strength. It wasn’t speed. It was recovery. A way to keep standing when others dropped.

[Ashi, can I buy a skill?]

The familiar pulse of the system hummed through his head.

[ Normal Skill: 100 EXP]

[ Rare Skill: 500 EXP ]

[ Legendary Skill: 1,000 EXP ]

[ Mythic Skill: 10,000 EXP ]

Julian’s jaw tightened. Five hundred just for rare? Ten thousand for mythic?

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath.

Even a Normal skill was within reach, but anything higher? He’d need dozens of matches, perfect scores, flawless performances. Fifty games minimum just to touch a Rare skill.

Not impossible. Just brutal.

For now, the choice was clear. He’d hoard his points. Keep the blade sharp until the moment he truly needed it.

He exhaled slow, shutting the menu, letting ASHI’s glow fade from his vision.

Focus.

Coach Owens’s voice cut sharper than the cold night air.

"Press high, stay compact, break their rhythm. Lincoln’s fire has to burn brighter than Gardenhill’s tonight."

But then his tone hardened, eyes narrowing.

"One more thing—I want you to seal it in the first half. Don’t give them a chance to breathe."

The words carried weight, heavy as iron. A command, not a suggestion.

Julian’s gaze slid across the field. Gardenhill Academy. Their home turf. Their stadium wasn’t grand, just another slice of suburban America—bleachers, a track, banners snapping against the wind—but the team in green and black carried themselves like they belonged here.

Their warm-ups were sharp, movements crisp, the rhythm of practiced drills echoing across the pitch.

Julian’s eyes narrowed. He let ASHI’s scan sweep over them, data flashing faintly behind his calm expression. This was no street team; Gardenhill had discipline.

Still, he turned back to Owens.

"Seal it at the first half," the coach repeated. "Because the second half is for tests. I’ll rotate heavily—subs will get their minutes."

The words landed like sparks. Ricky’s face lit up. Caleb straightened, fire in his eyes.

Miles and a few of the bench players exchanged quick glances, shoulders tightening with sudden hope.

For them, this wasn’t just another game. It was a chance to claw their way into the starting eleven.

Julian leaned back on the bench, arms folded. He could almost taste it—the hunger, the desperation. Gardenhill would fight for pride. His teammates would fight for their place.

And him?

Julian’s lips curved into the faintest smirk.

He would fight for something far bigger.

...

Lincoln High walked out to the pitch, boots crunching against the turf. Their blue uniforms caught the stadium lights, a contrast to Gardenhill’s dark green and black.

Warm-ups began. Passing drills, sprints, stretches. Julian’s gaze barely lingered on his teammates—his attention was fixed across the halfway line.

[Activating Scan Lv.2...]

One by one, Gardenhill’s players lit up before his eyes. Numbers, stats, faint lines of potential.

But unlike Riverside or Brighton Catholic, nothing pierced like steel here.

Their attributes fell within ordinary ranges, solid but uninspired.

A few had skills—basic ones.

[Skill: Stamina Boost (Normal)]

[Skill: Sprint Burst (Normal)]

[Skill: Ball Control (Normal)]

Practical, but limited. Tools without teeth.

Julian’s eyes hardened. No predator here. Just prey dressed in matching kits.

Both teams gathered at the circle, the referee stepping forward. The handshake line began, palms clapping briefly, eyes flicking with silent challenges. Gardenhill players tried to puff their chests, tried to project confidence on their home turf.

Julian met each grip with calm indifference, his gaze flat, almost dismissive. He didn’t need to posture. His battlefield wasn’t in their stares—it was in the ninety minutes that followed.

The whistle pierced the air.

Kickoff. Lincoln High, the guests, took first touch.

And the game—the real proving ground—began.

Inside every Lincoln High player burned the same vow: end this in the first half.

Prove to the world they weren’t a fluke. Prove their fire was real.

From kickoff, blue shirts surged forward like a storm. Lincoln pressed high, suffocating Gardenhill before they could even string two passes together.

Leo orchestrated from midfield, calm but ruthless, directing traffic with every touch. The ball moved like it was tied to his boots, dragging Gardenhill’s shape apart.

They couldn’t breathe. They couldn’t settle.

Every time Gardenhill tried to pass back, a Lincoln boot was already there. Every time they tried to clear, another blue shirt cut the angle.

The press wasn’t just pressure—it was strangulation. The pitch tilted, the air itself growing thinner for the home side.

...

Then the break came.

Noah burst down the left, cutting the ball tight to his foot before whipping a cross across the pitch.

Straight to Felix.

Felix killed it with one touch, then—before anyone could reset—he lashed a volley back into the heart of the box.

And of course, waiting there—was Julian.

His pulse sharpened. His body coiled.

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +5 To All Attributes]

The Emperor would never lower his crown. Even against ordinary foes, his blade must strike at full weight.

[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 10 Seconds]

—Skill Selected: Gravity Pull.

In his past life, it was called Down Force—a technique that bent mana in the air, pressing enemies into the ground. Here, he bent his soul into the world’s weight.

The defenders leapt with him—only to feel their bodies dragged, heavy, sluggish.

Julian rose above them. Higher than anyone.

HADERRR—!

The header snapped the ball past the keeper’s outstretched gloves. The net rippled.

GOAL.

0 – 1.

Julian ran to the corner flag—then stopped.

No sliding. No shouting. No wild celebration.

He stood tall, hands resting on his hips, chest heaving once, gaze sweeping the stadium like a sovereign inspecting conquered land. Every eye was on him, and he accepted it as if it were natural law.

Not a boy scoring.

An emperor declaring his reign.