CHAPTER 87: CHAPTER 87: BORN OF WILL

The scoreboard read: 0 – 1.

Lincoln High held the lead, away from home.

But Gardenhill wasn’t broken. Not yet.

Julian could see it burning in their eyes—the defiance, the belief.

And he would smother that fire before halftime.

Kickoff.

Gardenhill tried to steady themselves, stringing passes across the back line, searching for rhythm.

But Lincoln’s press was merciless. Every lane closed, every second stolen.

A touch too heavy. A pass too slow.

And Julian struck.

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

The Emperor’s presence swallowed the midfield. His stride devoured space, his boots tore the ball free.

Let’s end this.

His eyes sharpened, aura flaring. Speed surged through him like wildfire.

Gardenhill’s shape warped around him, shadows scrambling. Julian flicked the ball forward, then sent it curling—away from every defender, away from every Lincoln shirt.

To the untrained eye, it was madness.

But he wasn’t passing to where Noah was.

He was passing to where Noah would be.

And Noah appeared, as if pulled from the air itself, ghosting into the pocket of space. One touch—perfect. But the next heartbeat, a Gardenhill defender slammed into him, shoulder and hip crashing together just outside the box.

Prittt!

The referee’s whistle sliced the night.

Yellow card. Dangerous free-kick.

Gardenhill’s captain stormed over, arms flailing.

"It’s just a body check!" he barked.

But the official stood firm. The foul was blatant, the danger undeniable.

Lincoln had earned a chance—

and in a deadly place.

Julian jogged over to Noah, eyes calm.

"You should take it. You earned it," Julian said evenly.

Noah shook his head, nerves flashing across his face.

"My set pieces... they’re not that good."

Julian’s gaze slid to Leo. Their captain met it with a knowing grin.

"Just take it, Julian. Show us the Emperor’s might."

Julian chuckled under his breath.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep calling me that."

He bent down, scooping the ball into his hands.

"Alright. I’ll take it."

Noah and Leo both lifted their thumbs in silent trust.

Gardenhill scrambled to form their wall.

Julian spun the ball in his hands once. Twice. Three times.

Then he placed it gently onto the grass.

A few steps back.

A deep inhale.

A sharp exhale.

"Okay... let’s end this."

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +20 to All Attributes]

Every muscle in his body tightened, energy crackling through him. His aura sharpened into a blade.

Extinguish their fire.

[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 10 Seconds]

A technique surfaced in his mind—not one borrowed, not one remembered. One he had forged himself.

Soul Shoot.

He imbued not just strength, not just precision, but will into the strike.

Not a request. Not a hope.

A command.

Goal.

The stadium quieted for a heartbeat, breath caught between teeth.

Every Gardenhill player locked eyes on him, their keeper crouched low, gloves trembling slightly in the cold.

Even the Lincoln bench leaned forward, hands gripping knees. Time stretched.

He surged forward. One step, two—

Pakkk!

The ball tore off his boot like a guided missile.

It didn’t bend like normal physics. It slipped through the narrowest seam of Gardenhill’s wall, skimming air, curving as though obeying his mind. Defenders leapt, a keeper flung himself wide—

Too late.

The ball dipped like a falling star, smashing the back of the net.

0 – 2.

Julian’s lips curved into a rare smile.

A new skill, born.

Before he could even run to celebrate, Leo was already on him, laughing.

"That’s insane! What the hell was that?!"

"Something new," Julian answered, calm but proud, fire still smoldering in his eyes.

The Emperor had struck again.

...

And the game rolled on.

For the rest of the first half, Lincoln’s control was absolute.

Julian and Noah prowled up front, their movement weaving like blades.

Behind them, Leo conducted with crisp passes, Felix, Aaron, and Ethan snapping into every channel he opened.

And at the back—Riku held the line like a fortress.

One word described the outcome—

Dominated.

Gardenhill couldn’t even breathe inside Lincoln’s box.

Their attacks fizzled into desperate long shots, easy pickings for Cael. Meanwhile, Lincoln carved chance after chance.

—A long ball from Leo, but Julian just mistimed and was flagged offside.

—A solo burst from Noah, only to see his shot deflected wide.

Every failed chance only pushed Gardenhill deeper into their shell.

Their coach screamed from the sideline, voice hoarse, veins bulging, but his words bounced uselessly off drained bodies.

The midfield no longer chased—only shuffled. Their back line no longer held—only clung.

With every failed attempt, the fire inside Gardenhill dimmed. Their shoulders slumped, their voices grew quieter. Julian felt it—

their will breaking.

One more. That’s all it’ll take.

The 44th minute.

The ball at Julian’s feet.

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +5 To All Attributes]

He fed it back to Leo.

Leo slipped it on to Felix.

Triangle. Passing. Movement. Pressure.

Noah cut inside from the wing, sharp and sudden.

Leo spotted him, clipped the ball forward.

Noah exploded into the gap—

Bang! A clean strike!

The keeper, flying on pure instinct, just managed to get a hand. The ball spilled loose.

A Gardenhill defender scrambled, poked at it—

Stolen by Leo. Shot on the rebound—

Blocked by a body flung desperately across the line.

Chaos erupted. Boots swung, shouts filled the air, the ball pinging wildly around the six-yard box.

Julian read the chaos from distance.

He surged forward, pounced—

Thudd. His boot nudged it, not a clean strike, just a deflection.

The ball spun.

Ricocheted—

Straight into Leo’s stomach.

Smack.

And then—into the net.

0 – 3.

For a beat, silence. Then the away fans roared.

Julian and Leo turned to each other, both pointing.

"You scored?" Leo asked, incredulous.

Julian smirked. "No, you did."

They broke into laughter, running to celebrate together as the Gardenhill players dropped their heads.

Three goals down.

First half still ending.

Hope, for Gardenhill, was gone.

On the sideline, their coach buried his face in both hands, while the substitutes stared wide-eyed, already knowing what awaited them in the second half: scraps, humiliation, damage control.

The whistle blew for halftime.

Lincoln’s players jogged off the pitch grinning, laughter spilling out of them like steam from an engine.

On the other side, Gardenhill trudged back with hollow eyes, their fire already smothered.

Laura was waiting with towels and energy drinks, efficient as ever.

Coach Owens, arms folded, scanned his squad with that sharp gleam.

"A good first half," he said, voice calm but edged. "Now—rotations."

He pointed.

"Julian, out. Ricky on. Noah shifts central, Ricky takes the wing."

"Yes, coach!" Ricky lit up, already bouncing in place.

"Riku, off. Caleb, you’re in. Zion for Miles as well."

The subs snapped to their feet, adrenaline sparking in their eyes.

Owens let the silence linger, then leaned in, his tone turning fire-hot.

"I expect the second half to be just as sharp. Don’t you dare think a lead gives you the right to get sloppy. You finish what you start. You press until there’s nothing left standing in front of you."

"Yes, Coach!" the squad roared back.

Owens’s bald head gleamed under the floodlights as he gave the last order:

"Now go. Beat them again."