King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the training field. The atmosphere buzzed—not with words, but with expectation.

Two groups formed automatically:

Midfielders and strikers on one side.

Defenders and goalkeepers on the other.

This was the first drill.

The first clash.

Offense vs. defense.

One goal. One outcome.

You either impressed… or you didn't.

Julian stood among the midfielders, his body still warm from the earlier session. Sweat clung to his back, but he didn't mind. He was used to the pressure.

He took a breath and looked around.

"Julian," he introduced himself, calm and clear.

A chuckle came from beside him.

"Damn, another pretty boy—just like Noah," said a tall boy

Dark brown skin that gleamed in the golden light.

Braided hair, thick and well-kept, swinging slightly as he moved.

His eyes were sharp, wide-set, and full of mischief.

He wore his jersey untucked, socks half-pulled up, and his smile like he owned the pitch.

Julian gave him a look. Confident. Unbothered.

"Name's Tyrell Brooks," the boy added, bumping Julian's shoulder playfully. His voice carried a teasing rhythm, but there was no hostility behind it.

Another player stepped forward. Shorter, stockier, with a pair of sharp brown eyes.

"Don't mind him," he said with a smirk. "He talks more than he dribbles. I'm Felix Moreno."

The boy who spoke was shorter—lean and wiry, built more for agility than power.

Light brown hair messily parted, freckled cheeks, and a mischievous glint in his light hazel eyes.

His expression never stayed still—always shifting between amused, unimpressed, and curious.

The kind of guy who got in trouble but talked his way out.

Felix see Julian. "Position—midfield. Specialty—annoying defenders. You?"

Julian gave him a small nod. "Forward."

Felix whistled low. "Nice. We've been needing a decent finisher since Noah's injury. Good luck living up to that."

Julian nodded, filing away their names. Tyrell, Felix. Talkative, energetic.

Then another player spoke—quieter, more reserved. His voice was barely above the breeze.

"Ricky Zhang."

Julian's gaze lingered on Ricky.

Short black hair cropped neatly at the sides.

Eyes narrow and intelligent—dark like storm clouds before rain.

Skin fair but kissed faintly by the sun.

He wore his jersey like armor. Precision in every movement.

Likely the type who spoke more with his play than his mouth.

"Alright, alright—chill," Leo called out, arms draped over Tyrell and Felix like a leader corralling wild dogs. "Let's focus up."

Then he leaned in with a crooked smile. "We have to win this round."

"Why?" Julian asked, already suspecting the answer.

Leo grimaced. "Because Coach Owens will make us run suicides until our souls leave our bodies if we don't."

The others groaned in agreement. Even Ricky winced.

"Seriously. He once made us do laps for talking back. I don't even want to know what he'll do if we lose the very first set piece drill of the season," Felix muttered.

"Forget about that," Leo waved the thought away and turned toward Julian. "You're the striker. Can you finish it?"

Julian didn't hesitate.

His eyes sharpened.

His voice dropped low, steady.

"Yes. Just give me the ball."

Leo's grin widened.

"That's what I like to hear."

Coach Owens blew the whistle.

PRRRT!

"Let's go! First group—on the pitch!" his voice rang out, sharp as steel.

The midfielders jogged forward.

Julian followed, his cleats digging into the turf with each step.

Opposite them, the defenders formed a line, flanked by the keeper—Cael.

Julian felt the air change.

From camaraderie…

To combat.

The ball was placed at the centerline.

This wasn't a full match.

But it would feel like one.

Coach Owens' voice cut through the air like a blade.

"Set up! You've got sixty seconds to score. One shot. One chance."

PRRRT!

The whistle rang.

Game on.

…

Julian jogged to the top of the box.

The offensive trio: Leo, Ricky, and himself.

Facing them—three defenders and a keeper he hadn't met yet.

As Julian took his position, the defender marking him stepped forward.

He was massive.

At least 6'2", with a barrel chest and thick arms built from weight rooms and hard contact.

Dark skin gleamed under the sun. His afro bobbed slightly as he moved.

But his presence was calm, not aggressive.

"Name's Tariq Okoye," he said, offering a nod. "Nice to meet you."

Julian blinked.

Friendly?

Unexpected. The guy looked like he could break someone in half.

But the energy wasn't threatening—it was steady. Grounded.

Like a boulder placed in front of a gate.

"Julian," he replied shortly. "Nice to meet you too."

But in his mind?

A wall.

And walls were meant to be broken.

…

Leo stood over the ball.

Ricky at his side.

Julian's breathing slowed.

Focused.

PRRRT!

The drill began.

Leo surged forward with the first touch—

A defender rushed him.

Too slow.

Snap! Leo dipped his shoulder and ghosted past him like a phantom.

Another defender cut in from the left.

Quick pass to Ricky—

One touch.

No wasted movement.

And the ball lifted—perfectly weighted—toward Julian.

It came in high.

A floating arc.

A test.

Julian didn't flinch.

His eyes locked on the ball.

And behind it—

Tariq.

He was already closing in, muscling into Julian's space.

Physical. Aggressive. The kind of defender who lived for contact.

Julian met the pressure head-on.

His legs tensed. His spine straightened.

But even as the body clash came—

He didn't resist it.

Instead… he let it happen.

Because he wasn't just Julian anymore.

[Skill Awakening Detected]

...

➤ [Rule The Pitch Lv.1]

Type: Passive + Active

Rank: Mystic

— A Soul Cultivation born on the field

Passive Effect: Removes all disease from Julian's body.

Active Effect Rotate soul energy to temporarily boost To All attribute by +1 to +20.

Overuse may damage the body.

...

Julian's core pulsed.

He activated the skill.

+7 to all attributes.

His total stats surged past 146—

Elite youth level.

Time slowed.

Tariq's shoulder rammed into him—

But Julian had already pivoted.

Not by instinct alone—

But by battlefield memory.

A warrior's read.

He feinted right.

Tariq bit—

Pressed forward to block—

But Julian never went for the ball.

Instead, he let it pass.

Used Tariq's weight against him.

And then—

Spin.

A low, fast turn to the outside.

Julian's foot caught the ball in stride.

One touch.

The angle was narrow.

The pressure was high.

But his body was alive—

Burning from within with raw soul energy.

He struck.

BANG!

A clean volley.

Laces across leather.

The ball screamed through the air—

Low, curved, knifing past the keeper's outstretched arm.

THUMP.

Back of the net.

GOAL.

For a second, no one moved.

Just the rustling of the net.

The echo of the strike still ringing in the air.

Then Leo laughed.

Loud. Triumphant.

"See?! My eyes never lie."

Julian stood still.

Not smug.

Not loud.

Just a quiet, steady fire in his chest.

One chance.

One goal.

He turned slowly—

And walked back to position.

He had only just begun.