King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

Lincoln recovered the loose ball quickly—Aaron shielding with his body before rolling it back to Ethan.

The tempo slowed. Possession reset. But the sting lingered.

Ricky slapped his hand together in frustration. Leo jogged forward to reassure him, offering a quick nod and a murmur Julian couldn't catch.

The game moved again.

Again, Leo danced through the midfield—this time with tighter control. He took a sharp one-two with Aaron, ducked under a closing tackle, and sent a curling through-ball straight into the box.

Ricky beat the offside trap.

This time—he had space. He controlled it with the outside of his foot. Turned. Swung his leg—

But Dominic was already there.

The center back slid in like thunder—precise, low, clean. He didn't just block the shot. He timed the tackle so the ball ricocheted right back toward El Monte's midfielder, who launched a counterattack in seconds.

The Lincoln defense scrambled—but Leo tracked back fast, intercepting with a hard slide of his own. Possession flipped again.

Julian exhaled slowly.

Dominic Reyes. That name had been in Coach Owens' pre-match speech, but now? Now he understood why.

"He doesn't chase," Julian murmured, voice just loud enough for Crest—who stood behind the bench—to hear. "He baits. He herds the striker into the spot he wants… then takes the ball clean."

"You sound like you've seen it before," Crest said softly.

"I have."

In the mountains of his past life—against warriors who waited not to strike, but to break your rhythm.

…

Lincoln tried again. This time, Ethan surged up the middle with surprising pace, drawing out a midfielder before laying it off to Leo.

Leo didn't even look—he just flicked the ball with his heel behind him. Ricky caught it on the turn—clever. He dropped his shoulder, feinted left, then exploded right.

It was beautiful movement.

But Dominic matched it. Step for step.

He didn't dive in. He didn't need to. He let Ricky spin—and then angled his body perfectly to block the shooting lane. Ricky hesitated. Just a second. It was enough.

The shot he took clipped Dominic's shin and spun out for a corner.

Ricky shouted. Frustration bleeding through now.

Julian didn't move, but his eyes flicked toward Coach Owens. The man's arms were still folded, but his jaw was tight. He was seeing it too.

The problem wasn't Ricky's ability.

It was Dominic Reyes dictating the terms.

The ball came to Leo once more. This time he beat two men with a gorgeous Marseille turn and sent a no-look pass between the lines.

It was perfect. Ricky broke free with a burst of speed—just him and the keeper.

Julian leaned forward. This was it.

But he saw it. That shadow. That presence.

Dominic had recovered.

He wasn't supposed to. But he did.

Like a phantom, Dominic surged back and blocked the shooting angle with a single sliding motion that disrupted the entire attack. Ricky's shot ricocheted off the defender's outstretched leg and flew sky-high.

The whistle blew for a goal kick. Ricky dropped to his knees. Face flushed. Teeth grit.

Julian didn't look away. His heart wasn't racing. Not yet.

But his blood was warming.

"He's wasted," Crest said from behind. "The striker."

Julian nodded once.

"And Leo's carrying the match by himself," he added. "For now."

Then he looked out to the field. Past Leo. Past Ricky. To the brown jersey with the number 5.

Dominic Reyes. Calm. Steady. Imposing.

A lion on defense.

But lions bled too.

And Julian?

He was still waiting.

The rhythm shifted.

It wasn't obvious—not at first. The crowd still murmured, the cleats still thundered, and Leo still glided through midfield like an artist with a brush.

But something had changed.

El Monte wasn't chasing anymore.

They were waiting.

The moment Leo drifted too far forward on a pass to Felix, El Monte pounced. Two midfielders closed in, and the third pressed the passing lane.

A misstep. The ball clipped Felix's heel and bounced backward.

Lucas Ortega was already moving.

He wasn't tall, but he moved like someone who knew exactly where the gaps lived. His first touch was soft, then he spun and drove forward like a dagger through cloth.

The crowd came alive. El Monte's bench stood up.

Lucas passed short, then turned and kept running. The ball came back in one touch. A give-and-go—basic, but lethal in its timing.

Julian's eyes sharpened. He saw what was coming before it happened.

"Cael," he muttered. "Now."

The ball flashed through the final gap and Lucas burst into the penalty area.

Cael stepped out. Not charging, not flinching. Just... there.

Lucas took the shot.

THUMP.

It was clean—low, hard, aimed for the bottom right corner. But Cael moved fast. His gloves caught the shot like twin hammers closing around a nail.

The impact echoed. Then silence.

