King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

Just like he promised himself—

Julian trained. Ate. Trained again. Slept. Then repeated it all.

Day after day.

And in those three days, his body responded.

The sickly thinness he once carried—

Vanished.

His frame, once delicate and brittle, now looked firm, balanced.

Muscles bloomed along his arms and legs, not bulky, but defined—coiled strength beneath the skin.

His eyes, once glassy and hollow, filled with something new:

Focus. Fire. Life.

Weight: 54kg → 60kg.

Not just fat—

Muscle.

His back straightened.

His footsteps grew heavier.

When he stood in front of a mirror after trimming his hair, even he paused.

"This is… me?"

If someone saw Julian Ashford from two weeks ago…

and then saw him today—

They wouldn't recognize him.

His skin had regained color. Not too tan, but healthy.

His collarbones no longer jutted out sharply—now padded by lean mass and strength.

Even his posture had changed, like his spine remembered it once belonged to a warrior, not a sickly heir.

And now—he sat in the passenger seat of a sleek black car, staring out the window.

The world moved past in blurred color and fading sunlight.

Crest was driving.

She hadn't said much since they left the house.

When Julian first told her he was going to play football, she looked at him like he was a ghost.

"You? Football? In a public park?"

Julian understood her reaction.

He'd spent years unable to walk across a room—

now he was joining a competitive match.

At first, he told her not to worry.

That he could take a cab. That she didn't need to get involved.

But Crest refused.

"Not for your first time," she said firmly.

"I'll drop you off. I'll park far away. I won't interfere… but I won't let you go alone."

Julian didn't argue.

And now here they were—

Crest behind the wheel, and Julian in his new gear, legs bouncing in quiet anticipation.

His heartbeat wasn't racing out of fear. It was sharp, fast—like a war drum inside his ribs.

 The anticipation wasn't anxiety.

It was hunger.

A wild part of him, dormant for so long, finally stirred.

The field called to him like an old battlefield yearning for blood and glory.

The stadium wasn't big.

It wasn't a professional venue.

Just a well-maintained local field at West Glendale Park—

tucked behind rows of trees and aging fences.

But to Julian?

It was a battlefield.

And his war was about to begin.

…

After Crest pulled into the lot and parked, Julian opened the door.

"Bye, Crest."

He gave a casual wave, stepping out into the cooling evening air.

Crest leaned toward the open window.

"Remember—play safely. Don't be reckless. And don't push yourself too hard."

Her tone was light, but her eyes carried the weight of someone who had watched him break once already.

Now she was watching him try to fly.

Julian smiled—quiet, but real.

There was warmth in her care, the kind that still felt strange.

Family...

That word still carried poison.

In his previous life, the people who shared his blood had done nothing but betray him.

But Crest?

Crest was… something else.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

He slung his sport bag over one shoulder.

Inside: cleats, shin guards, socks, a towel, a bottle of water.

He wore a dark navy-blue football jersey—an English Premier League kit.

One of the top clubs in the world.

He'd chosen it not for loyalty, but for symbolism.

"Play like the best. Aim even higher."

The number on the back? 7.

 A nod to the greats. But more importantly—a reminder. In many cultures, 7 was a number of completeness.

For Julian, it marked the rebirth of purpose.

Julian walked across the gravel path, through the open gate, and into the mini football stadium.

The field was surrounded by green wire mesh, high and clean.

Floodlights buzzed quietly above, washing the turf in silver-white light.

He was the first to arrive.

He stepped through the mesh, jogged to a corner near the bench, and dropped his bag.

Shoes off.

Socks rolled.

Shin guards slid into place.

Cleats tightened.

He stood and began to warm up.

Light jogging.

Shoulder rolls.

Hip openers.

Controlled breathing.

He moved alone, but his rhythm was steady.

The kind of warm-up that came from discipline, not coaching.

From hunger, not routine.

Every stretch was sharp.

Every breath calculated.

In another life, his body had trained with spears and iron weights.

Now, it adapted to new tools: turf and leather. But the will? That was eternal.

From the app, Julian already knew the setup.

7v7.

22 players total.

Each team with 7 starters and 4 substitutes.

A clean, competitive environment.

Fast-paced.

Small-sided.

High pressure.

Julian kept jogging along the edge of the pitch, building tempo, syncing his breathing, loosening his joints.

Then—

Footsteps.

The first player stepped through the gate with quiet confidence—

like someone returning to familiar ground.

His hair was a tousled wave of dark brown, like he'd just stepped off another match.

Golden hazel eyes swept the field with calm precision—

not just looking, but analyzing, like a tactician mapping the first five minutes of war.

Light bronze skin caught the glow of the stadium lights.

His face—high cheekbones, sharp jawline, expressive brows—held a quiet, magnetic intensity.

No wasted movement.

No nervous energy.

Just control.

Even his gear was immaculate.

A black jersey tucked neatly, matching shorts, and bright orange cleats that looked both worn and trusted.

This wasn't a casual player. This was someone who played often—and played to win.

He spotted Julian mid-jog and raised an eyebrow.

"Oh? Someone's already here?"

Julian slowed, stopped, and stepped forward.

"My name is Julian," he said, offering a handshake.

The man smirked slightly, then bumped his fist instead.

"We do this here," he said with a chuckle.

Julian adjusted quickly and returned the fist bump.

"Leonardo Luz," the man said, his voice smooth and unhurried.

"I run this little community. Organized most of the matches around here."

He tilted his head slightly.

"First time I've seen you, yeah?"

Julian nodded.

"Yeah. First time."

Leonardo gave a single nod and offered a friendly pat on the shoulder.

"Then welcome. Hope you enjoy your run."