CHAPTER 76: CHAPTER 76: THE CALM BEFORE NEW YEAR

The whistle blew. The game was over.

Crenshaw North stood frozen, devastated.

Two goals scored. Forty-five minutes of dominance. And then... collapse. Their storm had been torn apart, their fortress burned down.

Lincoln had won, 4 – 2.

For a heartbeat, silence hung over the stadium. Then it shattered—half the crowd roaring in disbelief and triumph, the other half groaning in despair.

Crenshaw’s supporters slumped against the railings, faces pale, while Lincoln’s section erupted into a sea of fists and flags.

Leo sprinted straight for the bench where Julian sat slumped, towel over his shoulders, chest heaving. His golden eyes blazed as he leaned in close.

"That was truly a masterpiece," Leo grinned, almost barking with joy. "Like an emperor. Just like your handle name. I swear, after this, your followers are going to double."

Julian glanced at him. For a moment, Leo really did look like a golden retriever wagging its tail. He let out a tired smirk.

"Yeah... I don’t really care. At least we won the game."

A new voice broke in.

"Thank you."

It was Noah, eyes sharp but tone sincere.

Julian lifted a brow, straightening a little. "Don’t make me feel like an outsider. We’re together in this. Always."

Noah’s lips curled. He gave a short nod.

And then one by one, the others came. Riku, Felix, Zion, Miles, Tariq—hands clapping Julian’s shoulders, voices rising with gratitude.

The message was clear: he hadn’t just played. He had carried them through the storm.

Even Cael, usually a wall of calm behind the posts, ruffled Julian’s hair as if he were a younger brother. "Rest, Emperor. You’ve done more than enough."

Coach Owen arrived last. His shadow fell over them, his voice steady.

"Sit first."

The team quieted.

"Nice job, kids. We close out mid-season right here." His eyes swept them, proud but measured. Then a rare smile cracked his stern face.

"Tomorrow night, celebration. At my place. Food, drinks, the tab’s on me."

"YEEEAHHHH! Let’s gooo!" Cael roared, fists punching the sky.

Laughter erupted around him, the bench shaking with cheers and howls. For once, even in the freezing night, Lincoln High felt untouchable.

The Emperor had spoken on the pitch.

And now, at mid-season’s end, his kingdom roared with him.

The bus ride home was quiet, the night pressing against the windows in streaks of pale light. Julian sat near the back, head tilted, breath shallow.

His body screamed with every pulse, every jolt of the wheels on the asphalt—but he endured.

He shouldn’t even be walking. If not for the EXP he had burned on emergency items, his muscles would’ve torn, his bones splintered under the strain.

Now they pulsed with artificial strength, the pain smothered just enough to keep him upright.

Still, the thought whispered.

Would this count as doping?

[It is okay host With the advantage of this world’s technologies they cannot detectit.]

ASHI’s calm tone didn’t quiet the unease. Julian’s gaze drifted to the window, to the reflection of his golden-ember eyes.

Where did you really come from...?

The system offered nothing. Only silence. Maybe, at the end of this path, he would finally have his answer.

When Julian unlocked the door, warmth greeted him. The smell of simmering broth and seared meat filled the air.

Crest sat at the dining table, posture straight as always, serving food with precise movements. Her expression was calm, almost severe, but the bowls were already waiting for him.

...

"Come eat. You must be hungry," she said, tone cool yet faintly edged with care.

Julian slid into the chair. His body howled beneath the surface, but he picked up the chopsticks and began to eat.

The warmth spread through his chest with every bite, easing the ache that training, battle, and victory had carved into him.

Then Crest’s voice broke the silence.

"I have some news."

Julian looked up. Something in her tone was heavier than usual, enough to make him set his chopsticks down.

"...Go on."

She met his gaze without wavering.

"Your parents want you to attend the Ashford Industries gathering."

The words struck harder than the match had.

Julian leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing. "Where? When?"

"New York," Crest answered without hesitation. "On New Year’s night. At one of the company’s hotels."

"Tch." His jaw clenched. "Can I not?"

"You can’t." Her reply was cold steel. "It’s a mandatory summons. From them."

Julian fell silent, staring at the rising steam of his meal. The name Ashford tasted bitter on his tongue. Memories, sharp and poisoned, stirred at the edges of his mind.

And yet... a faint smile curved his lips.

"Then let’s go," he said quietly. "It’s been so long... after all."

Crest’s eyes flickered—just for a heartbeat—something almost protective breaking through her mask. But it vanished as quickly as it came.

Reminiscence. Resentment. Both coiled tight in his chest.

The fire of the pitch had not faded.

It was only changing shape.

Julian set his chopsticks down, wiping the corner of his mouth.

"Before that... I’ll be heading to The Final Whistle tomorrow. You know—the restaurant and bar Coach Owen owns."

Crest’s eyes narrowed, her fork halting mid-air. The weight of her silence pressed harder than any scolding.

Julian lifted his hands, almost laughing. "No one drinks. Believe me. Coach will be there the whole time. It’s just a team celebration."

Her gaze lingered, sharp as a blade cutting through excuses, before she finally lowered her fork. "...Remember, in one week, we’ll attend something else. A formal event. The Ashford Industries gathering. You’ll need proper clothes. Preparation. Everything."

Julian sighed, shoulders loosening. "Alright. But after the celebration, okay?"

Crest’s stare measured him a moment longer, then softened by a fraction. A faint nod.

"After the celebration."

Her tone stayed cold, but under it was the ghost of reluctant approval.

For the first time that night, Julian allowed his shoulders to ease.

Crest’s words were iron, but beneath them, he could still feel the quiet tether that kept him grounded—a reminder he wasn’t fighting entirely alone.

At least tomorrow, he was free. Free to celebrate, to laugh, to stand with his teammates after dragging them through fire.

But tonight—his body had nothing left to give.

He finished the last bite of food, the warmth settling heavy in his stomach, then rose quietly from the table.

Without another word, he left Crest in the silence of the kitchen and made his way to his room.

The door shut softly behind him. He collapsed onto the bed, pain threading through every muscle, but sleep swallowed him before it could take hold.