Cael stood, ball in hand, expression blank. No celebration. No words.

He tossed it calmly to Ethan for the restart.

Julian's lips curled faintly. "He reads the angles better than I thought."

Crest crossed her arms behind the bench. "That wasn't just instinct. That was cold, tactical control."

El Monte surged again.

This time, they built from the back. Dominic Reyes sent a long, arcing ball to their left winger, who brought it down with a silky touch and drove at Lincoln's right flank.

Ethan backed off, waiting. But the winger didn't hesitate—he cut inside and played it central.

Lucas appeared again. Like lightning behind clouds.

One touch, two steps, then a curling effort from 22 yards ( 20 Meter) .

The strike was beautiful.

But Cael was better.

He dove—fully extended—and parried the ball wide with a single palm. The stadium gasped.

The rebound dropped at the feet of another El Monte player—but Aaron slid in just in time to block the follow-up.

Lincoln barely held on.

Coach Owens barked from the sideline: "Too passive! Step up and press!"

Julian said nothing. But his gaze hadn't left Cael.

The goalkeeper's breathing was even. His stance reset.

Unshakeable.

"He's built for chaos," Julian thought. "Most keepers panic under pressure. He feeds off it."

Leo tried to retake control. He demanded the ball, dropping deeper now to dictate the flow.

He carried it forward and drew two players. He passed to Ricky again—still trying. Still running.

But Dominic wasn't even sweating.

He shadowed Ricky like a second skin. Ricky tried to spin again, but Dominic nudged him off-balance with nothing more than a shift of shoulder weight.

Julian exhaled slowly. "Same mistake again."

Crest raised a brow. "He's persistent."

"He's not adapting." Julian's voice was clipped. "He's trying to brute-force it against someone who eats force for breakfast."

Corner for El Monte.

The crowd stirred. This wasn't their home turf—but momentum was theirs now. The air buzzed with tension.

The delivery came in—fast and flat, curling toward the near post.

Lucas ran late. A textbook delayed run. He launched himself forward—

But Cael launched higher.

His fist punched the ball away like it was a trespasser in his house. Bodies crashed in the air. The ball sailed over the box, bouncing near midfield.

The El Monte bench clapped. Not in mockery. In respect.

"This keeper," one muttered. "He's unreal."

Lucas didn't speak. He just stared back at the goal for a second longer than necessary.

Julian noticed.

"You felt it," he whispered. "Didn't you?"

Cael's composure remained unbroken. Every save. Every reset. Every leap. It was like watching a fortress that could breathe.

El Monte, though, was relentless. Their tempo was high. Their midfield passed tighter now—Lucas dropping deeper, demanding more touches.

He spun out of trouble again and again, leaving Lincoln's midfield scrambling.

"He's not as fast," Julian said aloud, "but he's slippery. Greedy with space. Greedy with time."

And yet—no goal.

Not yet.

Cael caught a low cross again and slammed a punt forward. The ball rocketed past midfield. Leo tried to chase it down—but this wasn't a team that gave you second chances.

Lincoln was holding. But barely.

El Monte's left back overlapped. A quick one-two with the winger opened a channel down the line. He sent in a bouncing cross.

Too fast to catch. Too high to ignore.

Lucas sprinted forward. Cael stepped out—

It was war.

Lucas slid—boot extended—trying to poke it past the keeper.

Cael dove through the ball and body both. The clash echoed like thunder.

Ball out.

Lucas groaned on the grass. Cael stood up first.

Still no words. Still no emotion.

"That's three denied already," Julian murmured. "Any other striker would've cracked."

Crest didn't answer. Her eyes were locked on Lucas.

Because something in his expression was changing.

Resolve. But also… resentment.

El Monte slowed their buildup. Controlled. Deliberate.

They passed sideways, drawing Lincoln out, waiting for the smallest error in positioning.

And they got it.

Leo stepped too high, trying to press. Aaron was just a second too late to cover.

The pass went vertical—right between them. Lucas turned, perfectly placed, and peeled off the shoulder of Lincoln's right center back.

The left back sent a low cross in. Not fast. But surgical.

Lucas was already there.

No flash. No flair. Just perfect timing.

One step.

One touch.

Clean. Ruthless.

And this time—

He didn't miss.

The net bulged with a violent snap.

GOAL.

The El Monte bench exploded. Lincoln's side fell silent—just the wind and the pounding heartbeat of frustration.

Coach Owens didn't speak.

He didn't have to.

His eyes were already on Julian.

Then came the signal.

Substitution.