King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

A hush settled over the pitch.

Julian's volley still echoed in their minds. A strike like that—clean, decisive, like it belonged in a highlight reel—had no place in a high school training drill.

Tyrell blinked, stunned. "You can do that?"

Felix, arms crossed, just shrugged. "Hell no."

Even Cael, from across the field, let out a low whistle. "Well... interesting. Maybe this team's got more hope than I thought."

Coach Owens' sharp eyes narrowed, a faint smile curling at the corner of his lips.

"Interesting," he muttered under his breath. "Very interesting."

…

The next set piece began.

Coach's whistle sliced through the air.

Prrrtt!

This time, Julian stood again at the front unchallenged as the sole striker. But something had changed.

The defenders weren't taking any chances now.

Two stepped forward, positioning themselves tightly on either side of him, their eyes locked. Their movements were calculated, aggressive.

They were going to double-mark him.

Leo chuckled from the sideline. "Looks like you made an impression, Julian."

Julian said nothing. What was the point? The real answer would come when the whistle blew.

His eyes were scanning the pitch, his breath calm. This pressure—this heat—was familiar. Like a fight against two seasoned warriors. Except now, the blades were leather, and the battlefield green.

Tyrell and Felix took their spots in midfield, shoulders squared, adrenaline humming in the air.

Tyrell flashed a cocky grin. "Alright, Mr. Prodigy. Let's see if we can cook something up."

Felix rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. Calm, sharp, eyes focused.

"Let's move. We've only got sixty seconds."

Coach Owens blew the whistle.

Prrrtt!

Game on.

…

Julian adjusted his stance, muscles coiled like springs. Two defenders stepped into his zone again—this time with names.

Aaron Bishop—the team's CDM. Blonde hair slicked back, jaw sharp, eyes serious. Built like a middleweight boxer. All discipline, all business.

Beside him was Ethan Rhodes—a contrast in every way. Black hair messy from warm-up, a relaxed smile that didn't quite match the competitive gleam in his eyes. Friendly, approachable… but deceptively fast on his feet.

They'd introduced themselves briefly before the drill.

Now?

They were obstacles.

Julian could already feel the tension—his body responding instinctively. Before, using +7 Pressure had pushed his body, made his muscles burn, lungs tighten. Not unbearable, but definitely taxing.

Still... manageable.

But this time, he didn't trigger it immediately.

"Control it," he told himself. "You're not in a sprint. You're in a hunt."

He don't need to always have the +7

He just needs it in maybe one or two times when he want to pass someone

When he want to shoot

Or contest

Upfield, Felix and Tyrell weren't wasting time.

With only one defender marking midfield, they played freely—quick flicks, short passes, seamless movement.

No need to force a ball through yet.

No lobs. No through balls.

They brought it themselves.

Julian saw it happening.

It became a three-versus-two in the final third.

Felix held the ball, Tyrell peeled wide, and Julian—marked tight—stalked the defensive line like a wolf waiting for the break.

Aaron Bishop noticed the imbalance first. The big man stepped forward, abandoning Julian to pressure Tyrell. Ethan followed suit, drifting toward Felix, anticipating the pass.

And in that crucial moment—

They gambled.

Both defenders turned away from Julian, snapping into an offside trap.

Julian's eyes sharpened instantly. A trap, huh?

He stepped back a half-meter, staying onside by inches. His core stilled, his breathing calmed. Every muscle in his body coiled like a spring.

Felix's eyes flicked up—he caught it.

A single glance.

A shared understanding.

Then—a bullet pass. Straight through the lines. No spin. Low and fast.

Julian burst forward.

[Activating Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: +7 Attributes]

Power flooded his legs like fire down a fuse.

His cleats tore into the turf. His strides became monstrous. His acceleration unnatural. Every breath roared in his ears.

The defenders turned too late.

Julian was already gone.

He deactivated the boost the second the ball kissed his boot, managing the strain before it overwhelmed him.

One perfect touch—he brought the ball under control.

Now it was just him and the keeper.

…

Damien Silva.

Julian knew the name.

The Mexican-American keeper was shorter than average, compact, agile. His frame low and ready like a sprinter in the blocks.

Damien didn't wait.

He charged.

Julian didn't panic.

Instead—he activated it again.

[Rule The Pitch – Active Boost: +10]

The strain screamed through his muscles—his calves burned, his quads locked, but his instincts sharpened like a honed blade.

Time slowed.

His feet shifted.

He dipped his left shoulder—a feint.

Damien bit hard, lunging.

Julian killed the boost, stepped wide to the right, and in the same fluid motion—

Tapped the ball into the open net.

GOAL.

The whistle hadn't even echoed before the players on the sideline exploded.

"DID YOU SEE THAT!?"

"HE COOKED DAMIEN!"

Julian didn't celebrate.

He just stood there—chest rising, calm, composed.

Another step.

Another strike.

Another message.

He wasn't here to fit in.

He was here to dominate.

But—

The price came quickly.

As the echo of celebration faded around him, a dull ache surged through Julian's legs. Not just fatigue—deep, gnawing pain.

His thighs twitched involuntarily. A sharp spasm in his left calf. His breathing turned shallow, every inhale dragging against tight ribs.

He clenched his fists.

This was the toll of pushing past human limits.

He had used +10 boost. More than he ever had before.

And his body wasn't ready.

Not yet.

His heart pounded like a war drum in his ears. Sweat poured down his face, not from effort—but from the strain. His legs felt like they'd been run through with lead.

Julian exhaled slowly.

Control. Always control.

He took a slow step back. Then another. His muscles screamed, but he didn't show it. Not to the coach. Not to his teammates. Not even to himself.

Because a warrior didn't flinch after striking.

He just reset for the next blow.

Still, his mind acknowledged the truth: He would need to recover. He couldn't burn his body every time.

This wasn't the martial arena of his past life, where each battle could end in death.

This was a season. A war of attrition.

He needed to be ready for the long game.

Still, he allowed himself a brief smile.

That shot?

Worth it.