Chapter 100: Chapter 100: Three Bodies, One Will
Minutes bled away in skirmishes.
Nico tore through duels like a bull, Felix clawing at him with sheer grit. Damian slid in from the shadows, ghosting into tackles, forcing mistakes that shouldn’t have been possible. And at the center, Silas conducted it all—barely moving, barely raising his voice, yet every small, unseen touch bent the rhythm of the match.
It was like facing a hydra. Cut off one head, and two more rose. Riverside’s midfield domination didn’t just feel like talent—it felt like inevitability.
Lincoln couldn’t afford a single slip.
But beneath the surface, Julian felt something.
For all their control, Riverside weren’t creating real danger. Their rhythm was a cage, but it lacked fangs. Possession, passes, flow—it was all there, yet Lincoln’s backline refused to break.
Riku’s commands rang sharp as iron, Zion’s tackles cracked through like blades, Damien’s gloves swallowed shots with certainty. And what surprised Julian most—Ricky.
The kid was everywhere.
Every blocked lane.
Every interception that stole Riverside’s breath.
Ricky played like a wall of shadows, feeding Julian’s fire with each cut.
Lincoln were weathering the storm.
Now, they just needed one spark to ignite it back.
Silas slipped a through pass—clean, surgical—into Riverside’s forward.
The striker pounced. But before he could even raise his foot—
CRACK!
Riku slid in, steel on steel, blocking the attempt. The ball spun loose, ricocheting into no man’s land.
Tariq sprinted after it, lungs burning—
But Damian Rowe was faster. Like smoke, he was already there. One glance. One scan.
And the ball was whipped straight into the box.
Silas waited. Two Riverside forwards with him. Hungry.
Julian was already there too, shoulder pressed to Silas, eyes locked.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +10 To All Attributes]
Every nerve sharpened, every muscle braced.
The ball climbed high.
Bodies crashed, shoves exchanged, the air splitting with the strain of men fighting for inches.
Then—
They leapt.
Julian and Silas rose, kings of the sky.
Foreheads clashed midair—BANG. The ball jarred, skidding off at a twisted angle.
Chaos.
The ball pinballed—Riverside boots, Lincoln boots, no control, just war.
Until at last it fell to Nico.
The bull wound up, strength coiled like thunder.
BOOOM!
He struck. The shot tore through the air, a cannonball screaming for blood.
Damien dove, fingertips stretching—
But the ball screamed past him, a whisper from glory—
Wide.
A hair’s breadth from the post.
Gasps erupted. The stadium shook.
Julian exhaled through clenched teeth.
The hydra had bared its fangs.
And still—the scoreline refused to break.
0 – 0.
...
The whistle called them back to the bench. Lincoln gathered, sweat dripping, lungs burning.
Even sitting down, the silence was thick. The crowd’s roar bled faintly through the walls of the dugout, a reminder that hundreds of eyes were watching.
Steam rose from their shoulders in the winter cold, breath fogging in front of tired faces. No one wanted to speak first.
Coach Owen’s voice cut the silence.
"We need to score."
Obvious. But not simple. The question was how.
"They’ll keep possession as long as they can. That’s their rhythm, their strategy. We’ve done well matching them in the midfield—but it’s not enough." His tone hardened, eyes flicking from face to face.
He turned to Aaron and Ethan.
"You two—CDMs—you need to push higher. Be more aggressive. Break their rhythm before it grows. And Julian—"
The weight of the room shifted as Owen’s gaze locked on him.
"Step further forward. You’ll have more freedom. More risk. But I trust Riku and Damien to hold the line."
The captain of the backline and the keeper both nodded, voices sharp, in unison:
"Yes, Coach."
Owen slammed his marker against the clipboard.
"Then let’s win this game."
A chorus followed, every voice iron.
"Yes, Coach!"
Bottles drained, chests heaving, eyes burning.
Julian rose first. His armband caught the light as he stood tall, gaze sweeping over his brothers-in-arms.
"Let’s go."
One by one, the others rose too.
Boots thudding.
Resolve burning.
A single heartbeat, shared across eleven men.
The war wasn’t over.
The second half was theirs to take.
And in Julian’s chest, a fire burned hotter. This was his first half as captain.
His first true test of leading the pitch. If he faltered now, if he let Silas write the rhythm of this game—it wouldn’t just be a lost match. It would be proof that he wasn’t ready to carry the crown.
...
The whistle blew.
Kickoff—Lincoln.
Noah tapped back.
The ball rolled to Julian.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +20 To All Attributes]
Julian’s eyes ignited. Fire behind his calm.
Let’s end this.
How could they have failed to score in the first half?
Riverside were strong, yes—but compared to Brighton, compared to East Valley, compared to the monsters he had already faced—this was nothing.
[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 10 Seconds]
The hydra of Riverside’s midfield loomed again.
Cut one head, another grew.
Damian, Nico, Silas—endless pressure. Endless chains.
So Julian chose the only answer.
Cut them all at once.
A skill rose from the depths of his past life.
A forbidden memory.
Corpse Control.
In the old world, it belonged to Death Shamans—men who abandoned their bodies, severed from qi, mana, even life itself.
They left only husks behind while their minds became blades sharp enough to command corpses.
One body at first. Then two. Then dozens—armies of puppets moved by a single will.
Even if the corpses were shattered, burned, broken, it didn’t matter. Until the shaman’s true body was killed, his army marched on.
It was a devil’s path.
And in football—it was the perfect weapon.
Julian’s consciousness lashed outward like chains. Invisible. Relentless.
It hooked Ricky.
It hooked Felix.
The midfielders jolted. Their heads turned, eyes widening as if they had felt him step inside.
Not words. Not orders. Something deeper.
A pulse. A rhythm. A will.
Julian’s will.
His heartbeat became theirs. His vision bled into their eyes. Every angle he saw, they saw.
Every danger that twitched at the edge of perception, they flinched at too. It wasn’t telepathy—it was domination.
A commander puppeteering soldiers, not through strings, but through sheer presence.
And when they met his gaze across the pitch—both nodded, like soldiers hearing the voice of their commander through the roar of war.
Ricky clenched his fists, teeth grit, as if daring Nico to try him again.
Felix rolled his shoulders, fire sparking in his eyes.
They weren’t just themselves anymore. They were extensions of Julian’s will. And for the first time, Riverside’s hydra would not face three midfielders. They would face one emperor—split into three bodies.