CHAPTER 96: CHAPTER 96: THREE MOUNTAINS

When Julian finally pushed open the front door, the silence of home pressed against him.

"I’m back," he muttered, voice rough, footsteps dragging.

The system notification had already appeared during the bus ride, glowing faint in the corner of his vision:

[MATCH PERFORMANCE RATING: +12.5 Points]

The biggest reward he’d ever received from a single game.

Enough to push him closer to that milestone.

A hundred points. A normal skill.

Something new. Something that could change everything.

But not tonight.

Not with the bruises burning across his ribs and legs, souvenirs from East Valley’s battlefield.

"Oh, you’re back."

The voice came from the living room. Crest, calm and composed, her sharp eyes watching him the way they always did. Protector. Judge. Shadow.

"Another win?"

Julian froze for a second. It felt like he hadn’t seen her in days. His chest loosened.

"Yeah," he answered, dropping onto the sofa, "but... it was bad."

Crest didn’t flinch. She poured a glass of water and handed it to him. "Why?"

Julian stared at the floor, the phantom images flashing in his mind—the smirk of Dante Cruz, Sergio’s constant fouls, Malik’s brute strength, Leo’s punch, Cael’s blood staining the grass.

"It was long," Julian finally said.

"Tell me."

She sat beside him, her presence steady, her tone leaving no room to refuse.

So he did.

The words spilled faster than he expected—about Dante’s poison tongue, the way East Valley played like predators, the provocation, the referee’s blindness, Cael’s collapse, Leo’s red card.

Every detail, every scar of the match came out.

Crest listened, silent, eyes never leaving him. When he finally stopped, drained, she leaned back.

"Well," she said slowly, "that is something."

Julian frowned. "That’s all?"

Her gaze sharpened, cold but steady. "That is how the world works, Julian. People will always look for the easiest way to win. Whether it’s poison in a cup, a knife in the dark, or a shove on the pitch."

Julian clenched his fist. The anger bubbled again, but Crest’s voice cut through it.

"But you held. And you won. That is what matters."

Her hand, light but firm, touched his shoulder. For once, it wasn’t the hand of a teacher or guard—it was almost motherly, grounding him in the storm of his thoughts.

The warmth lasted only a second, but it pierced through the exhaustion deeper than any medicine.

"Do not waste energy on fury. Spend it on sharpening yourself. The next time someone throws dirt, you’ll rise so high that the dirt never touches you."

Silence lingered. Then, softer, she added:

"Good job today. Go rest. Tomorrow, I’ll accompany you to visit Cael."

Julian blinked at her. For a heartbeat, the weight on his chest lifted.

"Thank you, Crest."

He stood, body aching, every step heavy as he moved toward his room.

The day had ended in blood, bruises, and fire.

And as he closed the door behind him, one truth burned in his mind.

The war wasn’t over.

This was only the beginning.

...

Morning broke cold, but Julian’s body moved before the sun had fully risen. His muscles screamed, ribs ached with every twist, but routine was law.

He stepped barefoot into the private gym Crest had built for him, floorboards cool against his skin. Fists clenched, breath steady, he fell into stance.

Strike. Block. Shift. His arms cut through the chill air, each motion sharp enough to hum. Martial discipline first—the foundation.

Then bodywork. Push-ups that scorched his shoulders, squats that turned his thighs into stone, sit-ups until his core felt molten. And finally, the ball at his feet, rhythmical taps, sharp turns, the thud of leather echoing against the wall.

The gym felt like a forge. The mirror caught the glint of sweat sliding down his back, the air heavy with salt and heat.

Every strike of his fist against the training pad sounded like a drumbeat, echoing discipline into his bones. His breaths came out white in the cold air, vanishing like ghosts.

Sweat slicked his body, dripping from his chin to the mat below. Every breath tasted of iron and salt.

The system’s voice came cold and mechanical:

[Congratulations, host. Through accumulated training, attributes have increased.]

Strength +2

Agility +1

Stamina +3

Technique +3

Perception +2

Instinct +1

Charisma +2

Julian exhaled long, chest heaving. His body felt heavier, denser, as if every vein carried steel.

209 total attributes. With his passive bonuses—237.

Far beyond the weakling he had been. Far beyond the cripple his family had abandoned.

But something gnawed at him. His growth was... even. Balanced. Strength, speed, stamina—all rising together.

Balance felt wrong. Balance was mediocrity.

When he faced Malik, it had been obvious. Malik’s total was only 150, yet his raw strength had crushed Julian until skill tipped the duel.

Against greater opponents, skill alone might not save him. He needed an edge. A path sharper than the rest. A blade no one else could touch.

He thought of Marcus Hale’s reach, of Soto’s timing, of Silas Malik’s dominance in strength.

Each opponent had something sharp, something specialized, that tilted battles in their favor. Julian’s path couldn’t just be "solid." He needed to carve himself into a weapon—something terrifying, unmistakable, inevitable.

His stomach growled, dragging him from thought. He wiped his face with a towel and walked to the table.

Crest was already there, her posture as strict as ever. No smile, no softness—only the quiet authority of someone who had seen wars break men.

A plate of bacon and eggs sat steaming.

"Eat first," she said simply.

Julian slid into the chair. The smell of crisp bacon and yolk hit him—warm, grounding, almost nostalgic. He dug in, chewing slowly, feeling the fuel replenish the machine his body was becoming.

Then—buzz. His phone lit up.

Coach Owen.

(Cael’s in the hospital. He’s alright. Don’t need to visit—he’s coming home today.)

Attached was a photo. Coach Owen grinning. Cael, bandaged heavily across the head, still throwing a thumbs-up.

Relief loosened Julian’s chest. His fingers tapped quick.

(Speedy recovery. Waiting for you on the pitch.)

He set the phone down.

"I think we don’t need to go to the hospital," he said. "My friend’s already coming home."

"That’s fast," Crest replied, calmly cutting her food. "But don’t be fooled by a smile in a picture. Recovery takes more than bravado. Two weeks is the fastest I’ve seen. Four to five, if it drags."

Julian’s fork paused midair. His mind raced.

Two weeks meant hope. Cael back against San Dimas, maybe earlier.

Four meant disaster.

Riverside. Crenshaw North. San Dimas. Three mountains ahead.

Riverside—hungry, already stung once.

Crenshaw—the twins, chaos on a leash, their last clash nearly blood.

San Dimas—Victor waiting like a storm, a final war that would swallow them whole.

Julian let out a long breath. The food tasted like ash in his mouth.

Without Cael, climbing those three mountains felt impossible.

But then again, impossibility was nothing new.

His grip on the fork tightened. His eyes hardened.

If the road was a cliff, then he would bleed his fingers raw climbing it.

Because that’s what it meant to carry Lincoln.