King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

The air shifted.

Coach Owens' declaration still hung over the team like a bomb mid-blast.

"Win the CIF Southern Section Playoffs."

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Just stunned silence.

No complaints.

No arguments.

But also… no cheers.

It was the kind of silence that came before a storm. The kind where every player weighed the size of the mountain in front of them—and realized they were expected to climb.

Coach Owens clapped his hands once. Sharp. Loud.

"Alright. Enough standing around. Let's move out to the field. It's time for introductions."

That snapped them back. Everyone jolted into action, filing out toward the pitch with practiced steps.

Blue kits with black streaks flashed in the sunlight. Cleats tapped concrete, then thudded onto turf. The Lincoln High squad moved like a unit—slightly messy, a little stiff, but still a team.

Julian trailed behind them.

He wasn't wearing the school's official uniform. His kit was still the black-and-white set he had ordered online—tight across his new muscles, not yet worn by sweat and time.

He didn't mind.

He wasn't here to blend in.

He was here to rise.

…

The field opened wide before them.

Vast green under a pale afternoon sky. The scent of trimmed grass lingered in the breeze. Faint heat clung to the turf, soft under their studs.

Players lined up shoulder to shoulder across the halfway line, cleats digging in, nerves shifting beneath skin.

All except Julian.

He stood to the side, arms crossed, waiting.

Coach Owens gave a nod. "Captain, take it from here."

Julian blinked. Captain?

Leo stepped forward, confident as ever. His voice cut through the air—steady and charismatic.

"Coach already said it. This year—we go to the top. Not just talk, not just hype. Results. Together."

He paused, turning slightly. His golden hazel eyes landed on Julian.

"We all fight. Every piece matters. So let's start with names."

Leo stepped back and gave Julian the floor with a slight tilt of the head.

Julian inhaled deeply. He felt eyes on him—curious, skeptical, judging.

But he didn't flinch.

He stepped forward.

"Julian Ashford. Forward."

His voice wasn't loud.

But it was clear. Solid. Like steel hammered flat.

He didn't explain himself. He didn't give excuses.

Because he wasn't here to be liked.

He was here to score.

Coach Owens opened his mouth to speak—then paused.

Someone was running toward the field.

A tall figure emerged from the edge of the track, jogging toward them with smooth strides. The guy was huge—at least 6'0"—long-limbed and pale-skinned, his lean frame wrapped in a sleeveless black warm-up shirt and compression tights under shorts.

His black gloves slapped lightly against his thigh with every step.

"Sorry, Coach—I'm late."

The voice was calm, but it carried.

The team turned.

Coach Owens snorted. "About time. Come on."

The new arrival nodded, stepping up beside Julian. He gave a quick glance—just enough to size him up—then looked back to the coach.

"My name's Cael Morgan. Goalkeeper."

A low murmur rippled through the team.

Even Julian arched an eyebrow slightly. This guy... felt like a wall already.

Coach Owens folded his arms across his chest, voice firm but proud.

"Cael was one of my keepers at my last school. You all know what happened back there." His tone darkened for a moment—just a flicker of bitterness.

"But Cael chose to follow me here."

He looked around the team, locking eyes with each player.

"Remember what I told you. We're not here to compete. We're here to win. We don't care about names. We care about effort. Discipline. Fire."

He pointed toward the goalpost.

"Let's see who's serious. Pair up. Warm-up drills. Then we scrimmage."

The tension cracked—like a match striking flint.

Boots moved. Voices rose. The field came alive.

Julian felt it.

The atmosphere wasn't light or friendly.

It was charged.

No more introductions.

No more safety.

Only fire.

Only pressure.

Only football.

…

Julian found himself paired with Cael.

The two new arrivals.

Both unknowns.

Both placed under the unblinking eye of Coach Owens.

For thirty minutes, they drilled.

Footwork. Short passes. Quick turns. Close control.

Cael, despite his height, moved with surprising precision. Every throw of the ball to Julian was measured—testing his trap, his first touch, his rhythm.

"You new here too?" Cael asked between sets, casually bouncing the ball on one knee.

"Yeah. First day," Julian replied, sweat streaking his brow.

"Where'd you play before?"

Julian froze for half a second.

He hadn't.

Not a single game in this life.

His mind flashed to training alone in the backyard, to juggling clumsily under the sun, to shooting into makeshift targets. To his past life, full of combat and grit—but never a football match.

Before he could answer—

"Alright, listen up!" Coach Owens' voice rang across the pitch, hard as gravel and twice as sharp.

"Since we've got some fresh blood in the squad, we're going to run set plays using a 4-2-3-1 formation."

He began pacing as he spoke.

"One striker up front. Two central mids feeding the pass. Three attacking mids pushing the tempo. Three defenders trying to shut it all down. One keeper in goal."

His eyes swept across the players.

"You'll rotate. Striker, midfielder, defender. Goalkeepers switch every third round. Everyone gets at least three chances."

Players started splitting into groups.

Julian glanced around.

Strikers: Only him.

Midfielders: Leo, plus three others.

Defenders: A whole squad—eight guys rotating.

Keepers: Just Cael and one other.

Julian exhaled, rolling his neck.

"Looks like I'm running this drill over and over," he muttered.

But that was fine.

He didn't want to hide in the crowd.

He wanted to stand in front—where pressure hit hardest.

Where it mattered most.

Ding!

A notification blinked into his mind's eye.

[System Quest Alert]

Make a remarks

Score in more than 50% of your striker rotations.

Reward: Rare Skill

[ Accept Quest? ]

[Yes] [No]

Julian didn't hesitate.

[Yes]

His fists clenched slightly as the quest locked in.

"Fifty percent, huh?" he whispered to himself.

"I'll do more than that."

The fire returned to his chest—not from pressure.

But from promise.

From hunger.

He was ready to be judged.

Let the pitch be the judge.

Let the system be the reward.

Let his feet do the talking.