King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

As minutes passed, more players began arriving.

One. Two. Five. Ten.

Until the field buzzed with motion and chatter—

Twenty-three people in total, including Leonardo.

Some arrived with nervous energy.

Others looked relaxed, chatting like old friends.

A few stretched and kicked around warm-up touches.

Julian stayed off to the side, calmly observing while maintaining his own warm-up rhythm.

Then Leonardo stepped forward, hands on hips, voice clear and confident.

"Alright, everyone. Gather up."

The players circled around him loosely.

"My name's Leonardo Luz," he said.

"Some of you already know me. Some of you are new. This is the Newcomer Section—for those just starting out, or who've only played a few matches. This space is about learning, not judging. Everyone's here to grow."

Julian watched him closely.

That presence…

Leonardo didn't bark orders. He didn't posture.

And yet—everyone listened.

There was charisma in his tone, something natural and commanding.

An aura of leadership.

Julian narrowed his eyes.

"If I were still on my old path…"

"I would've recruited him."

But the thought curdled into bitterness.

The last time Julian had built a team…

He'd bled for it.

Led it.

And they'd left him to die.

His hands clenched.

"Not again."

But he said nothing—just smiled bitterly and looked down.

"Okay," Leo continued, snapping Julian back.

"Hands up if this is your first time ever playing."

Julian raised his hand.

So did a few others—an older man, a lanky teenager, even a woman in gym tights.

Leo nodded with easy grace.

"Alright. One game?"

A few hands dropped.

"Two? Three?"

More hands down.

Leo scanned the group with sharp eyes.

"Good. If you've played more than three games here, you're supposed to be in the Amateur section. Let's not mess with the system."

A couple of guys laughed awkwardly.

Leo gave a sly grin, then clapped his hands.

"Okay! I'll ref today. No fouls unless it's dangerous. Keep it clean. Team A, you'll wear red vests. Team B—blue."

He opened a large box and handed out colored mesh bibs.

Julian picked up a blue vest—Team B.

He slid it on over his dark training jersey.

It smelled faintly of plastic and sweat.

The kind of scent only found on borrowed gear and shared battlegrounds.

He flexed his fingers, rolled his neck, and looked toward the other side of the field.

This was it.

His first real match.

No more drills.

No more simulations.

No more perfect restarts or forgiving systems.

Just a ball, a field—

And the chance to prove himself.

Before kickoff, Leonardo had gathered both teams in the center and laid out the rules:

7 vs 7 format.Final-third offside rule only.Each half: 25 minutes.5-minute break at halftime.

But the part that stood out most—

Substitution rotation.

"Everyone except the goalkeepers will sub out every 5 minutes," Leonardo had explained.

"Unless someone opts to stay in and another agrees to sit out. We want everyone who showed up to actually play."

It was smart.

Fair.

Inclusive.

Julian respected that.

Still, a part of him burned for more.

Five minutes?

That was barely a warm-up.

"Then I'll make them count."

…

Both teams stood on the field now, each side in their colored vests.

Julian's side—the blue team—had the opening kick.

The players exchanged brief nods. Some nervous. Some excited.

The energy buzzed like static under the floodlights.

Julian took his place on the right. Cleats firm. Vision sharp.

His heart beat steadily, not from nerves—

But from anticipation.

At the center of the field, Leonardo raised the whistle to his lips.

Prrrriiiittt.

The shrill sound cut through the night.

The ball rolled forward from the center circle, and just like that—

The game began.

Julian moved.

Not with hesitation.

Not with overexcitement.

But with deliberate pace, eyes scanning the field like a hawk.

His position: right midfielder, wide and ready.

At first, everything felt… chaotic.

The other players weren't professionals. Passes were sloppy. Spacing was inconsistent. One of his teammates tripped over his own feet within the first thirty seconds.

But Julian?

He didn't panic.

[Battlefield Mind – Passive Activated]

"Read the flow. Predict. Control."

His Perception picked up the subtle shifts—

The opposing left-back drifting too far forward.

His own striker checking back too deep.

The center mid hesitating just before the pass.

Instinct took over.

