The days bled together.

Training. Reflection. Repetition.

Julian moved through it all like clockwork — not rushing, not burning, just building.

Morning runs through drizzle-soaked streets.

Afternoons with the mentor system, refining balance, refining the body.

Evenings watching match replays until movement became instinct.

The rhythm of discipline had replaced the rhythm of chaos.

He woke and slept by the same pulse — breath, stride, silence. The city outside changed, but within him, the current stayed still and sharp.

The hum of distant trains, the smell of wet asphalt, the soft glow of dawn filtering through fog — all became part of his meditation.

Each day, his mind returned briefly to the boots resting in his locker — The Ashenstride, dormant now, but humming faintly with a life of its own.

He hadn't used them since Bremen. He didn't need to.

He was learning to make himself the weapon again.

There was something sacred in restraint — the art of holding power until the world forgot you still possessed it.

To him, patience was not weakness. It was control sharpened to an edge unseen.

…

A week passed.

HSV II prepared for their next league match — SV Todesfelde, ranked seventeenth on the table.

A team barely hanging in the league, dangerous only in desperation.

Julian didn't even get the call.

Neither did Mageed, Fabio, or Hermann.

Coach Soner rotated the squad completely — young prospects, fringe players, a few experienced ones to keep the shape intact.

The message was clear.

The core rests. The system tests.

Julian stayed behind at Campus, training under gray skies while others boarded the bus.

The sound of rain against the roof mixed with the echo of boots on wet turf — solitary, precise.

Cold air kissed his lungs, and each exhale came out like smoke, fading into the mist around him.

He didn't complain.

He didn't even ask.

He understood.

This wasn't punishment.

It was refinement.

In solitude, he could hear the small corrections that crowds drowned out — the sound of his foot striking perfectly, the whisper of his breath syncing with motion.

The field was empty, yet alive — each droplet of rain, each echo of his steps, an answer to his discipline.

…

When the scoreline came in later that evening, the result surprised no one.

HSV II – 2

SV Todesfelde – 3

A narrow loss.

But with the experimental lineup, it was a success in Soner's eyes.

Julian read the post-match report on his phone while cooling down on the training pitch.

One sentence stood out, written by a small local blog:

"Even without their Emperor, HSV II fought like soldiers."

Julian smiled faintly, tossing the phone aside.

Rain began to fall again, soft and rhythmic.

He looked toward the empty stands, toward the floodlights glowing in fog.

"Good," he murmured. "Let them fight. I'll make sure the Empire's ready when it counts."

His words vanished into mist, but their weight lingered — a promise spoken to no one, yet heard by everything around him.

And with that, he tied his boots — The Ashenstride gleaming faintly under the gray — and began another drill.

Because to Julian Ashford, victory wasn't won on matchdays.

It was forged in the quiet between battles.

And the quiet, he'd learned, was merciless.

It peeled weakness layer by layer until only steel remained.

…

The quiet days ended with another test.

Another battlefield.

Week Two — St. Pauli II.

Mid-table. Tenth in the Regionalliga Nord. A side known for grit rather than beauty.

Julian's name appeared on the roster this time — but not in the starting eleven.

Bench role. Observation first, action later.

Coach Soner didn't need to explain why. Julian understood.

Sometimes, the Emperor waits before he strikes.

Sometimes, restraint was deadlier than motion.

The match began under a pale afternoon sky.

St. Pauli pressed early — aggressive, relentless. Their wingers stretched the pitch, hammering HSV's back line.

The crowd roared in bursts, chants cutting through cold wind.

By halftime, the scoreboard read 2–0.

On the bench, Julian sat still, elbows on knees, eyes locked on the field.

He wasn't frustrated. He was studying — reading movement, rhythm, weakness.

Every press. Every breath. Every hesitation.

He tracked them like a hunter memorizing a forest — not rushing to act, only watching the patterns of prey reveal themselves.

When Soner finally turned toward him in the 70th minute, he didn't even need to speak.

Julian was already standing, tugging on his shirt, expression calm.

The storm had been patient long enough.

The change was immediate.

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.3: +50 To All Attributes]

The flow bent.

Passes began to align.

Tempo steadied.

He didn't force chaos — he redirected it.

Like a general turning an ambush into a counterattack.

