The last match of the season.

Drochtersen/Assel.

A top-three team. A wall of steel and precision — the kind of opponent built to expose weakness.

But Julian Ashford had not been standing still.

For months, while others rested between fixtures, he trained — relentless, methodical, unstoppable.

With the Mentor System echoing in his mind and the HSV II coaching staff pushing his limits, his growth had gone from impressive… to terrifying.

Morning drills bled into midnight sessions. Every repetition honed his timing, his flow, his control. His strength no longer came from muscle alone — it came from the rhythm of mastery.

When he finally opened his status screen, even he had to pause.

…

User: Julian Ashford

Age: 17

State: Pro

Title: None

Exp Point : 158

…

CORE ATTRIBUTES

► Strength : 132

► Agility : 158

► Stamina : 125

► Technique : 135

► Perception : 125

► Instinct : 124

► Charisma : 50

Total Stat: 849

…

He had entered in March.

Now it was July.

From a forgotten high school player in America —

to a name whispered through the fourth division of Germany.

Julian Ashford, seventeen, standing on the edge of eighteen.

The boy who once hid behind shadows now carried the air of someone carved for command.

His features had settled — sharper now, balanced between two worlds.

The quiet strength of his Asian heritage met the bold sharpness of his American blood.

Soft lines, but a hard gaze.

A contradiction that drew the eye — and held it.

He kept his hair short — a warrior's cut. Rain or sweat never touched his eyes when he moved.

Those eyes, deep brown and steady, carried the weight of both calculation and fire.

And beneath the stadium lights, they didn't just see the field — they ruled it.

He wasn't just the Emperor of the pitch anymore.

He was becoming a face.

Even now, Sabrina's phone was full — brand offers, sponsorship requests, press inquiries.

But she kept them all waiting.

She didn't want small names or quick deals.

She wanted something worthy of the empire he was building.

And on the field, Julian had become HSV II's cheat code — not just in power, not just in stats,

but in presence.

Every time he stepped onto the pitch, order followed.

Every match he played changed everything.

The rumors were already spreading — that Julian Ashford would be called up to HSV's first team the moment the season ended.

But for Julian, nothing was ever certain until it happened.

And even then, the first team was just another step.

His path didn't end there.

It only began.

"Julian!" Coach Soner's voice cut through the chatter. "Come to my office after the match."

Julian glanced up from his stretches, sweat already tracing lines down his jaw.

"Yes, sir."

"Finish the warm-up," Soner said, crossing his arms. "We start soon. Locker room in five."

The whistle blew; the squad began jogging off the pitch.

Boots thudded, laughter filled the air, the smell of turf and rain lingering under the stadium lights.

"Congrats, dude," Mageed said, falling into step beside him, grinning wide. "It's basically official, right? You're moving up."

Julian gave a small shake of his head. "Not yet. I'll believe it when I see it."

"Man, you're too humble," Mageed groaned. "Just admit it—you're the golden boy now."

Anssi joined from the other side, smirking. "Yeah, makes me kinda sad. Our youngest prodigy's leaving the nest already."

Luis followed, mock sighing. "Not even eighteen and he's ditching us."

Julian laughed, brushing rain from his hair. "Hey, I'm not dead, alright? Still here. Still playing."

"Yeah, yeah," Mageed said, bumping his shoulder. "Until the big guys steal you."

Julian just smiled—calm, knowing.

"Then I'll give them a reason to."

…

For the final match, he wasn't starting.

Coach Soner's decision wasn't about doubt—it was about design.

With Julian on the pitch, the game always bent too easily toward order.

He needed his squad to struggle. To learn how to suffer.

But on the bench, Julian's feet never stopped moving.

He wanted in.

Every muscle itched for the fight.

The opening whistle cut through the damp air.

Five minutes in, disaster struck—HSV's backline fumbled a clearance, and Drochtersen pounced.

Goal. 1–0.

The home crowd groaned; the visitors roared.

Julian leaned forward, eyes locked on the pitch.

The game dragged on in deadlock—HSV chasing shadows, Bremen's tempo tightening like a noose.

He looked toward Soner.

Soner didn't look back.

Not yet.

Halftime came.

The locker room shook under Soner's fury.

Water bottles hit the floor. Words like thunder. Discipline reborn in rage.

Then—second half.

