Chapter 136: Chapter 136: The Beginning of Goodbye
For once, no nightmares.
No shadows.
Just silence.
Julian slept like a child, his body surrendering at last. Even the 05:00 rule—his sacred ritual—was abandoned. Today, rest was law.
Crest had risen at dawn, as always. She glanced at his door, hand lingering near the handle, but did not enter. She knew. The boy needed this.
When Julian finally stirred, sunlight had long claimed the room.
11:30 AM.
He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and sat up with a groan that turned into a chuckle.
"That... was the best sleep I’ve ever had."
His voice was hoarse, the kind of rasp that came only after deep, dreamless slumber.
The sheets clung to his skin, still carrying the faint warmth of his body, and the air in the room felt heavier, quieter—as though even the house itself had wanted him to rest.
His throat rasped, so he reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. Cool liquid slid down, chasing away the last fog of sleep.
He stood, stretching until his joints cracked, then shuffled to the bathroom to wash. The mirror showed him a face sharper than yesterday’s, the exhaustion of battle stripped away. Beneath his skin, power coiled—ripe, unsteady. A single push in meditation and he could break through to the next level.
But not yet.
That could wait.
Tonight, the weight wasn’t cultivation. It was confession.
Tonight, Lincoln would learn he was leaving.
Julian dressed, his movements steady, then reached for his phone. A single notification glowed at the top of the screen.
From David.
[Call me.]
ulian didn’t hesitate—he dialed David the moment he saw the message.
The line clicked, and his agent’s voice came through, warm and steady.
"Hey, how are you? That was a hell of a match last night."
Julian leaned against the desk, rubbing his temple with a faint smile.
"Yeah... just woke up, actually. Any news?"
David’s tone shifted, excitement humming beneath the calm.
"Plenty. After that performance, a few clubs reached out. But right now, the strongest bite is from Germany."
Julian’s chest tightened. Germany. His instinct had been right.
"When will it be finalized?"
"Give me until Monday," David promised, firm as steel. "By then, you’ll have your best option on the table."
"Alright." Julian exhaled, the weight of it settling in. "Then come to The Final Whistle tonight. We’ve got a celebration with the team."
"19:00?"
"Yeah."
"Good. I’ll be there," David said without hesitation.
The call ended with a soft click. Julian lowered the phone, staring at the dark screen.
Tonight.
Lincoln would celebrate.
And maybe, just maybe, he’d find out if his path truly pointed toward Germany.
...
The day passed in quiet.
No training. No drills. No sweat on the pitch.
Just as Tress had warned, his body screamed for rest—muscles, bones, even his mind frayed at the edges. So, for once, Julian listened.
He sprawled across his bed with a controller in hand, eyes fixed on the glowing screen. A football game—nothing strange. But he wasn’t playing as a striker, wasn’t carving through defenders with flicks and feints.
This time, he was a manager.
Germany. Bundesliga 2. He picked a small club, one forgotten by most, a name buried beneath giants. From there, he scrolled through the menus—U21, U19, senior squad. Reserve players, potential charts, contract clauses.
The system inside him taught him football’s reality. But this... this game showed him structure.
Bundesliga began in August. Which meant if he really joined in March, he’d miss the current season. He wouldn’t walk straight into the senior team’s spotlight.
He’d be placed in the U21 reserves. A shadow beneath the real stage.
Unless he shone so brightly they had no choice but to call him up.
Julian leaned back, controller still in his hands, golden eyes reflecting the menu screen.
A simulation on a screen wasn’t reality. But it painted the path.
Germany wasn’t just a dream.
It was a battlefield waiting for him.
And when August came, he had to be ready.
Julian’s eyes flicked to the clock.
17:00.
On screen, his simulated squad stood at the top three of Bundesliga 2, year two, brushing the edge of promotion. He smirked faintly—progress, even in a game. But his thumb hovered, then stilled.
Time to stop.
The Final Whistle’s celebration was drawing near. His team could wait. Reality couldn’t.
He set the controller down, rose from the bed, and stretched. His body still hummed with exhaustion, but the ache had dulled into something bearable.
A hot shower steamed away the last weight of fatigue, leaving his skin flushed, muscles loose. When he stepped out, the mirror caught him: hair damp, golden eyes sharpened, a faint scar from battle hidden beneath the calm surface.
By the time he dressed, the reflection looking back wasn’t just Julian Ashford of Lincoln High.
It was someone on the verge of leaving.
Tonight wasn’t only about celebration.
It was the beginning of farewell.
...
When Julian stepped out, dressed and ready, Crest was already waiting by the door.
"You ready?" she asked, voice calm but eyes sharp.
"Yeah." He hesitated, then added, "Can I take the car? I want to pick Tress up."
One brow arched. "You even have a license?"
Julian smirked, thumbs hooking casually into his pockets. "I’ve seen you drive enough. Believe me—I can handle it."
He gave her a thumbs-up. "Prodigy, remember?"
Crest’s sigh was half amusement, half warning. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed him the keys. The metal jingled as they landed in his palm.
"I’ll head to The Final Whistle in another car," she said, her tone firm. "Don’t crash."
"Yes, ma’am." Julian saluted with mock seriousness, grin tugging at his lips.
Already tapping out a quick text to Tress—I’ll pick you up—he slipped past her, stepping into the night air.
From behind him came Crest’s steady voice: "Be careful."
The words weren’t stern. They were soft.
Julian slid into the driver’s seat, engine rumbling to life beneath his hands. He’d studied this—automatic. Easy enough. Gear shifted with a smooth click.
"Alright," he muttered, adrenaline humming under his skin.
The car rolled forward, headlights cutting through the evening as he pulled away from the house, into the city streets.
Neon bled across wet asphalt, every reflection stretching like painted fire as the night unfolded. The wheel vibrated faintly beneath his grip, not from fear but from thrill.
First drive. First night of farewell. A new road, in more ways than one.