Chapter 111: Chapter 111: The Signal
The whistle cut through the night.
Julian jogged toward the bench, his chest still rising and falling with the rhythm of war. Laura was already there, a towel draped over one arm, a bottle of sports drink in her hand.
"Here," she said, her voice brisk but warm.
Julian wiped the sweat streaking down his face, the towel rough against his skin, then cracked open the bottle. The cool liquid burned down his throat like fire put out with ice.
Coach Owen’s voice broke the moment.
"Good first half." His tone carried no celebration—only command. "Keep the fluidity. Keep the rhythm. But listen—never underestimate them. They can still claw their way back."
"Yes, Coach!" the team answered in unison, voices hard, unified.
The bench became a brief sanctuary. Players leaned back, gulping their drinks, air filled with the hiss of bottles and the low thud of cleats shifting on concrete. The faint smell of liniment mixed with sweat.
Leo sat down next to Julian, his arm brushing his. His voice was quiet, but sharp.
"What do you think about D-Lo?"
Julian turned slightly, his brows narrowing. "Something changed. In the last minutes of the half... he felt off."
Noah, catching their words, leaned in from the other side. His forehead glistened, but his eyes burned steady.
"Yeah. I felt it too."
Leo’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking toward the pitch where Crenshaw’s players regrouped in their huddle. "We need to be careful."
Julian nodded once. The unspoken weight hung between them like smoke.
D-Lo hadn’t broken yet. He was still there. And sometimes, the most dangerous thing wasn’t a player already unleashed—it was the one holding back, waiting to evolve.
...
Lincoln and Crenshaw marched back onto the pitch.
The air felt heavier now, as if the stadium itself sensed a storm coming.
Pritttt—
The whistle shrieked. Kickoff.
The ball rolled smoothly to D-Lo’s feet.
And in that instant, something changed. His entire aura sharpened—eyes colder, posture coiled tight, his movements brimming with intent.
Julian froze for half a breath.
What... just happened?
D-Lo’s face wasn’t the same. He looked like someone who had abandoned doubt, who had chosen war with his entire being.
The ball kissed his boots, and he moved.
Julian surged forward, ready to cut him off, already bracing to trigger [Rule the Pitch]—but before he could even make contact, D-Lo was gone. A blur. A flash of light burned into Julian’s retinas.
By the time he turned his head, D-Lo was already past him, sprinting forward with terrifying purpose.
"What—?!" Julian’s breath caught. His body reacted late.
Crenshaw’s players seemed to awaken all at once, like soldiers catching the signal from their commander. They shifted, ran, and opened space in perfect sync—as if D-Lo’s movement was the beacon they had been waiting for.
The rhythm of the game snapped in half. Where Crenshaw had been hesitant, fractured, now they surged with singular intent.
Boots pounded against the turf like war drums, every stride feeding off the energy radiating from their winger.
Even the crowd seemed to feel it—the swell of noise shifting from doubt to thunderous belief, the kind of roar that could push a team forward with sheer will.
The crowd gasped as if sharing the same breath. By the time Julian twisted his body to recover, D-Lo was ten yards ahead, weaving with ruthless precision.
"Close him down!" Riku’s voice thundered, commanding Lincoln’s line.
Aaron lunged from the side, sliding in with perfect timing—
Tap. D-Lo flicked the ball behind his heel, spun, and ghosted around Aaron before the tackle could even touch air.
The Crenshaw players surged forward, feeding off his energy. Left wing sprinted wide. Right wing cut in diagonally. They moved like pieces on strings, all pulled by one puppeteer.
The ball bounced between them—right, back to D-Lo. Left, back again. Quick, sharp, unstoppable.
Lincoln shadowed every pass, boots slamming the turf, eyes narrowing for the interception. But the rhythm was too clean. Too fast. Like water slipping through clenched fists.
Julian sprinted back, lungs burning. His instincts screamed—this wasn’t chaos anymore. This wasn’t the reckless storm D-Ro used to unleash.
This was control.
D-Lo blended his brother’s madness with his own discipline, a dribbler’s chaos shackled into a conductor’s rhythm.
He cut through the midfield like slicing silk. Ethan pressed in from behind, but D-Lo’s hips twisted, his frame dropping low as the ball rolled smoothly to the outside. A sharp burst of speed—gone again.
"Shadow him!" Riku barked, but hesitation rippled across the defenders.
Because every time D-Lo dipped his shoulders, every time his boots caressed the ball, the threat was absolute. One wrong step, and he would punish them.
Now he was at the edge of the box.
Zion rushed to close the space. D-Lo feinted right, then dragged the ball left with the inside of his boot, snapping Zion’s balance with a whip-crack motion. The crowd roared as Zion stumbled a step.
Riku was next, eyes locked on the boy tearing through their wall. He didn’t dive, didn’t bite—he held his ground, forcing D-Lo to show his hand.
For a heartbeat, time froze.
D-Lo’s chest rose once. His pupils dilated. And then—
Bang.
The ball smashed against his laces, a strike as clean as thunder splitting the sky.
It roared toward the top corner.
Damien leapt. Gloves stretched, eyes wide, body arched in midair.
Fingers grazed leather—
Thump!
The ball ricocheted off his palm, smashing against the crossbar with a metallic crack that rattled through the stadium.
Gasps erupted. Crenshaw’s bench leapt to their feet. Lincoln’s crowd screamed as Damien crashed back onto the turf, rolling once, clutching his gloves tight.
The ball spun wildly back into the box.
D-Lo was already sprinting in for the rebound.
Julian’s veins ignited. He threw himself forward, cutting across space like a blade.
Boot met boot—Julian’s clearance slicing the ball skyward, far from the danger zone.
The crowd exploded, half in relief, half in despair.
Julian landed hard, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his jawline. His eyes snapped to D-Lo.
The boy stood there, breath fogging, teeth bared in something between a snarl and a grin.
Julian felt the echo in his bones. That strike hadn’t been a warning—it had been a signal.
A declaration. D-Lo had awakened, and he was no longer chasing shadows of his brother. He was carving his own.
That wasn’t the same opponent from the first half.
This was a new beast.
And Lincoln had just seen its fangs.