King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

The goal happened in the 37th minute.

It was fast. Sharp. Like lightning slicing across a quiet sky.

But lightning never strikes twice—at least, that's what El Monte High thought.

Because now… they had seen the storm.

And they weren't going to let it hit again.

From the sideline, Coach Owens remained composed, arms crossed, eyes tracking everything. But even he knew—Julian's freedom on the pitch was over.

The moment Julian jogged back into position, he could feel it.

Eyes.

Weight.

Pressure.

El Monte had adjusted.

He was no longer invisible.

Now, they marked him like a threat. Because that's what he had become.

Julian kept [Activating Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: +3 To All Attributes]

just enough to stay sharp without wrecking his stamina. But even at +3, the strain was real. His muscles burned faintly, and his lungs started to tug tighter with every exhale.

It's only been a few minutes since I came in... but this body still can't keep up for long.

He clenched his jaw. Doesn't matter. I'll find the gap.

The whistle blew again.

Kick-off for El Monte.

The brown jerseys spread wide. Lucas Ortega—number 9, their star striker—tapped the ball back with calm efficiency. His movements were clean. Dangerous.

They shifted into their pattern, the flat 4-4-2 snapping back into shape like a coiled machine.

Julian didn't wait. He started pressing the backline immediately, chasing the first center-back and forcing a long pass.

Tariq and Riku stepped up, keeping the line tight.

Ethan and Aaron, the CDMs, dropped to block the midfield.

El Monte's winger tried to slip inside.

Too slow.

Zion Blake shut him down with a low tackle and passed cleanly to Felix.

Now came the real test.

Julian pivoted and sprinted, his marker sticking to him like glue.

He didn't know the kid's name, but he knew that kind of defense—tight, annoying, desperate. The kind meant for people who scared coaches.

So they assigned someone to shadow me already, Julian thought. Smart...

But he didn't panic.

He welcomed it.

Let them focus on me.

Let them choke on the pressure.

That just means Leo, Felix, or Tyrell will be open.

The midfield shifted again—Leo danced over the ball like it was stitched to his boots, slowing the rhythm just enough to open passing lanes. He was reading the game like a conductor guiding a storm.

And Julian?

He didn't stop moving.

He couldn't.

Not now.

Because he wasn't just fighting defenders anymore.

He was fighting exhaustion.

He was fighting the limitations of a body that had once failed him.

…

The game continued at breakneck pace.

End-to-end. Strike for strike. Breath for breath.

Julian showed flashes of danger—darting into the box, drawing fouls that weren't called, stretching the line.

But cracks were showing.

He got caught in the offside trap—twice.

Chased a pass too far, dragging himself out of position.

Missed an opportunity to check back and receive.

His body couldn't cover the ground fast enough, his timing just a second off.

Amateur mistakes.

And El Monte noticed.

Their defenders tightened their formation, like a net shrinking around a fish.

Every time Julian looked to turn, there was a body.

Every time he tried to run, someone stepped first.

Even when he activated

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: +16 To All Attributes]

to slice through Dominic Reyes with sheer explosiveness—

another defender slid in from the flank.

They were rotating. Collapsing on him.

El Monte's defense was alive.

Breathing. Hunting.

…

But it wasn't one-sided.

Lincoln High responded in kind.

Because they'd seen what Lucas Ortega could do—and they weren't about to let him do it again.

Riku Tanaka and Tariq Okoye formed a wall at the back, shutting down space.

Aaron Bishop and Ethan Rhodes covered the channels like twin blades.

And when Lucas did break through—

There was Cael.

A monster in gloves.

Diving. Leaping. Barking orders like a general at war.

The ball screamed toward the corner—

Cael slapped it away with a one-handed stretch, landing hard but smiling.

"Not today," he growled.

The first half ended on a razor's edge.

1–1.

The scoreboard didn't tell the story.

But the pitch did.

Two teams.

Two beasts at the front.

And one storm building beneath the surface.

Julian wiped the sweat from his brow as he jogged toward the bench for halftime.

His chest heaved.

His legs throbbed with lactic burn.

But his eyes?

Still sharp.

Still hungry.

…

Both teams gathered on opposite sides of the field.

Lincoln High dropped to the benches beneath the shade canopy, jerseys soaked, muscles twitching from the relentless pace. The air was thick with heat and adrenaline.

Laura, their ever-composed manager, moved down the line with towels and water bottles. Her blonde ponytail swayed as she passed each player their share.

"Hydrate. Wipe down. Catch your breath," she said, her voice brisk but warm.

Julian accepted a cold bottle. He drank deep, the water cutting through the dryness in his throat, cooling the heat that simmered beneath his skin.

He could feel it now—how real this was.

The weight of competition.

The thrill of war.

The strain of expectation.

And it wasn't just him—everyone around him was soaked in sweat, hunched over, breathing heavy.

A team pushed to its limit.

And yet… far from broken.

Coach Owens stepped into the center of the group, his face carved in that usual steel expression. He scanned them like a general walking through his troops.

"Eyes on me," Coach barked.

Every head snapped up.

He began.

"First—solid defensive work. Riku, Tariq, good shape. Cael, excellent saves."

A brief nod from the goalkeeper. Still winded, but steady.

"But we need more firepower on the wings. Liam, you're going in. Zion, you're off. I want more aggression up that flank. Push up—but don't forget your damn assignments. We absorb pressure, then strike."

He paused, then pointed toward the midfielders.

"And you three," his tone sharpened, "don't just leave Leo to play goddamn hero ball. You've got eyes, feet, and a brain—use all three. Support him. Support the forward. Close the gaps. Transition fast."

Then, his gaze landed on Julian.

The intensity in his eyes didn't waver.

"And you," he said, voice like gravel, "I know you're still green—but don't play like a damn fool."

Julian straightened instinctively.

"Don't just chase the ball like a dog in a park. Remember your stamina. Remember your job. The striker isn't always the one touching the ball—but you sure as hell better know where it's going."

He jabbed a finger toward the pitch.

"Read. The. Game."

Julian didn't speak.

He just nodded, jaw clenched.

He understood.

He wasn't here to be a ghost.

He was here to be a weapon.

…

A few feet away, Crest stood silent—arms crossed, a lone figure beside the coaching staff. She watched the boy she once carried into hospitals now listen to a halftime lecture like a soldier mid-campaign.

And though her face gave little away…

Her eyes shimmered.

This kid… he's really doing it.

He's really fighting.