Minute 74 — an assist to Fabio.

Minute 81 — a solo drive through two defenders.

Minute 88 — a curled finish from the edge of the box.

Final score: HSV II 3 – 2 St. Pauli II.

…

The bench erupted.

Soner just crossed his arms, watching in that same quiet satisfaction he'd worn since Bremen.

Julian walked off the pitch after full-time with his shirt clinging to sweat and rain, breath steady.

Another comeback. Another small empire reclaimed.

The whispers from the crowd followed him toward the tunnel:

"He's like a cheat code."

"Every time he steps on, the whole game changes."

Julian didn't react — just the faintest curve of a smile.

Because to him, this wasn't luck or magic.

It was inevitability.

And inevitability was what made emperors.

He'd been one before — in another world, under another sun — and the echoes of that reign still breathed through his veins.

Now, those echoes found rhythm again, reborn in boots and breath, in turf and thunder.

…

Another week. Another battle.

SV Meppen.

Ranked sixth — solid, experienced, a side that punished hesitation.

Julian sat on the bench again, expression unreadable beneath the cool afternoon light.

No start. No minutes.

He watched. Studied. Waited.

But this time, the call never came.

Ninety minutes passed — and HSV II fell, 3–1.

He didn't complain. Didn't question.

When the final whistle blew, he simply rose, adjusted his jacket, and walked back to the tunnel.

The air smelled faintly of wet grass and defeat — sharp, honest, humbling.

Sometimes the empire doesn't advance.

Sometimes, it watches the battlefield burn and learns how to rebuild.

Loss had a texture too — the kind that clung to the skin like ash, teaching patience through sting.

And Julian carried that ash like war paint.

…

The next week brought Holstein Kiel II — bottom of the table, eighteenth place.

No starters were called.

The line-up was a patchwork of academy hopefuls and reserve fillers.

Julian didn't even lace his boots.

From the stands, he watched the match unfold under a gray, wind-cut sky.

His breath clouded the glass barrier before him as he leaned forward, silent.

Disjointed passes. Hesitant presses. A team without rhythm.

Final score: 1–2.

Another loss.

Second in a row.

The fans groaned; the commentators murmured about fatigue, rotation, and "experimentation."

Julian said nothing.

He just stood when the final whistle blew, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the field.

Every defeat was data.

Every mistake, a map.

Because he knew — when the Emperor returned to the pitch, order would return with him.

He could already feel the storm gathering beneath still waters.

And the stillness was deceptive — the calm before the empire's march.

…

Another week. Another test.

SC Weiche 08 — ranked thirteenth, a mid-table team that lived on chaos and counters.

After two straight defeats, Soner had seen enough.

Julian's name appeared on the sheet again — not as a starter, but on the bench.

The first half dragged.

HSV II dominated possession but failed to break through.

Missed chances. Sloppy rhythm. The echoes of the last two losses still lingered in their feet.

When the whistle blew for halftime, the score was 0–0.

The players' shoulders sagged; even the crowd's noise felt thinner, expectant.

Soner didn't look at the bench. Not yet.

But in the sixtieth minute—

He finally turned.

"Julian."

A single word, but it carried the weight of command.

Julian stood, rolled his shoulders once, and stepped forward.

The crowd stirred. The substitutes' bench fell silent.

He jogged onto the field — gray boots gleaming faintly under sunlight.

The air felt heavier, charged. Even the grass seemed to wait.

And the rhythm changed.

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.3: +100 To All Attributes]

From the moment his foot touched the ball, the empire moved again.

His first touch broke a line.

His second tore through a defender.

His third — goal.

Then another.

And another.

And another.

Four goals.

In thirty minutes.

The scoreboard read 4–0 by the time the whistle blew.

No chaos. No luck. Just order — perfected.

The crowd didn't chant his name this time.

They stood and stared, half in awe, half in disbelief.

Even Soner didn't smile — only crossed his arms and nodded once.

Julian walked off the field calm, eyes forward, breath steady.

The setting sun reflected off his damp hair like a faint crown of ash.

For him, it wasn't a comeback.

It was a reminder.

The Emperor hadn't disappeared.

He had simply been watching — waiting — for the right time to reclaim his throne.

And when he did, even silence bowed.