CHAPTER 37: CHAPTER 37: ONE STUDY. ONE STEP. ONE SCAR.

A good day.

A brutal match.

A greasy burger.

Not a bad way to end it.

Julian lay on his bed, the scent of Queen Burger still faint on his fingertips. His legs were wrapped and elevated, muscles sore in a way that only reminded him he was alive. But sleep? Sleep refused to come.

The city outside pulsed softly with life, the glow of distant traffic filtering through the curtains like flickering embers.

Instead of closing his eyes, Julian reached for his phone.

At first, his fingers instinctively went to search for football footage—match highlights, tactical breakdowns, old legends of the game.

But he paused.

Then, with a blink... he typed something else:

"Sports medicine: muscle recovery"

The screen lit up.

And with it, so did something in him.

Julian’s eyes scanned rapidly, devouring the information. First came the basics—names of muscles: abdominals, pectorals, quadriceps, hamstrings. Not just nicknames, but real names. Structures. Attachments. Functions. Even diagrams—clean and labeled.

Bones. Tendons. Ligaments. Blood vessels.

Each term opened into another web of knowledge.

Each image painted a clearer picture of the human machine.

In his past life, there were healers. Of course there were. Potions, rituals, high-tier regeneration arrays... But all of it was cloaked behind secrets and class. Knowledge hoarded by those in the Magic Towers. Forbidden to the weak. Closed off to mortals.

Here?

Here, knowledge lived in the light.

One page led to another. How drugs interacted with receptors. How anti-inflammatories worked. How physical therapy was designed to not only heal—but prevent.

How athletes could extend their careers.

How muscle fibers tore, rebuilt, strengthened.

How the body remembered.

Adapted.

Grew.

It was brilliant. No, it was beautiful.

Science was their magic.

This world didn’t worship power in bloodlines or awakenings. It honored progress. Trial. Error. Evidence. Anyone could learn. Anyone could try.

Julian didn’t even realize how deeply he’d sunk in until he blinked and checked the time.

3:07 AM.

"...Damn."

His eyes were sore. His body, aching.

And still... he smiled.

The mortal world—so often dismissed in his past life—held wonders of its own. Wonders you didn’t need to be born special to unlock.

He turned off the phone and set it aside.

"I get it now," he whispered to the ceiling, voice low.

In this world, strength wasn’t just gifted.

It was built.

Bit by bit.

One study. One step. One scar at a time.

And with that thought burning in his chest like a quiet fire...

Julian finally closed his eyes.

...

The next morning.

A dull glow filtered through the curtains.

The warmth of morning light should’ve been calming—

But instead—

"Shit."

Julian shot up. His muscles screamed. His head spun.

He’d overslept.

In a flurry of motion—half-groggy, half-grimacing—he grabbed a clean set of clothes and limped out of the room. His legs still ached from the match, the soreness clinging to every joint and tendon like weights.

He entered the living room—and froze.

Crest was there. Already dressed. Already holding the car keys.

And in her other hand?

A wrapped sandwich.

She didn’t speak. Just handed it over like a soldier delivering rations.

Julian blinked. "...Thanks."

Still limping, he grabbed the sandwich, nodded awkwardly, and followed her to the car.

They arrived at school without much talk.

Julian stepped out, already peeling the wrapper from the sandwich as he made his way across campus. Still sore. Still limping.

But improving.

He bypassed the main building and made his way straight toward the clinic.

Creak.

The clinic door opened.

Sean Carver was already inside—seated behind the desk, sipping from a mug and scrolling on a tablet. He looked up the moment Julian stepped in.

"I thought you were going to ghost me," Sean said, raising an eyebrow. "Lie down."

Julian nodded and went straight to one of the treatment beds, dropping onto it with a grunt.

Sean didn’t waste time. Gloves on. Hands firm. He began the deep tissue massage, pressing into the tight muscles around Julian’s calves and thighs.

The pain came in waves.

Julian’s face contorted—grimace, relief, twitch, release.

Good.

Bad.

Worse.

Then better.

A rollercoaster made of flesh and nerves.

Finally, Sean gave one last squeeze of pressure—then smacked Julian’s thigh with the back of his hand.

"Alright. You’re clear."

Julian slowly sat up. Rolled his ankle. Bent his knee.

"...The limp’s almost gone," he muttered.

"Exactly," Sean replied. "You’re healing. But listen—your muscles are still adapting. From the way they feel under my hands, your body’s starting to develop—fast. But it’s not used to this kind of workload yet. So slow down."

He tapped the side of his head.

"Train smart. Not just hard."

Julian blinked. The words hit deeper than expected.

"...You can tell all that just from touch?"

Sean grinned. "It’s my job, kid. Years of experience. Your body tells me more than you ever will."

Julian nodded. Quiet. Respectful.

"Thank you."

He stood, adjusted his bag over his shoulder, and walked out the clinic door—

—this time with only the faintest hint of a limp.

...

The final bell rang. School was over.

Julian moved down the corridor slowly, his backpack slung over one shoulder. The ache in his legs was still there—low, dull, manageable.

Not gone.

But tamed.

He made his way toward the club building, the usual path worn in from memory now. The sun was dipping low outside the windows, casting golden streaks through the halls. Shadows danced under his feet.

Just as he passed the old trophy case—

"Yo, Ashford!"

He turned.

Riku and Leo were walking down from the other end, already in their practice shirts. Both looked relaxed—tired, but sharp-eyed.

Riku gave a quick nod toward Julian’s legs.

"How’s the damage?"

Julian smirked faintly. "Let’s just say I’m not limping like a corpse anymore."

"Hmm." Leo shot him a sideways glance, amused. "Good. Heal up fast—I’m expecting another crazy goal next match."

Julian let out a short breath of laughter, and Leo grinned, clearly recalling Julian’s ridiculous solo run from their first friendly match where julian run into the net—the one that silenced the field.

Then—

WHAM.

Two arms crashed down over Leo and Riku’s shoulders like a human trap, followed by a lanky body that dropped onto them with no warning.

Cael.

Of course.

"Brotherly love~!" he sang, slinging his long limbs over both of them like some oversized sloth. "What’s up, team~?"

"Get off me, you damn tree branch!" Riku growled, nearly buckling under Cael’s weight.

But Cael just clung tighter, laughing like a menace.

Leo, face deadpan, sighed. "Cael, you weigh like a small cow."

"And yet you both carry me. That’s real friendship," Cael beamed.

"You want friendship or fists?" Riku snarled, twisting under his grip.

"I’ll take fists—with a side of fries," Cael quipped, before launching himself backward in a dramatic spin and bolting down the hallway like a man possessed.

"You little—!"

Riku didn’t hesitate—he chased after him full speed, nearly knocking over a trash can in the process.

Julian stood there, watching the chaos unfold like a scene from a slice-of-life comedy.

The ache in his legs was still there.

But the smile that tugged at his lips?

That was real.