CHAPTER 48: CHAPTER 48: THE NUMBER OF KINGS

Before Julian even touched the machine, he stood still—calculating.

100 kilometers in one week. That meant over 62 miles.

Break that down—at least 10 kilometers (6.2 miles) per day, and on some days, it’d have to be double. No room to slack.

And then came the numbers that mattered just as much.

Bench Press: 5000 KG (11,023 lbs) in a week.

He gripped the cold bar of the bench press machine. No weights loaded. Just the bar. 20 KG (44 lbs).

That meant he’d have to push it 250 times, minimum. Just to meet quota.

Squats: 3000 KG (6,613 lbs).

The machine’s default load was 10 KG (22 lbs).

So 300 clean squats. If he added more? Fewer reps. But greater risk.

And lastly—Stretch & Core: 7 sessions.

Daily. No exceptions.

Julian nodded to himself. This wasn’t about pushing. This was about building.

The foundation that would carry a future emperor.

He closed his eyes.

[Hey ASHI, can you read my thoughts?]

[Only if you transmit them, Host.]

Julian inhaled deeply.

The air filled his lungs, cool and steady, as he let his thoughts drift—not in chaos, but in purpose.

He reached into the depths of memory, pulling up ancient sequences burned into muscle and spirit. Silent monks.

Stone courtyards. The sting of cold wind across bare skin as he bent and stretched before dawn.

The Lotus Stretch.

[You got that, ASHI?]

[Confirmed. It counts toward Core & Flexibility sessions.]

[Good.]

He opened his eyes.

No more hesitation. No more excuses. Just movement.

Julian stepped onto the treadmill. The hum of machinery greeted him like a low growl from a caged beast. He turned the dial—fast, faster.

Until the belt moved with a speed that tested his breath, balance, and resolve.

And he ran.

His footsteps hit the belt in a controlled rhythm. Thud. Thud. Thud. Each stride hammered the ground like a vow.

His breath drew in, hissed out. His heart pounded a steady war drum inside his chest.

Sweat beaded at his temples, ran down his spine, soaked into his shirt.

But his mind didn’t drift.

Didn’t beg for rest.

Didn’t calculate escape.

Instead, it counted.

Kilometers. Kilograms. Reps. Sets.

Not to chase a better body.

Not to get abs or muscle lines.

But because every second was a forge.

Every drop of sweat, a blade.

Every ache in his legs, a scar reforged into strength.

Julian wasn’t training.

He was rebuilding a weapon.

Because the path to greatness had no shortcuts.

Only pain.

Only grit.

Only sweat.

And he would pay the price, one brutal rep at a time.

...

A few hours later, Julian exhaled hard, sinking to the floor after completing his cooldown stretch.

His shirt clung to his skin. His breath came in slow, ragged pulls. The treadmill still whirred in idle mode beside him, a mechanical beast now silenced.

[ASHI, show me my progress.]

Jogging: 20 / 100 KM (62 miles)

Bench Press: 780 / 5000 KG (11,023 lbs)

Squats: 470 / 3000 KG (6,614 lbs)

Stretch & Core: 1 / 7 Sessions

Julian leaned against the wall, letting the data settle in. Not bad for Day 1. Not enough either. But it was progress. Real progress.

Today was Sunday. No school. No matches. A day off, technically.

But for someone chasing the top, there were no true days off.

Still... he couldn’t push too hard. Overtraining would break him faster than anything else. Rest wasn’t weakness—it was part of the process.

Rest was strategy.

He stepped out of the gym, wiping sweat from his neck with a towel.

Crest sat in the living room, casually munching on toast, eyes flicking toward him as he entered.

"You wanna join?" she asked, lifting her fork toward the food spread across the small dining table.

Julian’s stomach roared like a wild beast.

"Yeahhh," he groaned, dragging his legs like a half-dead warrior stumbling back from war.

But the moment he stepped closer—Crest flinched, wrinkling her nose.

She extended one foot and pressed it flat against his chest like a wall. "Stop."

Julian blinked. "What? I’m starving!"

Her face turned sharp. "Shower. Now."

