CHAPTER 78: CHAPTER 78: BANQUET OF DREAMS

Julian stepped into The Final Whistle, and the familiar scent of roasted meat and coffee beans hit him first.

Warm light spilled over walls draped in flags, framed jerseys, and signed memorabilia—a shrine to football history.

Every corner seemed alive with color, memory, and passion.

The air buzzed with voices, the low hum of conversations layered over the faint sizzle and crackle from the kitchen.

A jukebox in the corner cycled through soft rock, the kind of music that wrapped the room in nostalgia.

For Julian, it felt less like stepping into a restaurant and more like stepping into the heart of the sport itself.

He barely had time to take it in before a voice boomed.

"Our emperor has arrived!" Cael shot up from his chair, arms spread wide.

"Say hello to our emperor!" Aaron piled on, grinning like a devil.

"Emperor," Leo echoed with mock reverence, clasping his hands as if in prayer. His golden eyes glinted with mischief.

Julian sighed, fighting the twitch at his lips. "...You guys never stop."

Laughter rippled through the team as they pulled him deeper inside. Nearly everyone was already there—even Tress and Sean from the medical staff, seated near the middle table.

Julian slid into a seat beside Tress. Her chestnut hair, usually tied back in a neat ponytail, spilled freely over her shoulders tonight.

Her glasses were the same, but something about the change softened her sharpness, making her seem... different.

"Cute," Julian muttered before he realized the word had escaped.

Tress blinked and leaned closer. "What was that?"

Panic shot through him like lightning. His ears burned. "I said—you look... different."

A faint pink touched her cheeks. "Ah. This is how I look outside of work."

Julian coughed, quickly reaching for the menu. "Right. Food. I’ll order food."

Leo leaned across the table, smirk wide. "Ohhh, our Emperor has a soft spot?"

Julian shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. "Shut up, Leo."

The whole table burst into laughter again, even Tress hiding a smile behind her hand.

The table filled with chatter, banter, and playful teasing as orders went around.

Laughter mixed with the clinking of glasses (all soda and juice, under Owen’s watchful eye), the atmosphere warm and infectious.

By the time the last of the squad trickled in, the restaurant buzzed with noise and energy.

Then— ting, ting, ting.

Coach Owen stood at the front, tapping his glass with the edge of a spoon. The sound cut through the room, pulling every gaze toward him.

Julian, mid-conversation with Tress and Leo, turned as silence fell.

Coach Owen’s presence wasn’t loud—but it filled the space all the same.

His weathered face softened under the golden light, eyes sharp yet proud as he scanned his players.

"Alright," Coach Owen began, his voice steady, carrying just enough weight to hush the room completely. "Thank you for your attention."

He paused, letting the silence settle. The overhead lights glinted off his bald head as he scanned the room, eyes warm yet edged with something harder, older.

"We’re here to celebrate our mid-season success," he said, his tone calm, almost gentle. "Some of you might be thinking—this is just high school ball. Why take it so seriously?"

A low ripple moved through the team, but Owen’s voice cut through it.

"Because for me, this is the first step. And for you, it should be the same. Some of you will go on. Some of you will become stars. Maybe bigger than you can even imagine. And when that time comes... I want the world to look at you—and to look at this country—and know they can’t dismiss us. Not ever again."

His jaw tightened, bitterness flickering across his face. His gaze drifted, lingering on Julian, Leo, Cael, and Noah—his cornerstones. There was history in that look, something unspoken, a scar carved deep.

"What I want from you is simple," he continued, voice rising now, firm. "Conquer the world. Become the best of the best. Carve your names into history. Make them remember you. Make them remember us."

The words struck Julian like a blade of fire, cutting into him and igniting something deeper.

For a fleeting moment, he wasn’t in a football-themed restaurant—he was back in his old world. Back before betrayal. Back when his first master spoke of immortality through legacy.

Leave your name behind. Etch it so deep that time itself can’t erase you. You will never die as long as someone remembers.

The memory sent a shiver running through Julian’s body.

Coach Owen let the weight of silence linger, then cracked a small, tired smile. "Well... that’s the old man in me talking. Enough of that. Let’s celebrate."

He raised his glass—not beer, but a foaming mug of root beer—high into the air. "To Lincoln High!"

The room exploded with cheers, laughter, and the clinking of glasses.

...

And then the feast began.

From the kitchen emerged Tanya, Coach Owen’s wife, balancing trays piled high with food that could only be described as a banquet.

Platters of ribs glazed in sauce, steaming bowls of pasta, wings dusted with spice, burgers stacked higher than they had any right to be—each dish hit the tables like a gift.

The smell alone was enough to hush the noise for a moment, replaced by groans of hunger and wide-eyed grins.

"Eat up, boys," Tanya laughed, her voice carrying the warmth of a mother who had done this a hundred times before.

She ruffled Riku’s hair on the way by, smacked Aaron’s hand when he tried to sneak a wing before she finished serving, and kissed Cael on the forehead like he was her own son.

In that moment, she wasn’t just Owen’s wife—she was the team’s mom.

Plates clattered. Drinks poured. The team dug in like wolves starved from battle.

And on the far wall, the wide screen flickered to life—UEFA Champions League. PSG versus Dortmund. A match that would decide everything for the French giants. If PSG lost tonight, they were done.

The first half dragged to a tense 0–0. Every missed chance had the restaurant groaning or laughing.

Then came the 50th minute. A sharp Dortmund counter split PSG wide open. Karim Adeyemi sprinted past the line, cool as ice, and slid the ball into the net.

"COME ON DORTMUND!"

The sudden roar came from Riku—Riku, usually the quiet one. His fists pumped like he’d been a lifelong supporter. The team stared at him for a moment before breaking into laughter.

And as if on cue, six minutes later, PSG struck back. Mbappé. Electric, unstoppable, tearing through the defense to bury the equalizer. 1–1.

"LET’S GO! PLEASE MBAPPÉ, ONE MORE!"

Now it was Leo’s turn to yell like a madman, practically climbing out of his chair. His golden eyes were alive, shining in the light of the screen.

The Final Whistle was chaos again, half the room teasing Riku for his sudden fandom, the other half egging Leo on as though he were Mbappé himself.

But the scoreline held. 1–1. PSG lived to fight another day.

Leo collapsed back into his chair with a huff. "Barely... Mbappé needs to move already. Real Madrid, I’m telling you."

Julian leaned back, gaze fixed on the screen, but his thoughts were far away. His teammates saw a superstar keeping PSG alive. Julian saw something different.

Mbappé wasn’t just a player. He was the standard. A wonderkid who had become the face of a generation. A man carrying the weight of football’s future on his back.

And Julian’s chest tightened, not from envy, but recognition.

That kind of destiny was a battlefield. That kind of spotlight was a war. One day, he knew, he’d be there—not watching Mbappé from a booth in a high school hangout, but standing across from him, eyes locked, boots ready.

And somewhere deep in his chest, Julian felt the pull of inevitability.

One day, I’ll stand across from him. One day, he’ll be my rival.