Julian surged forward into space the moment his teammate tapped the ball wide.

The pass wasn't perfect—too heavy, bouncing awkwardly.

But he adjusted.

Right foot raised—

Soft trap.

The ball settled just ahead of him.

For the first time in his life—

He was dribbling at speed. In a real game.

He heard footsteps.

A defender closed in.

Julian didn't freeze.

His muscle memory—martial, precise—took over.

He didn't try a flashy move. No step-overs. No feints.

Instead—

He let the defender come.

Then shifted weight at the last second—shoulder drop. Body cut.

The defender bit. Overcommitted.

Julian slipped past him like smoke.

"One."

He kept going down the right channel, but his angle was closing. Two more defenders began to track back.

He needed to release the ball.

He spotted a teammate cutting into the top of the box.

Julian adjusted his stride, opened his body—

And delivered a sharp low pass between the defenders.

The ball curved right into the runner's path.

Perfect weight.

Perfect angle.

The striker took a shot—

Thud.

Saved by the keeper. But it rebounded.

Another teammate crashed in.

GOAL.

1–0. Blue team.

The team swarmed together briefly in celebration.

Julian jogged back to position in silence, breathing controlled, but heart racing.

That pass—

That movement—

That timing—

It was real.

Minutes passed.

The red team adjusted. They pressed harder.

Julian was subbed off briefly—just five minutes as per Leo's rule.

He took the time to hydrate, to breathe, to watch.

He studied opponents—

The fast winger with no vision.

The strong defender with a lazy turn.

The midfielder with clean touches but slow reactions.

He filed it all away.

When he came back in—

He was ready.

This time, the red team had possession. Julian tracked their left winger—fast, twitchy, confident.

The boy tried to take him one-on-one.

Julian didn't blink.

He didn't go for the tackle.

He just mirrored his movements.

[Martial Memory: Lv.1 – Passive Syncing]

Footwork like a duel.

Center of gravity low.

Balance neutral.

Eyes locked.

The winger hesitated—then cut inside.

Julian stepped across him—body angled just right—clean interception.

He turned and launched a counter.

With each passing minute, Julian became more and more natural.

The ball no longer felt foreign.

The pace no longer overwhelmed him.

This wasn't the same boy who'd sat in a wheelchair a week ago.

This was a hunter on the pitch.

In the final minutes of the match—

2–2.

Both teams burned with exhaustion and urgency.

Every pass was desperate.

Every challenge, heavier.

The next goal would decide it.

Then—

The ball rolled wide to the right.

Julian stepped onto it.

Time slowed.

His breathing fell silent.

The sound of the crowd, the footsteps, even the thud of cleats on turf—

Vanished.

[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 5 Seconds]

And like thunder cracking through his mind—

A memory surged forward.

A technique from his past life.

Feet of the Cloud.

A martial kicking art that used wind pressure and footwork

to guide force like a stream through steel—

to curve and control strikes with eerie precision.

Julian stopped.

Stilled his body.

Then channeled it.

Not mana.

Not strength.

But will—

and mastery.

He took one step.

Then another.

Then struck the ball—not with brute power,

but with perfect form.

His body twisted with precision.

His planted foot gripped the turf.

His kicking leg cut the air like a blade.

Thoom.

The sound echoed like a whipcrack.

The ball soared.

From halfway up the pitch—

the ball didn't just fly.

It glided.

A graceful arc.

A rising curve.

As if carried by the wind itself.

The goalkeeper froze—caught between stepping forward and dropping back.

One defender turned just in time to see the ball curve over them—face frozen in disbelief

Too late.

The ball dipped—

kissed the top netting—

GOAL.

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then the field exploded.

"GOAL! What a shot!"

"No way—he scored from there?!"

"Yo, who is this guy?!"

Julian stood still.

His chest heaved.

His fists clenched.

Then—

He raised both hands into the sky.

Alive.

His teammates swarmed him, shouting, laughing, slapping his back.

And for the first time in two lifetimes—

Julian Ashford scored.

Not in theory. Not in simulation. Not in fantasy.

But here. In this world. On this pitch.

And it was only the beginning.