"But—" he pleaded, eyes darting to the food like a starving puppy.

"No buts. You reek." Her voice was stern, maternal, and absolutely not up for debate. "Go. Shower."

Julian raised both hands in surrender. "...Fine."

Even he had to admit—he could smell himself now. That musky, post-training funk wasn’t just sweat. It was battlefield aftermath.

He trudged to the bathroom, stripped off the soaked shirt, and let the water wash over him. Hot, cleansing, and just short of scalding. It felt like his body was finally allowed to breathe.

After scrubbing off every trace of war, he came back, towel-dried and fresh, and dropped into the seat beside her.

Crest pushed a plate toward him without looking up. "Good boy."

Julian didn’t reply.

He just started eating.

Every bite tasted better when earned through pain.

...

Monday.

The world turned again.

At exactly 5:00 AM, Julian’s eyes opened.

No alarm. No voice. Just instinct.

He moved like a machine—into the gym, through the door, into the grind.

Two hours of focused training.

Sweat. Burn. Breath. Numbers.

Jogging. Bench. Squats. Core.

The rhythm of war, this time fought against metal and resistance.

By 7:00 AM, he was done.

And by 7:45 AM, he was walking through the school gates like any other student.

Almost.

The day passed quickly. Notes, lectures, classmates—just noise in the background. His mind was elsewhere. Focused. Waiting.

When the final bell rang, he made his way straight to the football club room.

Most of the team was already inside—Leo lounging in a chair, Cael tapping his knee, Riku with earbuds in, Aaron and Tariq sharing a bag of chips.

Julian stepped in.

Only two were missing—himself, and Coach Owens.

He took his seat beside Cael.

Cael glanced over. "How was your Sunday? What’d you do?"

Julian shrugged. "Worked out."

Riku leaned in, curious. "Where?"

"At home."

Riku’s brow furrowed. "You’ve got equipment at home?"

Julian nodded once, casually.

Riku and Cael exchanged a glance.

"...Damn," Cael muttered under his breath, thinking, This kid’s gotta be rich or something.

Before anyone else could comment, the door swung open.

Coach Owens stepped inside, dragging a black tactical board behind him.

"Alright, eyes front. Everyone take your seats and shut your mouths."

The room went still.

Coach Owens set the board down and grabbed a marker. His voice was calm—but heavy with weight.

"We’re starting regular season this week," he said. "First match is Friday night. Seven teams in our region, which means fourteen matches—home and away."

He looked around the room. "I’ve already registered our team with CIF. That part’s done."

He raised one finger in the air.

"Our target is simple: Number one."

The room buzzed. No one dared speak—but the tension was real now. Palpable. Almost electric.

"There are three teams you need to watch for. They qualified last year: Riverside Prep. San Dimas High. Crenshaw North."

Coach Owens tapped the board hard with the marker. "Maybe fate’s testing us early, because our first match is away against Riverside Prep."

A few players murmured.

"Be ready," Owens said.

Then he turned the board around, revealing the official starting lineup:

...

STARTING XI – LINCOLN HIGH

#1 – Cael Morgan (GK)

#2 – Riku Tanaka (CB)

#3 – Tariq Okoye (CB)

#4 – Zion Blake (LB)

#5 – Liam Walker (RB)

#6 – Aaron Bishop (CDM)

#8 – Ethan Rhodes (CDM)

#11 – Felix Moreno (RW)

#12 – Tyrell Brooks (LW)

#10 – Leonardo Luz (AM)

#7 – Julian Ashford (ST)

...

SUBSTITUTES

#9 – Noah Kim (ST)

#13 – Ricky Zhang (AM)

#14 – Miles Carter (LB)

#15 – Caleb Dominguez (CB)

#16 – Damien Silva (GK)

...

"And that’s the squad," Coach Owens said. "Laura—uniforms."

Laura, a student manager in team gear, rolled in a box and began handing out jerseys.

Julian received his.

#7.

He stared at it for a long moment.

His fingers traced the number, as if to make sure it was real.

Number 7.

A number of legends. A number of kings.

He had always liked it—even in his past life.

Now? It felt like fate had spoken.

Reborn in number 7.