CHAPTER 181: CHAPTER 181: THE EMPEROR’S ECHO

The rain had stopped.

Only the scent of wet grass and iron hung in the air.

Julian stood near the touchline, sweat cooling under the floodlights as the crowd’s roar refused to fade.

"Nice one, kid!"

"Call him up to the first team!"

"Bring HSV back to the Bundesliga!"

The voices came from everywhere — scattered, raw, real.

It wasn’t just noise. It was recognition.

Julian exhaled, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small, tired smile.

He didn’t raise his hands or bow to the chants. He didn’t need to.

The pitch had already spoken for him.

Steam rose faintly from the ground where the rain met the heat of floodlight glare. The blades of grass glistened like threads of emerald steel, slick beneath the shadows of exhausted players.

The stadium air tasted of sweat and rain — sharp, metallic — the kind of night where victory smelled like iron and breath.

Somewhere in the stands, a camera light flickered — a fan recording the moment.

Somewhere online, his name was already spreading again.

But Julian didn’t care about that yet.

Not now.

His boots pressed into the soaked turf one last time before he turned toward the tunnel.

Every step felt heavier — not from exhaustion, but from meaning.

The chants bled into echoes behind him, rolling like distant thunder trapped beneath the roof of the stands.

He could still feel the vibration of their energy through his soles — faint tremors that refused to die, as though the crowd itself didn’t want to let him go.

This win, this performance... it wasn’t just another match.

It was a message.

If the first team hadn’t noticed before — they would now.

Julian ran a hand through his damp hair, letting the sound of the stadium fade behind him.

The cheers dimmed. The hum of the floodlights softened.

What remained was a quiet pulse in his chest — steady, certain.

Another step forward.

Another wall broken.

For a brief second, he felt it again — that faint, unseen ripple beneath his skin. The same force that once surged when he faced martial titans in another life.

The crowd was gone, yet the energy of battle lingered, settling in his bones.

He pushed open the locker room door, the echoes of victory still trailing behind him.

...

By the time everyone had filed in — jerseys clinging, boots caked with mud — the air inside felt heavier than outside. The buzz of triumph died quickly when the door slammed shut again.

The locker room reeked of turf, sweat, and the wet synthetic smell of damp uniforms. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, humming like bees trapped in glass.

Steam rose from the players’ shoulders, and the sound of dripping water from cleats tapped a rhythm against the tile floor.

Coach Soner entered.

No smile.

No applause.

Just that cold, unreadable face.

Julian straightened instinctively. Something was off.

"Bad game," Soner said flatly. His tone cut through the room like steel.

"You think a win makes it good? You think one player saving the scoreline makes it football?"

Silence. No one dared answer.

He stepped closer, his gaze sweeping across the room — defense, midfield, strikers.

"The defense lost shape for half the match. The midfield let them dictate tempo. Finishing? Wasteful. You let Lohne play their game. For seventy minutes, you were passengers."

The words landed hard — sharper than any defeat could’ve been.

Julian looked around. Heads lowered. Some clenched their fists.

Soner paused, eyes narrowing.

"We got lucky because one of you decided not to quit."

He didn’t look directly at Julian — but everyone knew who he meant.

Then, softer — but no less firm —

"Luck isn’t a plan. I don’t want heroes. I want a team that kills games before they turn to chaos."

He exhaled, long and slow, before finally turning toward the board.

"Three points is three points. Enjoy it. But remember — that performance doesn’t get you to the first team."

The silence that followed felt heavier than rain.

Soner left without another word.

Julian sat there, the sweat cooling on his skin, his pulse steady.

Even victory was a battlefield.

But that was what he liked about it. In youth football, people played to impress. In professional football, you played to survive.

The margin between hero and liability was thinner than breath — one mistake, one misread. And yet, in that thin space, Julian thrived.

He didn’t crave Soner’s approval — not anymore. He craved consistency. The kind that made coaches rely on him, not praise him. That was the mindset of professionals — to earn trust, not applause.

...

Julian walked back to the apartment through the quiet Hamburg streets, the night air cool against his skin. The floodlights of the campus still glowed faintly behind them — distant, fading.

Mageed walked beside him, hands buried in his jacket pockets.

"Man... we really played bad today," he muttered, kicking a loose pebble along the sidewalk.

Julian didn’t answer at first. His eyes were fixed ahead, calm, thoughtful.

