CHAPTER 77: CHAPTER 77: A RARE REST

Julian woke to the pale hush of morning. His body ached, heavy from battle, but before the pain could fully register—

[ Congratulations, host. Fame: Unknown → Noticed. ]

The system’s voice rang clear in his mind.

He blinked awake, reached for his phone, and opened his socials. His follower count glared back at him—1,178. Overnight.

Notifications stacked endlessly, hundreds of tags. Clips of his goals against Crenshaw flooded the feed, the comeback that turned the storm into Lincoln’s triumph.

Comments scrolled by in a blur:

"This Julian kid is real. Remember how he torched San Dimas too?"

"Lincoln hasn’t lost all season. Mid-season run = flawless."

"Forget nicknames. He’s already the Emperor."

Julian exhaled through his nose, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He liked a few, reposted some, then shut the phone with a snap.

The system chimed again:

[ Claim reward for breaking new Fame Tier? ]

Julian pressed yes.

[ Congratulations, host. Reward: Noticed Pack.]

+50 EXP

+1 Injury Reducer

+1 Recovery Booster

+1 Stamina Bracelet

He sat up straighter at that last one. EXP that felt like five full games, recovery items... but his eyes lingered on the new gear.

➤ [Stamina Bracelet]

Type: Item

Rank: Normal

Effect: Boost stamina +10

"So I just wear it?" Julian muttered.

[ Yes, host. ]

A faint shimmer rippled in the air before an orange-colored bracelet materialized in his palm. At first glance, it looked like a simple sports accessory—rubber, sleek, understated. But the moment he slid it onto his wrist, heat pulsed faintly beneath his skin.

Energy flowed into him. His chest lightened. The fatigue dulling his muscles eased like mist under the sun.

Julian flexed his fingers, a grin breaking through despite the soreness.

"...Awesome."

But he didn’t want to lean on it yet. Not now.

[ It is okay, host. Simply say ’unequip.’ ]

"Unequip," Julian muttered.

In an instant, the bracelet vanished, slipping back into the unseen inventory.

[ You can access all equipment by voice command. ]

Julian gave the faintest nod. Another weapon in his arsenal—another edge for the wars ahead.

But the real battle was inside his body. Every muscle throbbed, joints stiff and bruised, bones aching from overuse. His mind screamed for discipline, for morning training. Yet his body... his body begged for mercy.

He sat for a moment in silence, weighing both. Then, with a long exhale, he let the decision go.

For once, the warrior would sleep.

Julian pulled the blanket tighter, warmth wrapping him like armor. His breathing slowed, the soreness ebbing away as fatigue finally dragged him under.

A rare, deeper rest.

The kind he hadn’t allowed himself in far too long.

...

Usually, he woke at five. But when his eyes blinked open again, the clock on his nightstand glowed with the numbers 11:00 AM.

Not dawn—late morning.

Still, his body told the truth. The ache was dulled, his muscles steadier.

Rest had given him what sheer willpower alone couldn’t.

The light outside his window had changed too. Not the silver bite of dawn, but the warmer, softer gold of late morning sun spilling across his desk, cutting shadows across the floor.

For once, it felt like the world itself had slowed to let him breathe.

If I could choose a new skill... maybe it should be one that boosts recovery.

He washed his face, cold water chasing away the last haze of sleep, then rolled out a mat across the floor.

The boards creaked faintly beneath him as he sank into his usual stretches.

Arms extended, spine aligned, breath measured. Each pull and bend pushed the fatigue a little further away.

Two weeks. That was the break.

Two weeks to rebuild, sharpen, and prepare.

Six more matches—and then playoffs.

Julian’s mind ran as his body moved. He had studied the CIF system, memorizing its steps. Winners slotted into seven divisions, from First to Seventh.

The First Division: the elite, the strongest, where giants clashed. But it wasn’t only about winning playoffs—history mattered, goal difference mattered, records mattered. Everything weighed.

If Lincoln goes unbeaten... maybe First Division isn’t impossible.

And even if not, another path waited. Champions of every division clashed in a cup, to decide the true best of the best in CIF.

The thought burned in him, as sharp as any blade he’d once wielded.

Every match mattered. Every touch of the ball, every sprint, every goal—they weren’t just points.

They were steps on a ladder that reached higher than anyone at Lincoln had dared to climb before.

His stretches ended, muscles loose and light. He rolled the mat away, then slipped into the shower. Steam curled around him, washing away the last threads of strain.

When he stepped out, towel hanging over his shoulders, Crest’s voice carried from the table.

"You really slept in, huh."

Julian smirked, running a hand through damp hair. "Yeah... it’s been so long."

Her eyes lingered on him—on how different he looked now. Steadier. Stronger. A faint hope flickered in her chest.

Please, when he faces his parents again... this won’t break him.

"Congratulations," she said softly. "On the mid-season."

"Thanks." He nodded. "And remember—tonight I’ll be at The Final Whistle. Team celebration."

"Yeah, yeah." Crest waved him off, though her tone carried a firmness that left no room for argument. "Just eat first."

...

The hours drifted by in quiet simplicity. Julian let himself rest—really rest. No drills. No weight on his shoulders.

Just the soft hum of a game console in his hands and the endless sprawl of the internet glowing on his phone.

Piece by piece, he dug deeper into this world. What fascinated him most wasn’t the entertainment or the noise of media—it was the way this world explained everything through science. Gravity. Energy. Force. Principles laid out with formulas and rules.

"Interesting..." Julian muttered under his breath. Did my old world move under the same laws? Or was it all something else entirely?

Back then, there had been no lessons like this. No widespread knowledge of why things moved or struck or fell. Maybe some hidden sect or ancient scholars studied it in secret—but if they did, he had never known.

His thoughts blurred, carried away by curiosity until the clock slid into evening. By the time he set his phone down, the digits read 6:00 PM.

He rose, slipping on a clean jacket, his body steadier now after the rare recovery.

"I’ll head out," Julian called.

Crest glanced at him from the kitchen, eyes narrowing slightly. "Remember—"

"No drinks," Julian cut in, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I remember."

Her silence was approval enough.

As he stepped toward the door, Crest’s gaze followed him, colder on the surface but lined with quiet worry. She didn’t stop him—because this was his path now.

But in her heart, she counted every step he took away from her, and every risk that came with it.

Stepping outside, the cool air brushed against his skin. At the curb, the black car was already waiting. His driver opened the door without a word. Julian slid in, the leather seat sighing under his weight, and let the city blur by as the car pulled away.

Toward The Final Whistle.

Toward the celebration.