CHAPTER 88: CHAPTER 88: RESET FOR WAR

Julian sat on the bench, watching.

The scoreboard burned above them: 0 – 3.

The second half?

Just another disaster—for Gardenhill.

Even with a three-goal cushion, Lincoln didn’t ease off. They pressed, they hunted, they suffocated. By the final whistle, the scoreline read: 0 – 5.

The Gardenhill defenders slumped, boots dragging against the turf.

Their captain tried to rally them with shouted orders, but even his voice had cracks in it, betraying doubt.

Julian noticed it all—how the body language betrayed the truth before the scoreboard did.

The Gardenhill coach could only sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as he trudged toward Owens.

"Damn... that’s one of the strongest teams I’ve seen this year. Never thought a mid-name school could play like this." He extended his hand, half in disbelief, half in respect.

Coach Owens smirked, gripping it firmly.

"Haha... this year, we’re not just qualifying. We’re winning the whole California regional."

The certainty in his tone wasn’t arrogance. It was iron.

The fire in his bald head eyes made it sound less like ambition, more like prophecy.

Players who overheard it felt a jolt—Owens wasn’t dreaming. He was declaring.

Back on the bench, Lincoln’s players collapsed into their seats, sweat-soaked, grinning, exhausted.

"Pack it up," Owens said, his tone softening, almost warm. "You boys played your best today. Keep this form—don’t let it slip."

"Thank you, Coach!" the team roared back, voices still raspy but proud.

One by one, they began to pack their bags, laughter and chatter mixing with the cold night air.

Julian glanced at his wrist, and the familiar glow flickered before his eyes:

[MATCH PERFORMANCE RATING: 10.6]

Total Points: 60.6

Not enough.

Still short for what he wanted—what he needed.

A skill was still out of reach.

But points kept stacking.

...

Time blurred in rhythm.

School. Training on the pitch.endless drills and tactical breakdowns.

Day after day, hour after hour—the wheel kept turning.

Crest’s silent watch became routine: waiting at the gates, waiting at the car, her sharp eyes tracking his every limp, every bruise.

She never asked questions. She never had to. A thermos of tea in her hands said enough. He would drink it without a word. That was their ritual.

And then Friday arrived.

Lincoln High’s first home game of the new year.

Their opponent: Westbrook High.

The field buzzed with noise, the stands alive with students, families, and the curious.

Westbrook stood tall in deep purple and silver, their uniforms gleaming under the lights. Lincoln answered in their familiar blue, sharpened, disciplined, burning with fire.

Warm-ups finished, both sides gathered at midfield for the handshake. Grip by grip, stare by stare—rituals of respect before war.

The whistle cut the air. Kickoff.

Westbrook to start.

Julian’s eyes narrowed.

[Activating Scan Lv.2...]

Names. Numbers. Stats.

Nothing special. No surprises. Same formation, same attributes.

For Julian, the outcome was already written.

But football wasn’t like martial duels. A weaker team could still topple a stronger one. All it took was the right moment—the right chaos.

Beside him, Leo leaned in, voice low but firm.

"Let’s win this."

Julian’s lips curved, sharp as steel.

"Let’s win this."

...

Westbrook opened the first possession cautiously.

They had studied Lincoln’s high press, had seen Gardenhill suffocated under it.

So instead of trying to build from the back, they chose another path—long balls, through balls, direct attacks.

Attack was their defense.

Their captain barked for runners, and purple shirts sprinted into Lincoln’s half, chasing every lofted ball like starving wolves.

The tactic was desperate, but desperate teams could still be dangerous.

For a few minutes, it worked. Their goalkeeper hoofed a clearance that bounced awkwardly between Riku and a forward. A clash of bodies, elbows digging, studs scraping turf.

The Westbrook striker clawed possession and lashed a shot—only for Cael to smother it low, his gloves stinging as the ball skidded away.

The captain tried again, snapping into duels, pushing his teammates forward with every ounce of will.

Once, he spun past Felix and surged into space, only to find Julian closing the gap like a shadow. Steel met grit.

Julian’s shoulder hit first, his boot second, stripping the ball clean before the boy even realized it was gone.

But even with tactical adjustment, the gap in quality was merciless.

Lincoln’s core—Julian, Leo, Noah, Riku, and Cael—shut down every attempt before it could spark.

A pass? Cut.

A dribble? Tackled.

A duel for possession? Crushed under pressure.

Westbrook’s lungs tightened. Lincoln was choking them.

