Chapter 66: Chapter 66: The Defending Champions Fall
Julian sank into his usual cooldown routine—those impossible stretches that looked more like a contortionist act than anything a human body should manage.
His muscles moved with slow precision, tendons taut, spine flexing in ways that made onlookers wince just imagining the strain.
Noah froze mid-drink, eyes narrowing like he wasn’t sure if he was impressed or concerned.
Riku noticed and smirked.
"It’s fine. His body’s built different," he said, as if it explained everything.
Noah could only nod, still watching Julian twist into another inhuman angle.
fluorescent lights above hummed softly, catching on the faint sheen of sweat along Julian’s arms.
Even in the cramped visitor sideline area, he made the space feel like a training hall.
On the sideline, Coach Owen wore that strange mix of pride and irritation—smiling at the win while still throwing sharp words about the sloppy passes and wasted chances.
The praise was there, but so were the barked reminders.
A win was still a win.
Five straight now.
And all of them 2–0.
The scoreboard didn’t just look good—it made Lincoln High the best team in the league at this stage.
One more game and they’d finish the mid-season as champions. Half the year still remained, but barring a complete collapse, their path was set.
The away section of the stands had thinned out, parents and students shuffling toward the parking lot in small clusters, breath misting under the winter floodlights.
The home crowd’s chants had faded into background chatter, the once-hostile energy now replaced by a grudging quiet.
When the post-game chatter began to fade and bags were being slung over shoulders, the team gathered near the bus.
Julian had just stepped up onto the curb when he turned back.
"I’m hitting the restroom first," he said.
"Go. I’ll hold your stuff," Riku replied, already reaching for Julian’s bag.
Julian handed it over and jogged toward the building. The air inside was cooler, heavy with the faint smell of disinfectant.
His footsteps echoed in the tiled hallway as he took a wrong turn, ended up in a storage corner, muttered a curse, then doubled back.
Eventually, he found the restroom.
The door creaked open.
Running water hissed somewhere inside, mixed with the low hum of muffled voices.
Julian stepped in, still riding the quiet thrill of victory—unaware that the match wasn’t the only confrontation waiting for him today.
He finished his business, the sound of his shoes scuffing softly on the tile as he made his way to the sink.
That’s when he noticed him.
Victor.
Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable—like some wannabe protagonist from a manga who thought brooding in a restroom was peak intimidation.
The faint smell of damp concrete and the sharp tang of soap filled the air, but the atmosphere had shifted—heavier, tighter.
Julian moved to the sink without a word, the water running warm over his hands.
The soap smelled faintly citrus. He kept his gaze low, watching the suds swirl down the drain.
Victor didn’t move.
Julian dried his hands, took a step toward the door—
"What the hell, dude? Ask me."
Julian glanced back, brow furrowing. Ask... him?
"What exactly do you need from me?" Julian asked, his tone polite but laced with steel.
Victor straightened, finally speaking with the confidence of someone who didn’t doubt a single word.
"You’re good. And from what I hear, this is your first year playing." His eyes scanned Julian like he was memorizing every detail. "Our next match—I’ll win it. Not just that... we’re starting our own streak next game. So you’d better keep yours alive until we meet at the end."
The words clicked.
This wasn’t just trash talk.
Victor had just declared him a rival.
In Julian’s old world, this kind of dramatic challenge would’ve been laughable—cringe, even. But here? On this pitch? The fire was real.
Julian’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.
"Then you’d better show me something worth my time," he said, voice low and menacing.
He walked past, the faint echo of his footsteps chasing him out of the restroom.
Behind him, the air still thrummed with unspoken promise—
A promise of battle.
A promise of a match neither would forget.
Julian crossed the lot toward the bus, the winter air biting against his cheeks.
The metal steps of the bus clanged faintly under his cleats, the warmth from inside washing over him as he ducked through the narrow doorway.
"You took forever," Cael said from his seat as Julian climbed aboard.
"Got lost. Couldn’t find the restroom," Julian replied, sliding into his spot.
Coach Owens stood near the aisle, one hand gripping the seatback. His eyes found Julian.
"Sorry, Coach," Julian offered.
"It’s fine. We’re all here now—let’s move."
The engine rumbled to life, the bus shuddering as it pulled away from San Dimas High.
The floodlights faded into the distance, swallowed by the night.
Next time, they wouldn’t be the visitors.
Next time, San Dimas would come to Lincoln High.
And next time, Victor Salinas would not be injured.
That rematch would be the peak of the season.
...
When Julian got home, the soft ping of a notification echoed in the quiet.
[Match Rating Received: 10.2]
Another gem for his record. His arsenal swelled—15 total EXP points now in reserve.
But that could wait.
Tonight, sleep was the only battle worth fighting.
He washed up, steam curling in the bathroom mirror, then dropped onto his bed.
Darkness claimed him almost instantly.
And in that darkness—he dreamed.
He floated weightless, no longer flesh and blood but soul and will, streaking across a familiar sky.
The skyline of his previous world.
The grand palace of the kings.
His palace.
Marble spires reached for the heavens. The statues of his reign lined the gates, their carved faces locked in eternal deference.
But tonight... there was an event.
He drifted closer.
And froze.
A funeral.
His funeral.
His body lay in the coffin—still, pale, regal even in death.
Around it, his followers.
His brothers.
His sisters.
And their voices cut deeper than any blade.
"Hahaha... he’s finally dead."
"Yeah. Everything he built—ours now."
"You’d better split it evenly."
Their laughter cracked like whips.
Every word fed the fire.
The air trembled around him. His soul flared.
The heat, the pressure—he felt it again.
The peak.
The Ashen Emperor reborn in spirit.
Space itself seemed to bend beneath his will. His eyes blazed.
They noticed. Panic ripped through their smug faces.
"You—?! How—?!"
"You’re dead!"
Julian’s spectral form surged forward, shadows curling from his arms like living flame. The marble beneath his feet split in jagged lines, the air around him warping from the sheer force of his rage.
Before he could act, the dream tore apart.
He was back. In his room. On Earth.
The fire in his chest roared to life once more—revenge, raw and pure. The ember that football had dulled was now a raging blaze.
The Ashen Emperor was awake again.