Minute 50.

Minute 60.

Minute 70.

Still nothing.

Usually, this was the moment Julian was unleashed.

But not today.

He sat silent, knuckles tight, every sense burning.

Minute 80.

Finally, Soner's voice: "Ashford. Warm up."

Julian stood instantly, stretching, sprinting the sideline.

Rain fell again—thin, cutting.

He could feel the crowd stirring, sensing something.

Minute 82.

Minute 83.

Minute 84.

Minute 85.

Five minutes left.

Still waiting.

Then, at last—minute 87.

"Julian, you're in," Soner said simply.

Julian nodded once, stripping off his jacket, boots already slick with rain.

Three minutes. Maybe five.

That's all he needed.

He stepped to the sideline, breathing in the tension, then shouted to no one and everyone—

"Let's finish this!"

The crowd answered in thunder.

Chants. Drums. Fists pounding against metal rails.

For the first time all match, the field woke up.

Julian crossed the white line—

And the pitch bent.

849 base stats.

Every passive skill active.

His body moved at over a thousand points of power and precision combined.

He wasn't playing football anymore.

He was rewriting it.

Even without calling a single skill, his rhythm was divine.

Each step carved patterns through the rain.

Each touch drew invisible lines of geometry.

He didn't rush. He commanded.

First attack—

A faint, a turn, a strike.

The goalkeeper's glove snapped out, barely pushing it wide.

Second chance—

A rebound, low and sharp—blocked again.

Third—

A drive through the center, weaving past two defenders as if they were ghosts.

Every movement tilted the match further toward HSV's side.

Every heartbeat on the field began to match his.

By minute 90, even the crowd could feel it—the shift, the inevitability.

Julian took the ball near the halfway line, spun past his marker, slipped through two more, and broke into the box.

One defender lunged. Too late.

The keeper rushed forward. Too soon.

Julian's shot came clean, low, merciless.

The net rippled.

1–1.

The stadium exploded.

It wasn't a victory—but it felt like one.

Because one player had turned despair into equilibrium.

And in that moment, as the noise swallowed the world, Julian felt something click inside him — a quiet satisfaction, not of joy, but recognition.

The way the ball had obeyed him, the way the rhythm had fallen perfectly in sync… it wasn't luck. It was dominion. The silent language of the pitch now spoke only in his tongue.

When the whistle finally blew, Julian just stood there, rain dripping from his hair, chest heaving, eyes calm.

Another test. Another line crossed.

…

The locker room was a storm of laughter, steam, and celebration.

Julian moved through it like calm water—shower, towel, clothes—his mind already elsewhere.

He still had one thing left to do.

He stopped outside Coach Soner's office, knocked twice.

"Come in," came the voice from within.

Julian entered.

Soner sat on the worn leather sofa, jacket off, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. The faint hum of the rain outside filled the silence between them.

"Sit," Soner said.

Julian obeyed, dropping into the chair across from him.

Soner didn't waste time.

"I'll get straight to the point," he said, voice low, measured. "The first team called you up. Do you accept?"

Julian blinked once, then nodded. "Of course."

"Good."

Soner leaned forward, extending his hand. "Starting next season, you'll train and play with HSV's first team. You're ready for it."

Julian took his hand firmly. "Thank you, Coach."

Soner's lips curved in a rare, small smile. "When I first heard they'd signed a high school kid who'd never played professionally, I thought it was madness. My mistake."

Julian couldn't help but smile back. "I'm glad to prove you wrong."

"Don't get comfortable proving me wrong," Soner said, his tone turning dry again. "Just keep proving yourself right."

Julian rose, nodded once more. "Yes, Coach."

For a moment, neither spoke. The rain outside softened — the kind that didn't fall, but drifted.

Soner finally exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You're stepping into a different world now, Ashford. Bigger stage. Bigger storms. Don't lose what makes you, you."

Julian nodded, quietly. "I won't. This isn't the end. Just the next battlefield."

Outside, the stadium lights still glowed against the drizzle, the field below gleaming faintly under the night. He looked back once — not in sentiment, but in promise. The lower league had been his crucible, his forge. And now, at last, the gate of the next realm opened before him.

Julian Ashford, seventeen years old — Prodigy. Emperor. Future.

The ascent continued.

The Emperor's ascent had only just begun.