King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

Julian woke as the first light of dawn crept through the curtains.

For a moment, he simply lay there—

Eyes open. Chest rising and falling.

No pain.

No stiffness.

No exhaustion dragging him back down.

He sat up.

His heart beat steady.

His breath came smooth.

His legs—his once-useless legs—felt ready.

He stood.

No trembling.

No strain.

No wheelchair.

For the first time in this life… he walked out of his room.

No assistance. No Crest waiting outside the door.

Just him.

The air outside was crisp.

The backyard bathed in golden morning light, grass still damp with dew.

Birdsong echoed faintly through the stillness.

Julian stepped barefoot into the grass.

He stood still for a moment, eyes closed, letting the sunlight soak into his skin.

It wasn't just warmth.

It was a promise.

A new start.

The soft breeze carried the scent of earth and blossoms.

The world was quiet, but not dead—alive with possibility, humming with energy just beneath the surface. Julian felt it.

Not just in the wind or the sun, but in the blood moving through his veins. It was like waking up in a new body… except it was still his.

Then, he moved.

A slow push-up.

The earth met his hands.

His muscles strained—not with pain, but with resistance.

One.

Two.

Three…

He pushed until his arms burned.

Then he turned over.

Sit-ups.

Each one harder than the last.

But each one a statement.

"This body belongs to me now."

Next—

He jogged.

Not far. Just a loop around the backyard.

His lungs screamed. His legs protested.

Sweat beaded on his brow.

But he didn't stop.

He pressed harder.

Faster.

Longer.

Until his vision blurred.

Julian dropped to one knee, gasping.

His body was still weak.

But it was moving.

Obeying.

This wasn't just training.

This was a declaration of war.

Against weakness.

Against the past.

Against the fate that once chained him to a bed.

Every motion wasn't just for strength—

It was for will.

To crush hesitation.

To tame fear.

To carve his soul into every inch of muscle and breath.

He collapsed into the grass, chest heaving.

The sky above was pale blue.

His fingers trembled.

But he smiled.

Not because he was strong.

But because he was moving.

..

She saw him from afar.

Through the glass doors that led to the backyard, Crest froze.

Her breath caught in her throat.

There, in the morning light—

The boy who had been bound to a wheelchair for nearly his entire life—

Was training.

Push-ups. Sit-ups.

Jogging with fire in his lungs and sweat on his brow.

Julian Ashford was moving.

Not stumbling.

Not limping.

Training.

Crest's eyes widened.

Disbelief and wonder collided inside her.

"Is that… really him?"

This was the boy whose parents had abandoned him—

Who had been labeled a burden, cast aside with polite cruelty.

Even doctors had given up.

Crest had been with him since childhood.

She had changed his sheets, fed him when he couldn't lift a spoon, wiped tears he didn't know she saw.

But she never pushed him.

Because she knew.

If Julian was going to change—

It had to come from him.

She never tried to "motivate" him.

She never fed him false hope.

Not when every hospital, every test, every expert said the same thing:

"It's incurable."

There were nights she sat by his bedside, wondering if he'd still be breathing in the morning.

Days when she saw the light in his eyes dim just a little more.

And through it all, she stayed. Quiet. Steady. A shadow he never noticed but always relied on.

She had long feared that one day, he'd simply… stop trying.

That the fire in him would die out completely.

But now…

Now she saw that fire reborn.

Burning bright.

And somewhere deep inside her chest—

Past all the professionalism, the routines, the long years of silent caretaking—

Crest felt proud.

She stepped out of the house, quietly closing the sliding door behind her.

In her hand, a cold drink glistened with condensation.

"Here," she said simply, offering it to him.

Julian turned his head, still lying in the grass, breath slowly returning to normal.

"Oh. Thank you," he said, sitting up and taking the cup.

The water hit like a blessing—cold, sharp, refreshing.

Crest stood beside him, her eyes soft but unreadable.

"I won't ask what happened," she said at last, "and I don't want to know. I just hope... you stay healthy. Whatever this is, keep going."

Julian looked up at her.

For once, there was no awkwardness between them.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Then, after a beat: "Can you buy me a football?"

Crest blinked.

"A soccer ball," Julian added quickly, remembering where he was. "Just to be clear. This is America—I don't want you bringing me a brown egg."

Crest gave him a long look.

Then… smiled faintly.

"Okay."

…

It didn't take long.

By noon, a box was delivered.

Julian opened it like it contained treasure.

Inside: a brand-new soccer ball—black and white, crisp and clean.

Its surface shone in the sun like polished leather.

Julian walked into the yard.

Placed the ball on the grass.

And pressed his foot gently against it.

Then he kicked.

It rolled.

He followed.

Then again.

And again.

But it was awkward.

Unstable.

His balance faltered.

His touches were stiff. His dribbling clumsy.

Like a child learning how to walk again.

He tried to imitate the moves he saw in the videos—

Cruyff turns, elasticos, drag backs—

But his feet wouldn't listen.

His body didn't flow.

But still… he moved.

He fell.

Skinned a knee.

Cursed under his breath.

 But he got back up, again and again, brushing dirt from his legs and trying once more. Every mistake etched itself into his muscle memory.

And slowly, the rhythm began to return.

[System Quest Alert]

Train with ball

Juggling: 10 times, uninterrupted

Wall Pass: 10 times, clean return

Dribbling: Follow System path markers

Target Shooting: Hit 10 bullseyesReward: +5 Attribute

[ Accept Quest? ]

[Yes] [No]

Julian raised an eyebrow.

"So… I can run multiple quests at once?"

[Correct. You now have access to concurrent quest slots.]

"Then bring it on," he muttered.

He pressed [ Yes].

He picked the ball back up.

Tossed it into the air.

It dropped.

He tried to juggle.

One. Two.

Drop.

Again.

One. Two. Three.

Drop.

Frustrating? Yes.

Impossible? No.

He reset his stance.

Eyes narrowed.

"Let's begin for real."