Chapter 131: Chapter 131: The 0.001 Second Goal
Step.
Boom.
Step.
Boom.
With each strike of his foot, Julian’s lungs thundered. Breath became storm. Muscle became lightning.
Cael saw it—the shift, the gathering storm in Julian’s frame. Without hesitation, he launched the ball high, booting it into the open sky, clearing Lincoln’s half with every ounce of his strength.
The ball spun.
The stadium held its breath.
Victor felt it first—the dread. The weight of the threat that Julian was becoming. If he reached it, if he claimed that ball, the match would tip. Lincoln would win.
Instinct screamed at him. The instinct of a predator who refused to lose.
He lunged, hand snapping out, fingers clawing for Julian’s shirt.
But by the time his fingertips brushed the air, Julian was gone.
Running.
No—tearing forward.
The pitch shook beneath each stride, clods of wet grass flinging into the air.
His jersey clung heavy to his chest, soaked in rain and sweat, but his body no longer felt burdened. He was weightless. Untouchable. A storm clothed in flesh.
Elijah’s eyes widened, legs pumping to cut him off.
Kai blitzed from the side, streaking like a blade of gold.
Miles paused mid-step, his algorithm stuttering, frozen in awe.
Julian didn’t falter.
He spun past a defender throwing his body in desperation.
Slipped left.
Cut right.
Faster. Harder.
Until nothing stood between him and destiny.
The storm wasn’t chasing anymore.
It was here.
San Dimas had thrown everything forward, blinded by their hunger to kill the game. Their defense was hollow, a castle left unguarded.
The ball fell.
Julian ran.
The air screamed in his ears. Every heartbeat punched against his ribs like a drum of war.
His thighs tore, his calves cracked, his hamstrings begged for mercy—but his spirit lashed the body forward. Pain was irrelevant. Only distance mattered. Only speed.
Tight strings of fatigue yanked at his thighs, trying to drag him down, to end his sprint. But he didn’t break. Not now.
[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 2 Seconds Remaining]
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +30 To All Attributes]
The timer bled away, but his momentum was carved into his bones. His lungs burned, his veins screamed, but his stride never snapped.
He reached it.
Controlled it.
No mistake.
Each dribble was a long, punishing stride, dragging him closer to the box.
And then—
He was in.
The crowd erupted, half in terror, half in awe.
Malik’s eyes locked on him.
The golden wall lowered his stance, coiled to pounce.
Julian’s skill timer flickered to zero.
But the storm hadn’t died.
It raged inside his legs, carrying him into the box.
And then—Malik.
The golden wall pounced, body coiled like a beast, hurtling toward him with terrifying speed.
Life and death. That’s what this was.
Left?
Right?
Chip it?
The choice would decide everything.
For a heartbeat, their eyes met.
Hunter and hunted.
Predator and predator.
Julian swung—simple, brutal, direct. He hammered the ball low and fast toward the left, aiming to beat Malik by sheer velocity.
But Malik...
Malik read it.
He dove left as well.
Hands stretching, ready to smother the shot.
Julian’s heart clenched.
No time.
No space.
Malik’s gloves stretched, leather already brushing the air. Julian’s chest seized—the world had already ended.
[Martial Memory – Active Mode: 10 Seconds]
"Fuck it." His voice tore inside his skull. "Even if it breaks me."
The technique rose from the depths of his past.
Not strength.
Not speed.
Something worse.
Stasis Domain.
The art of holding time still.
Born from madness, sharpened by desperation. A skill that froze the world for a breath—but drained body and mind like poison.
Julian’s temples throbbed violently, veins bulging, vision trembling on the edge of collapse. It felt like forcing open the jaws of a god.
His skull threatened to split, his chest to cave, but still he dragged the world into silence.
The edges of the pitch blurred.
Sound warped.
Raindrops slowed, each bead of water hanging midair.
The veins in Julian’s head throbbed, blood roaring like molten iron.
And for that impossible sliver of eternity—
Malik stopped moving.
The world itself obeyed him.
Stasis Domain.
The pause lasted less than a heartbeat—0.001 seconds, not even enough to name.
But in that sliver, Julian alone still moved.
It was enough.
He flicked.
The ball snapped past Malik’s frozen frame, curving just out of reach.
Time roared back.
Malik crashed left.
Julian leapt, body twisting to clear him—
—but his legs tangled.
He went down, slammed hard into the turf behind Malik.
And the ball...
It kept rolling.
Rolling.
Into the net.
Goal.
3–2.
The stadium detonated. Lincoln’s section howled like a living beast, a roar that rattled the night sky.
Blue shirts stormed forward, fists raised, voices cracked raw as they screamed his name.
The stands quaked, banners whipped in the storm, drums thundered louder than the rain.
San Dimas’s gold side fell silent, a wall of stunned faces staring as if they had just watched the world tilt.
Leo was there in an instant, grabbing Julian by the arm, hauling him up.
But Julian’s face was pale, his eyes glazed, blood streaking down from his nose.
He looked like a corpse dragged back from the grave.
"Hey! You okay? Julian?!" Leo’s voice cracked with urgency.
Teammates swarmed, hands reaching, voices colliding. The medics sprinted onto the pitch, kneeling fast, checking pulse, prying open his eyelids.
A signal. Urgent.
He needed to come off.
Coach Owen’s jaw locked, his shout cutting through the chaos: "Sub!"
Julian swayed, the world spinning in wild circles around him. His mouth opened, but no words formed. His body was gone, every tendon screaming.
Through the haze, he caught one last fragment—
Crest, storming from the sideline, her voice sharp, desperate, calling his name.
Then—black.
The match didn’t wait for him.
A final whistle split the air.
Pritttttttttt.
Prittttt.
Game over.
Lincoln 3, San Dimas 2.
The storm ended not with silence, but with eruption. Lincoln’s bench cleared, players charging the field with arms flung wide.
Fans wept, shouted, collapsed into embraces, voices cracking as they screamed into the night.
San Dimas stood frozen, disbelief etched into every face. Even Victor, grass clinging to his soaked jersey, didn’t move for a long, long moment.