CHAPTER 94: CHAPTER 94: THE WAR TURNS RED

Studs met leather.

The ball ripped forward, venomous, screaming toward goal.

Cael lunged—arms out—

STRECHHHHH!

The ball stuck in his gloves. Safe.

But the moment he landed, the silence that followed wasn’t relief. It was shock. Gasps tore from the stands as red streaks blossomed above his eyebrow.

The blood ran quick, hot, spilling into his eye, dripping across his cheek before staining the turf below.

Prittttt!

The referee’s whistle cut through the chaos.

Dante Cruz smirked, turning his back, ready to walk away—

BANGGG!

A fist cracked across his jaw.

Leo’s fist.

The stadium froze.

Leo stood there, face calm, not even angry—like he had delivered judgment.

It wasn’t wild. It wasn’t reckless. It was measured, deliberate—like a judge’s gavel striking down.

But East Valley exploded.

Red and black jerseys swarmed, shoving, clawing, bodies crashing into Lincoln’s players. Chaos erupted, a riot waiting to ignite.

[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 10 Seconds]

Julian chose.

Emperor Domination.

"STOOOPPPP!"

His roar thundered across the pitch, shaking the air.

Players froze mid-swing, mid-shove. Even the crowd went silent, stunned.

It wasn’t just sound—it was pressure. Like a storm crushing down on lungs.

Lincoln’s players felt it as a shield. East Valley felt it as chains around their throats.

Even the referee’s whistle stuttered against it.

The referee stormed in, trembling whistle pressed to his lips.

Straight red—Leo.

The decision came down swift and merciless.

Medic staff rushed in, sprinting to Cael. His face was pale but his grin still burned.

"It’s okay," he muttered, blood dripping, raising a thumbs-up as they loaded him onto the stretcher.

The ambulance doors slammed shut with him inside.

The referee tossed yellows like confetti—several to Lincoln, several to East Valley. And one to Dante, whose smirk never faded.

"In his eyes, not intentional..." Julian’s jaw tightened, teeth clicking in rage.

Lincoln’s players surged, ready to tear Dante apart, but Julian blocked them, his aura pressing down like a wall.

Leo walked over slowly. His eyes didn’t waver as he slipped the captain’s armband off his bicep.

He held it out to Julian.

"Take it," Leo said evenly. "Sorry for that. But it was needed."

Julian met his gaze, sighed once, and took it.

"Okay."

SubThe band’s fabric bit into his skin, heavier than steel. It wasn’t cloth—it was command, responsibility, weight.

He felt the eyes of every teammate shift toward him in that instant. From brothers-in-arms to soldiers awaiting ordersstitutions followed.

Damien stepped in for Cael.

Tariq, already walking a thin line, came off for Caleb.

Now, under winter’s dying light, Lincoln High stood one man short.

Ten against eleven.

The referee’s whistle lifted again.

The crowd murmured.

The war was far from over.

But for the first time, Julian felt it—

The weight of the band on his arm.

The captain’s fire.

The emperor’s burden.

And across from him, Dante Cruz still grinned like the devil.

The second half of the war was just beginning.

...

Lincoln reset, each man sliding back into position.

Julian dropped deeper, shadowing midfield, covering the space Leo once commanded.

The armband felt heavier than steel on his arm, but his promise weighed more.

Score. End this game. Break East Valley.

Damien cradled the ball, stepped back, and launched it long.

The leather cut through the air, dropping toward Aaron.

Bodies collided instantly. East Valley defenders slammed into him, arms pressing, shoulders digging.

Julian could feel Aaron’s anger from yards away—fists twitching, jaw tight.

Their eyes met for a split second.

Julian’s lips moved silently.

Slow down.

Aaron didn’t hear it.

But he read it.

His clenched arms loosened.

Instead of fighting the shove, he let the momentum slide past him.

One step—then he spun. His marker stumbled forward, off balance, crashing into the grass.

Aaron slipped free, the ball still at his feet.

One touch. Another. The space opened like a crack in a wall.

He pushed forward, lungs pumping, then snapped the ball right—fast and sharp.

Felix caught it in stride.

His boot kissed leather, nerves rattling, but he held steady.

"Play fast! Don’t hold it too long!" Coach Owen’s roar split the cold air.

Julian’s eyes locked with Noah’s.

A spark passed between them—understanding without words.

Julian’s stride lengthened, speed bursting.

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

Noah slid central, timing it perfectly. Felix’s ball zipped into his path.

A defender lunged, arms wide—

But Noah didn’t take the touch.

He let it roll between his legs, heel snapping back to catch it, spinning on the same motion.

The crowd gasped.

The defender stumbled.

Noah came out of the turn with the ball chained to his boots, already surging forward.

Julian ran the channel, but Malik was there.

A shadow at his shoulder, an iron weight pressing into his ribs.

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

Muscles strained, boots dug deep, but still—

Malik didn’t budge.

The center back grin spread.

"You’re strong," Malik rumbled, leaning harder, testing him.

Julian’s jaw clenched.

Not enough.

[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +15 To Strength]

Power flooded his frame.

For the first time, Malik’s push didn’t throw him off balance. Their shoulders crashed, two forces colliding, neither giving an inch.

Julian’s veins burned. His strength stat hit 40—finally enough to stand level.

Noah’s pass curved toward him, the ball spinning into the space.

Julian glanced at Malik once, eyes cold, lips curling into the faintest smirk.

"Come," he whispered.

Malik’s grin widened.

The duel was set.

[Martial Memory– Lv.2 – Active Mode: 10 Seconds]

Julian’s breath hissed. His body screamed—this was the third time he’d drawn on it already. Against a fourth-place team. His muscles felt tight, like chains were binding his limbs.

But he refused to break.

[Blood Furnace – Lv.1– Active Mode: 5 Minutes]

Heat roared through his chest, pumping like a raging forge. His veins burned, his heart hammering like a war drum. Strength poured back into his body, molten, unstoppable.

Julian chose.

Titan Strength.

The two collided—shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest.

Malik’s power was real, iron-born.

But Julian’s will burned hotter.

The ball skidded between them. Julian feinted, deliberately pushing it far left, baiting Malik into overcommitting. Malik lunged—

And Julian shoved.

The crack of impact echoed like thunder. Malik’s body hit the turf, rolling hard across the pitch. The crowd erupted, but no whistle came.

Julian didn’t look back.

He surged forward, fire roaring through every stride.

The ball was his.

The net was waiting.

His boot swung—

Titan Strength ignited.

BOOOOMMM!

The shot tore through the air like a cannonball. The keeper didn’t even twitch. By the time he blinked, the net was bulging, trembling under the force.

0 – 2.

Julian didn’t celebrate with his teammates. He didn’t smile for the fans. He turned.

His eyes found Malik, still sprawled on the grass.

Julian looked down on him like he was nothing more than an insect.

"Try harder," he muttered, voice colder than steel.

Then he turned away, jogging toward the stands. His fist flexed, his muscles bulged as he raised his arms to the roaring crowd.

The home fans went feral.

Like fish dropped into boiling oil, they leapt, screamed, and shook the barriers, fury mixing with awe. Some tried to vault over, held back by their friends.

And in the middle of the storm, Julian only smiled.

Calm. Sharp. Emperor’s smile.

The war was his.