"Thanks to you, we still won," Mageed added. "Three goals in ten minutes — that’s insane."

Julian shook his head. "Thanks to all of us. I can’t score if nobody moves, if nobody fights for the ball."

Mageed glanced at him, half smiling. "Yeah, maybe. But you turned the game."

They walked in silence for a few moments, the hum of passing cars filling the gaps between words.

"Coach was right, though," Mageed said finally. "We lost our shape. Our timing was off. It’s not just the defense — all of us. We looked like strangers out there."

Julian nodded slowly. "Then we fix it next time."

"Next time, huh?" Mageed looked up at the dim stars and laughed softly. "Guess that’s the only thing we can do."

Julian’s lips curved slightly. "Exactly. Play better. Learn faster."

Mageed nodded again, this time with more conviction.

They reached the corner of their apartment building — two silhouettes beneath the city lights, tired but unbroken.

Julian barely muttered a goodnight before heading straight for his room. The moment his head touched the pillow, the world vanished.

Sleep came like gravity — heavy, inevitable. His body demanded it, his mind resisted it. Even as darkness settled, his brain replayed the game frame by frame: where the passes broke, where the lines shifted, where opportunity waited. He wasn’t just resting. He was studying.

But Julian didn’t know what was happening while he slept.

His clip — the hat-trick, the comeback, the final header — was spreading like wildfire across the internet.

Everywhere.

Someone slowed the footage down — his calm expression before the header, the water flying off his hair mid-jump, the way he didn’t even celebrate after scoring.

A fan captioned it: "He’s built different." Within hours, it hit a million views. Within a day, five.

Old teammates commented. Football channels began stitching the clip. A journalist wrote: "Seventeen-year-old Julian Ashford is redefining composure." The storm Sabrina predicted had started — and Julian was the eye at the center.

...

Julian woke early, as always.

But the moment he sat up, pain exploded through his muscles.

"F—"

He hissed, dragging a hand down his face.

"Damn it."

Every nerve in his body screamed. It felt like he’d been hit by a truck — again.

He’d pushed his body past its limit, more than it was ever meant to go.

Even breathing hurt. His shoulders ached like bruised iron, and his calves throbbed as if still running. But beneath the fatigue, there was something alive — that burn of purpose that refused to die.

Still... it was manageable.

After all, he’d only played twenty minutes.

Short minutes.

But the kind that rewrote everything.

Before he could even swing his legs off the bed, the system chimed.

[Quest Complete]

The Architect’s Test

Objective: Make three viral clips by the end of the season. Each must be positive — goals, celebrations, or moments that capture attention.

Time Limit: End of Current Season

Reward: Contract with Sabrina Weiss + Fame-Boosting Item

Penalty: Lose Sabrina Weiss’s Interest

[Accept Reward?]

[YES] [NO]

Julian blinked.

He’d already finished it?

That fast?

He couldn’t help but smirk. "Guess that’s viral enough."

Without hesitation, he accepted.

Then he remembered — he hadn’t checked the reward from the previous mission either.

"Echo," he muttered, rubbing his neck. "Give me the details on the new items."

[Acknowledged, Host.]

The familiar hum of the system filled the air — faint, resonant, like a pulse behind his thoughts.

Light flickered across his vision, data streams forming in perfect symmetry.

...

➤ [Fame Candy]

Type: Item (One-Time Use)

Rank: Legendary

Effect: Boosts your Fame Attraction by +100% for a limited duration.

...

➤ [Flash Sock]

Type: Equipment

Rank: Legendary

Effect: Can be activated twice per match, granting +100 Agility for short bursts.

...

Julian studied the glowing icons.

The first one — Fame Candy — glittered gold and crimson, pulsing like a heartbeat. A single-use item, meant for exposure, for spotlight.

He smirked faintly. "Not yet. That one’s for when it matters."

But the second... that was different.

The Flash Sock shimmered silver-blue, arcs of light twisting around its outline. A weapon for acceleration. For timing. For strike.

Julian’s lips curved into a quiet grin.

"Now that," he murmured, "is something I can use."

Another edge. Another way forward.

The Emperor’s arsenal was growing.

Julian stood, stretching through the ache. The pain reminded him he was still human — but the System reminded him he was becoming something more.

He walked toward the window, looking over Hamburg’s skyline bathed in gray light. The world outside kept moving, unaware of what was coming.

He whispered to himself, voice barely audible.

"Not luck. Not hype. I earn everything."