CHAPTER 91: CHAPTER 91: THE MIRAGE GOAL

The match pressed on—ugly, suffocating.

Every time Lincoln carved into East Valley’s half, the rhythm snapped.

A tug at the jersey.

A shove in the ribs.

A clipped ankle hidden behind the referee’s back.

It wasn’t football. It was ambush disguised as a game.

And there was no VAR. No cameras. Just a whistle and two blind eyes.

The ball spun into Julian’s feet near midfield. He turned—only for Sergio to barrel into him like a battering ram.

The impact rattled his bones, forcing him back a step. Sergio’s strength was no joke—his attributes were built for this.

[Rule the Pitch – Lv.2: +10 to Strength]

Julian’s body steadied, absorbing the collision. His frame braced like steel against Sergio’s weight.

For a moment, surprise flashed in Sergio’s eyes. The boy’s smirk faltered.

He wasn’t supposed to stay standing.

But then—Dante Cruz slithered closer. Just enough to shield the duel from the referee’s view. A grin stretched across his face, poisonous, rehearsed.

"Go down."

Sergio’s hand hooked deep into Julian’s shirt, yanking hard.

Fabric stretched. Balance ripped away.

Julian crashed to the turf.

No whistle.

The referee waved play on.

Boots thundered past him as East Valley surged forward with the loose ball, their bench roaring like jackals.

Julian’s palms pressed against the cold grass, veins burning. His jaw tightened.

This wasn’t football.

It was war in disguise.

And if the referee couldn’t see it, then Julian would just have to carve the truth into the pitch himself.

...

Noah rushed over, gripping Julian’s arm, hauling him back up.

"They’re not just dirty," Noah muttered, breath sharp. "They’re organized. It’s a damn system."

Julian dusted the grass from his sleeves, eyes narrowing.

"Yeah. And they’ve practiced it. Every foul, every angle—it’s planned. Perfectly timed. But nothing is flawless. Every wall has a crack. We just need to find it...and drive straight through."

Noah’s jaw tightened, then he nodded. "Then let’s crack it."

Behind them, Leo’s voice cut sharp, low but steady. "Stay calm. Don’t give them what they want. The second we lash out, we lose. Keep your heads—make them drown in their own dirt." His eyes swept the pitch, calm fire in every word.

Even when chaos surrounded them, Leo’s captaincy felt like an anchor.

But talk was cheap. The pitch made no room for promises.

...

Prittt!

The referee’s whistle cut again, but not for East Valley.

Julian had barely started a sprint when Tariq, one of their hulking center-backs, scythed down Lincoln’s advance. A heavy leg, a clipped ankle—and yet the call went against Lincoln.

The stadium groaned. Lincoln’s players flared in protest. But when Julian looked across the pitch, his blood ran cold.

The East Valley striker—grinning, smirking—watched with folded arms. Every foul, every whistle that didn’t blow, every moment of chaos—it was fuel for him. His smirk wasn’t just arrogance. It was satisfaction.

Julian’s stomach clenched.

He understood.

They don’t just foul to stop us. They foul to control the game. To force the referee’s hand. To bait us into mistakes. To drag us into the mud.

"If we attack, they foul us..." Julian muttered under his breath, eyes never leaving that smirk.

"And when they attack..."

Noah followed his gaze, his own face darkening. "They make sure we foul them back."

Julian’s hands curled into fists.

This wasn’t football.

This was evil—calculated, sharpened, dressed in red and black.

And he would not let them win.

...

But no matter how many fouls East Valley tried to stack, one truth remained—

with Cael guarding the posts, the net stayed untouched.

Every save, every punch-out, every roar that left his throat—Cael was fire on the cold pitch.

"That’s all you got?" he shouted after one desperate shot.

"Foul us all you want, you can’t score!"

His voice was thunder, booming across the field, rattling even the bravest of East Valley’s players.

When he clutched the ball to his chest after another scrappy corner, he glared at the red-and-black jerseys circling him. "I’ve seen toddlers hit harder."

His taunts were reckless, dangerous—but they bought Lincoln a shield of defiance. Every word Cael spat was a wall for his teammates to lean on.

He wasn’t just keeping the ball out.

He was provoking them right back.

Our own shield, our own provocator.

Cael kicked long. The ball soared, breathless, falling at Aaron’s feet.

A heavy body slammed into him, nearly toppling him over—but Aaron gritted his teeth, forcing the ball out just in time.

Straight to Felix.

The referee’s arm rose. Advantage, finally.

For the first time all match, the whistle leaned Lincoln’s way.

Felix didn’t hesitate. One touch, dragging two defenders like moths into his flame, before slipping the ball into a razor gap.

And Julian was already there.

His sprint cut open the turf. His eyes screamed it out—Come. All of you. Come and stop me.

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +10 To All Attributes]

[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 10 Seconds]

He knew exactly which art he would call upon.

Mirage.

He wrapped his soul energy around him, letting it ripple, fracture, bend the air. A thousand phantoms danced at the edge of sight.

Malik was first. Strong. Instinctive. A wall.

He stepped in, shadowing every angle, reading every feint.

But Julian didn’t wait.

He flicked left—hard. Malik bit.

Julian exploded right, piercing toward the box.

Studs carved dirt. A tackle came heavy. Malik’s boot clipped what he thought was Julian’s leg—

only for it to vanish into a ghost.

The Mirage.

Defenders swarmed, hands clawing at his jersey, but all they caught were afterimages—trails of smoke, shimmering illusions that slipped out of their grasp.

From the sideline, Coach Owens didn’t shout. Didn’t command. He just watched with a clenched jaw, his arms folded tight.

Because he knew—this wasn’t just a boy dribbling. This was Julian waging war, alone, in the teeth of devils

The keeper lunged, face twisted, not to save—but to end him.

Legs wide, hands reaching to drag Julian down, injury be damned.

Julian rose.

The Mirage rose with him.

What the keeper clutched dissolved into air. His fingers closed on nothing but a lie.

Julian glided past, the ball still tethered to his stride.

One last touch. Gentle. Certain.

The net rippled.

Goal.

0 – 1.

Julian didn’t sprint. He didn’t scream.

He walked. Slowly, deliberately, toward the home crowd—hundred of voices hissing, cursing, boiling with rage.

He raised a hand to his ear.

I can’t hear you.

The emperor’s gesture.

Cold. Commanding. Unshaken.

And for a moment, the entire stadium boiled over—not just in anger, but in recognition.

The emperor had arrived in their house, and he had silenced it.