CHAPTER 75: CHAPTER 75: THE ASHEN WILL

2 – 2.

The scoreboard glared in frozen numbers, but for Julian, the tie wasn’t balance—it was weight.

His body screamed, every muscle straining from the furnace he had ignited. The system’s warning still echoed in the back of his mind.

But he couldn’t stop. Not now.

He was the symbol of hope burning at the center of Lincoln’s storm.

"Please... just one more," he whispered, breath fogging in the night air.

A shadow fell over him. Leo’s golden eyes narrowed with concern.

"You okay?"

Julian forced a smirk, chest heaving. "Yes. Let’s win this game."

Leo gripped his shoulder hard, steady and firm. "Then stay with us until the end. Don’t you dare fall before the whistle."

Julian nodded. The promise sealed between them in silence.

...

The ball rolled back to the center. Kick-off once again—Crenshaw’s chance to answer.

But their swagger was cracked.

Faces twisted, confidence leaking away. The Ross twins looked at each other, urgency burning in their eyes.

Tyrese wiped his forehead with a trembling hand. Javion clenched his jaw, but the weight pressed heavy on them all.

Julian’s equalizer hadn’t just tied the game—it had struck at their spirit. Their rhythm faltered. Their belief wavered.

The referee’s whistle cut the tension.

Prrrriiittt!

Kick-off.

D-Ro touched it short to D-Lo.

D-Lo moved it on, straight to Tyrese.

The ball was theirs again—but the storm no longer raged as before.

The crowd could feel it. Even Crenshaw’s own fans grew quieter, nervous murmurs threading through the night.

The Ross brothers knew.

If they didn’t act now, everything would crumble.

The game rolled on.

From the sideline, Coach Owen raised his hand. Substitutions.

Tariq jogged on for Caleb.

Miles replaced Liam.

Fresh legs for Lincoln.

But Crenshaw shifted too. A couple of weary faces were swapped out, but their spine remained untouched—D-Ro, D-Lo, Tyrese, Javion. The pillars of their storm.

Only now, something was different.

The chaos had cracks.

Their teammates no longer played with reckless abandon. Passes grew safer, touches more hesitant. Fear gnawed at their rhythm.

The storm that once moved like one wild beast began to fracture, parts falling out of sync.

Why?

Because every player on the pitch now carried one thought: Don’t make the mistake that gives Julian the ball.

The Ross brothers still tried to whip chaos into motion, throwing themselves forward with flicks and feints, but the gears around them no longer turned as one.

The wild machine of Crenshaw slowed, choked by hesitation.

Just as Coach Owen had said before—it was never a system. It was noise, woven together by instinct. And now? That noise was infected with fear. Fear of Julian.

D-Lo shouted at a teammate who passed backwards instead of forward.

D-Ro slapped his thigh in frustration when support lagged behind. The cracks weren’t just tactical—they were emotional, spiderwebbing through their team in real time.

But on the opposite side, the hero they feared was burning out.

Julian’s lungs seared, his legs heavy. Every breath dragged knives across his ribs.

His body throbbed with pain, even with the items and skills bolstering him.

The furnace inside him was eating away at the vessel that contained it.

From the touchline, Coach Owen’s sharp eyes locked on him. A silent command. Enough.

But Julian shook his head, chest heaving. He lifted one hand—index finger raised.

One more goal.

That was the signal. That was the vow.

...

And it wasn’t long before Crenshaw’s fear finally tipped the balance.

Tyrese received the ball in midfield. His eyes darted left, right—hesitation freezing him for a heartbeat too long.

Julian saw it.

Leo saw it too.

The pass he attempted was weak, telegraphed. Before the Crenshaw midfielder could react, Leo was already there, stealing it clean.

The pitch tilted.

Julian and Noah exploded forward, sprinting into open lanes, hands flashing for the ball. But Leo didn’t release it. Not yet.

He carried it himself.

One defender beaten. Then another. A third slid by, golden eyes blazing with fire.

Every dribble drew the crowd higher to their feet, a wave rising in anticipation. Leo’s boots slapped the turf like war drums, his golden gaze cutting through the frost.

The crowd roared as Leo pushed wide onto the right flank. Tyrese scrambled back, teeth clenched, throwing himself across to cut him off—

But Leo didn’t stop. His foot snapped, curving the ball high into the box.

Bodies collided inside the area. Julian. Noah. Even Riku had stormed in. Crenshaw’s defenders crowded them, desperate to hold the line.

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +10 To All Attributes]

The world sharpened. Julian felt the surge in his veins, lungs burning but spirit unyielding.

He leapt.

The ball skimmed just past his forehead.

Too far. Too high.

But Julian refused to give up. Twisting in midair, he craned his neck back—

and smashed the ball down with the back of his head.

It spiked low, bouncing viciously toward the ground.

Noah was waiting.

Boot cocked.

BANG!

The shot ripped into the net.

GOAL!

2 – 3. Lincoln High.

The stadium detonated.

Sound thundered like an avalanche, voices crashing into one another until the night itself seemed to shake.

On the far side, Crenshaw’s supporters slumped in stunned silence.

Noah sprinted straight to the stands, arms spread, voice drowned in the thunder of the crowd.

Julian caught him mid-run, wrapping him in a hug, their momentum crashing together. Leo followed, Riku barreling in behind, until the whole team was a roaring knot of blue shirts and clenched fists.

A comeback. A resurrection.

The crowd went wild. Flags waved. Voices broke. The stands shook.

On the bench, Coach Owen leapt so high his cap nearly flew off. Laura was screaming, fists pumping in the air.

Lincoln High had turned the night upside down.

After the goal, Coach Owen made the final call.

Julian stumbled toward the sideline, body on the edge of collapse. Ricky came in to replace him.

Noah slid into striker. Ricky took the left wing.

Julian dropped onto the bench, chest heaving, sweat steaming in the winter cold. His work was done.

And on the field—Crenshaw was finished.

Their rhythm shattered, their chaos strangled by fear. No one clicked. No one dared risk the daring passes that had defined their storm. They moved like scattered pieces, not a machine.

Lincoln pressed their advantage. The ball found Noah in space, and with one sharp strike, he buried it.

2 – 4.

The final whistle came soon after.

Lincoln’s players screamed as one, fists raised to the sky. A comeback complete. A storm conquered.

The win didn’t just close the night. It sealed the mid-season.

Lincoln High stood undefeated—every match won by two goals.

A streak. A statement. A promise to the rest of the league.

The Ashen Emperor had carried them through the fire.

And Lincoln’s march continued.