CHAPTER 72: CHAPTER 72: THE STRIKE THAT SHOOK ORDER

The game raged on.

Lincoln pressed, passed, probed—but Crenshaw North’s wall refused to crack.

At the back, Javion stood like concrete molded into flesh. Every charge, every darting run, slammed into him and broke apart.

His presence anchored the chaos, turning wild pressure into a shield that Lincoln couldn’t pierce.

Even the crowd seemed to feed off his defiance.

Every time he intercepted a run, their voices rose, rolling like thunder across the bleachers.

His cleats carved trenches into the frostbitten turf, his breath fogging heavy in the winter air.

Lincoln’s players tried, again and again, but each attempt was devoured by the same immovable wall.

It felt less like they were playing against a defender and more like they were throwing themselves at the gates of a fortress.

The clock ticked. The cold gnawed deeper.

Then—

Prrrriitttt.

The referee’s whistle cut the air.

Halftime.

Lincoln trailed, 1–0.

...

On the bench, breaths came ragged, steaming in the freezing air. Laura rushed forward, arms stacked with towels and energy drinks.

Players gulped greedily, wiping sweat and frost from their brows.

The metal benches bit into their legs, cold enough to sting through the fabric of their shorts.

Steam curled up from their skin, a strange mix of sweat and winter chill.

Boots tapped nervously against the ground, creating a jittery rhythm that matched the pounding of their hearts.

Nobody wanted to meet each other’s eyes for too long. One mistake, one lapse, had already carved the scoreline against them.

But all eyes turned to the man walking toward them.

Coach Owen.

Everyone braced. They expected fire—an eruption. His jaw was tight, his eyes sharp. He could’ve unleashed thunder. Instead, his voice dropped low, steady.

"Okay... look at me."

The bench hushed.

"That first half? You played tight. You read the game. You didn’t collapse." His tone was calm, but there was iron beneath it.

"But they—" he jabbed a finger toward the white-and-teal across the pitch, "—they play in chaos. And chaos will always look dangerous... until instinct cuts it apart."

His gaze swept the team, golden light in his eyes reflecting torch-bright conviction.

Even Julian, sitting on the end of the bench, felt it—a heat that seemed to pierce straight through his chest.

Coach Owen wasn’t shouting, but his words cracked louder than any scream could have.

Each sentence weighed like steel, hammering against their doubts.

The frost, the noise, the scoreline—none of it mattered when his gaze locked onto them.

"So sharpen your instincts. Trust your perception. Don’t let their noise blind you."

The players leaned forward, hanging on every word.

"And so what if we’re one down? Every match so far—you’ve won by two. 2–0. That’s your rhythm. That’s your edge. So just do it again."

His voice rose, a sun breaking through storm clouds. "Score two. Win the game. Don’t overthink. Don’t chase shadows. Play your football—and take it back."

Silence hung for a heartbeat. Then the weight of his words ignited.

Warmth spread through the players’ chests, chasing out the cold. The exhaustion, the doubt—all burned away in the light of his fire.

They believed.

They would fight.

They would win.

"YES, COACH!" the bench roared, voices shaking the air.

Coach Owen gave one curt nod. "Good. Then show me on the pitch."

The second half awaited.

And Lincoln High would not walk into it dimmed.

They carried the sun at their backs.

...

The whistle shrieked.

Kickoff. Lincoln High.

Julian tapped the ball back to Leo.

Leo’s gaze swept the field, golden eyes scanning for cracks. His pass whipped left, sliding into Zion’s stride.

Zion drove forward, every touch deliberate, baiting Crenshaw’s swarm. White-and-teal shirts closed in, the trap snapping shut. Which meant—space on the opposite flank.

But before Zion could swing the ball across—

Tyrese came flying in.

His body scythed through the frost, studs grinding earth, a predator’s slide.

"—Tch!" Zion had no time. He shielded with his legs, bracing for impact.

The tackle smashed him down. Grass and dirt sprayed.

The referee’s whistle twitched—then waved advantage.

The ball squirted free. Aaron snatched it, quick feet redirecting it back into Leo’s path.

Leo lifted his head, pupils blazing. Somewhere ahead, Noah had dissolved into nothingness.

A shadow among shadows. Not even the defenders could mark him. For a heartbeat, even Leo’s eyes lost him.

Then his pupils sparked.

"Found you."

The pass ripped forward like lightning. The ball’s spin hissed against the wind, a golden spear hurled across the night.

The entire stadium seemed to lean with it, voices catching, bodies tightening with anticipation.

Noah burst free of the dark.

His first touch was silk. His stride, merciless. Each step devoured distance. Just outside the box, he wound up—leg swinging, the stadium holding its breath—

And the ball vanished.

Gasps exploded.

From nowhere, D-Ro Ross slid across, cleat flicking the ball clean away at the last possible instant. A phantom interception.

"Fuck! How’s he there? Track the ball!" Leo’s roar split the cold.

Julian froze mid-run, disbelief flaring in his chest.

Because D-Ro hadn’t just stolen it—

He’d already released it.

A dagger of a pass.

Straight into the heart of Lincoln’s defense.

And waiting, perfectly timed—

was his mirror.

D-Lo.

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +25 Agility]

Julian’s soul fire flared. He launched forward like a rocket, tearing from the attacking third back toward his own box. Every stride carved through the frozen air, lungs burning.

The field blurred around him. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, each pulse a drum urging him faster, harder.

The icy air clawed at his throat, but he ignored it. This wasn’t a sprint. This was survival.

But D-Lo was already cutting in from the wing. Ball glued to his foot, body language dripping calm. Chaos made flesh.

Riku lunged, boots scraping, arms wide to block.

A feint left. A snap dribble right. D-Lo slid past as if Riku were a shadow.

And now it was death’s coin toss—one on one with Cael.

D-Lo wound his leg. A strike to the left side.

Cael read it. He sprang, full stretch—gloves wide.

"Got you—!"

But the ball never reached the net.

Because Julian came screaming in from the blind side. His boot clashed with leather, the ball ricocheting away in a brutal deflection.

For a heartbeat, hope.

But the rebound didn’t fall kindly.

Tyrese was waiting.

No hesitation. No control. Just raw violence. His boot hammered the ball on the half-volley—

BANG.

The cannon shot ripped toward the right post.

Cael, still sprawled from his last dive, twisted and hurled himself sideways again, fingertips grazing it—

Too much power. Too much speed.

The net bulged.

2 – 0.

For a moment, the field froze. Then Crenshaw’s storm erupted. Drums, horns, a roar that shook the cold night.

White-and-teal flags whipped violently in the stands, the rhythm of their chants pounding like war drums.

The noise pressed down on Lincoln’s players, heavy, suffocating, making the pitch feel smaller with every echo.

Lincoln’s side sank lower. The players’ shoulders heavy, breaths ragged.

Instead of clawing one back, they’d been struck again.

The storm wasn’t easing.

It was swelling.