It wasn’t long before the first chance came.

Noah slipped inside, dragging defenders with him. His sudden pass freed Julian in the box.

Perfect.

Julian moved into position. His body coiled, ready to volley at full power.

But as his foot swung through—something slipped. The connection wasn’t clean.

The ball skidded strangely, rolling with less speed, less force than intended.

And yet—

The goalkeeper, reading a thunderstrike, had already leapt high.

The weaker shot drifted low, sliding past his gloves.

Goal.

1 - 0.

The stadium erupted.

Julian exhaled slowly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

That wasn’t skill.

That was him.

And it was enough.

I can’t lean on Ashi forever. If I want to surpass Adrian, if I want to reach Barcelona... I need to sharpen my own blade.

...

Westbrook’s spirit cracked early. They still launched long balls, but their timing faltered. Their movements lost confidence. Every failed attempt weighed heavier.

Lincoln smelled blood.

Midway through the half, Leo intercepted a reckless pass and drove forward.

A quick exchange with Felix, then a perfectly threaded through-ball. Noah burst onto it, his pace scorching the turf.

Bang—

2 – 0.

Westbrook’s keeper screamed at his defenders, face red, veins popping, but it was no use.

Julian could see it in their shoulders—the hesitation, the fear of another mistake. One misstep, and Lincoln’s forwards were already in their throats

By halftime, Westbrook already looked broken. Shoulders slumped. Breaths ragged. Their coach barked from the sideline, but even he knew—it was only survival now.

The second half brought more of the same. Lincoln didn’t loosen their grip. Not with Owens prowling the touchline like a hawk, demanding more, demanding better.

Julian nearly added another with a curled strike, but it pinged off the post. Riku nearly scored from a corner, his header grazing the bar. The storm never stopped.

Finally, in the 70th minute, Felix drove a low cross that ricocheted in the box. Chaos. Legs swinging. And then Leo smashed it clean through, sealing the win.

3 – 0.

The whistle cut sharp through the air.

Full time.

Another shutout.

Another statement.

Lincoln High had crushed Westbrook.

Another win in the bag.

Julian checked the glowing notification.

Match Performance Rating: 8.6.

Not his best, but enough.

Before he could brood on it, Leo wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

"Nice. Four more games." His grin was sharp, hungry.

Julian smirked back. "Yeah. Let’s keep winning."

The locker room buzzed with life.

Laughter bounced off the walls, jokes flew back and forth.

Players swapped out sweat-drenched kits for warm hoodies, packing up, ready to head home with smiles on their faces.

Then the door creaked open.

Coach Owens stepped in. His presence alone shifted the air—laughter dimmed, shoulders straightened.

"Don’t get too happy." His voice rumbled like distant thunder.

The room went still.

"Enjoy the win, but remember—our next four matches won’t be like this. They’ll fight with everything. They’ll claw, they’ll foul, they’ll play ugly. Anything to stop us." His gaze swept across the room, eyes like a drill sergeant’s.

"And I expect you to be ready. Not just physically—mentally." He jabbed a finger at his temple. "Because champions don’t just outplay. They outlast."

Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.

Then Owens’s tone softened, just barely.

"For today? Good work. Be proud. But tomorrow—reset. Get ready."

Without another word, he turned and left, the door slamming shut behind him.

The echo lingered long after he was gone. Players stared at the ground, fists tightening around their bags. The laughter didn’t return—but something else filled the void. Fire. Quiet, simmering, relentless fire.

Julian clenched his fists, veins pulsing with fire.

Four more games. Four more steps.

"Let’s win thissss!" Cael suddenly roared, voice echoing off the walls, cutting through the tension like a blade.

The team erupted—laughter, fists pumping, voices overlapping, the locker room vibrating with raw energy.

The fire burned again, hotter than fatigue, brighter than doubt. For that moment, they were invincible.

But none of them knew.

None of them could truly be ready.

Because the next match would not be like the others.

It wouldn’t be football as they’d known it. It wouldn’t be clean tactics, smart runs, or sharp finishing.

It would be a battlefield.

A place where tempers boiled, where provocation was a weapon, where fouls cut deeper than whistles.

Blood would spill.

Nerves would snap.

And reputations would be tested in ways no scoreboard could capture.

Lincoln High thought they were chasing glory.

But the truth was—

glory demanded sacrifice.

And in the next ninety minutes, the question wasn’t just who would win.

It was who would endure.