King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

The third round was about to begin.

Julian stood on the edge of the box, rolling his shoulders as the whistle loomed.

The midfielders this time were Leo and Felix—veteran presence and confident creativity.

The defenders? No longer just raw energy or rookies.

Tariq Okoye returned, towering and broad, his afro bouncing lightly as he jogged to position. Alongside him stood Liam Walker—a lean, wiry kid with sharp eyes and a sharper mouth.

But the one that caught Julian's full attention…

Was the third man.

Riku Tanaka.

The name alone carried weight. His presence did the rest.

He was big—not bulky, but dense with purpose. His skin pale, his hair jet-black and neatly tied back, giving him the air of a modern-day samurai. His posture was upright, balanced, every movement minimal but deliberate. His black eyes didn't wander. They locked on Julian.

He wasn't watching.

He was reading.

So that's "The Wall."

Julian could feel it. The shift. The moment a real opponent arrived.

Riku stepped forward, calm and unreadable. Then, finally, he spoke.

"The last two drills—you were impressive," he said, his voice even and low.

Julian met his eyes, not flinching.

"Welcome to the team."

There was no sarcasm. No mockery. Just a quiet acknowledgment—from one warrior to another.

Julian gave a faint nod. "Let's see if I can impress you again."

…

Prrrtt!

Coach Owens' whistle blew, slicing through the wind.

Third round. Game on.

Leo took the ball first, his touch clean and close. Felix ran a supporting line down the right.

Julian adjusted his breathing. Slowed his pulse. Riku stepped with him—every inch mirrored.

The pressure wasn't physical.

It was psychological.

Every step Julian took, Riku matched.

Every feint, every glance, every shift—Riku read him like an open scroll.

Julian wasn't playing against a wall.

He was playing against a mirror that had seen it all before.

Felix and Leo moved up—quick one-twos to bait the defenders. Tariq and Liam bit slightly, stepping up toward the ball, but not fully committing.

Julian waited.

He didn't call.

Didn't wave.

He stalked.

Eyes sharp, breathing calm, Julian drifted off the last defender's shoulder. His gaze met Leo's—just for a second.

That was enough.

Leo didn't play it safe.

He whipped it—an outside-foot curler that bent like poetry. The pass arced past Riku, catching him just slightly out of step. The angle tricked even the wall.

Julian broke in behind.

Perfect.

The ball dropped in front of him—fast, spinning, light as a feather.

He didn't activate the skill this time. No boosts. No shortcuts.

He wanted to do it clean. On his own.

But reality hit hard.

The touch was clumsy. Not awful—but enough to throw the rhythm. The ball bobbled off his foot, bouncing awkwardly in front of him.

He scrambled—corrected it on the second touch. Still clean. Still possible.

One-on-one.

The keeper came out, narrowing the angle—eyes locked, arms spread.

Julian took the shot.

Low and to the left.

Wide.

It skidded past the post.

A clean miss.

Julian stood still, lips tightening.

He didn't shout.

Didn't drop to his knees.

But in his mind?

Damn it.

He exhaled hard.

He'd wanted to prove he could score without relying on [Rule the Pitch].

And this time—it cost him.

His jaw clenched. His body still buzzing with the aftertaste of failure.

Not a fatal mistake. But a reminder.

He couldn't just want to be great.

He had to earn it.

Skill by skill. Touch by touch.

This field was his forge.

Mistakes were just fire.

He turned and jogged back into position, eyes sharper than before.

He wouldn't miss the next one.

…

But it wasn't just Julian feeling the pressure.

Everyone had seen it.

After those first two drills, he looked untouchable—like some prodigy plucked from a higher league.

Now?

He'd just missed a clear chance like any other amateur.

A few eyes lingered. No one said it aloud, but the silence judged.

Julian didn't flinch.

"Sorry," he muttered quietly, mostly to Felix and Leo.

But his mind was somewhere else. Locked in. Focused.

The next drill started.

Drill four.

The keeper changed—this time, Cael stepped in.

Tall. Calm. Unreadable.

The setup was similar—Leo sent a quick through pass, and Julian activated his skill again:

[Activating Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: +10 Attributes]

The soul energy surged through him.

His muscles tightened with explosive power.

He fired—

A brilliant shot, curling into the top right.

But Cael—

Moved early.

Leapt high.

And caught it. Clean.

"Try harder," Cael called out, smirking as he landed.

Julian's breath hitched.

Not in exhaustion—but in frustration.

…

Drill five.

Another run.

Another setup.

Another chance.

Julian pushed harder.

[Activating Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: +12 Attributes]

His stats skyrocketed. Strength, agility, instinct—he could feel it all.

The ball came in fast, waist-height.

He didn't hesitate.

A step forward—

A spinning volley.

Thunder cracked.

The ball flew off his foot like a missile, perfect in timing and power.

Except—

Cael was already in the air.

Limbs stretched, frame fully extended.

Fingertips reached.

Snatched.

Locked.

Save.

The whistle didn't even need to blow. The drill was dead.

Cael landed with a light bounce and smirked again.

"Not bad. But you'll need more than that."

…

Julian stood frozen.

His chest heaved.

His veins pulsed with strain—his body screaming from overuse.

He'd already activated the skill twice at high levels. That pressure added up.

But worse?

He'd scored two out of five.

One more drill left.

If he didn't score this next one—

He'd fail the system quest.

His fists tightened.

He couldn't fail.

Not here. Not now.

He lowered his stance. Eyes burning.

This was his battlefield.

And this sixth drill?

This was war.