Chapter 126: Chapter 126: Broken Note
Not just Julian.
Leo felt it too.
The link.
Their eyes met. Julian gave the slightest nod, and Leo’s chest tightened with certainty—this moment belonged to them.
The ball rolled under Leo’s boots. A defender lunged. He brushed past with a feint and slipped it wide.
Julian was already there. The ball kissed his foot, popped high, juggled once, then cut across another defender. His vision felt endless—like he had eyes in every direction. When the ball dropped, his pass snapped back to Leo, seamless, inevitable.
The crowd surged as the rhythm quickened.
The noise was a living thing now—feet stamping against aluminum bleachers, voices rising in chaotic harmony.
Every pass between Julian and Leo wasn’t just football, it was incantation. The tempo was music, their boots drumming against turf, echoing like war drums across the night.
Victor noticed. His instincts howled. This wasn’t normal play—it was sorcery, Julian’s strange magic bending the pitch. If he didn’t stop it here, Lincoln would score. His muscles coiled, legs firing as he sprinted to cut them off.
Kai read it too. His boots tore the turf, body blazing in full sprint. Elijah surged from midfield, arms pumping, trying to collapse the channel.
But Julian and Leo didn’t slow. They advanced as if no one else existed—passing, moving, feeding off one another’s heartbeat. Each step was a note, each pass a drumbeat. Their duet carved through San Dimas like a blade.
And waiting in the box, Malik Ortega narrowed his eyes.
The keeper’s pulse sharpened. His knees bent. His gloves flexed. He wasn’t just guarding a goal—he was standing in front of a storm.
Julian felt his skill timer gutter out. The strength, the clarity, the unnatural edge—it all bled from his body, leaving the weight of exhaustion heavy in his veins. But his resolve didn’t flicker. Not here. Not when victory burned this close.
They were at the edge of the box.
One pass. One strike.
And nothing—not Victor’s sprint, not Kai’s blitz, not Elijah’s shadow—could stop them.
Julian and Leo moved as one.
Malik crouched low, every tendon drawn tight, his eyes flicking between them. From Leo driving the ball, to Julian ghosting into support—it was a coin flip that could decide the match.
Which one?
His mind screamed the question with every heartbeat.
Leo’s stride carried him into the box. One step. Another. The gold and silver of San Dimas blurred behind him, too slow to keep up.
Malik’s decision snapped.
Commit. Now.
The keeper exploded forward, boots slamming against turf, closing down the angle with reckless ferocity. Gasps rippled through the stands—so fast, so early, it startled even Leo.
But Leo didn’t break. His composure, honed in fire, kept steady. If Malik wanted him... then he would give the ball away. He slipped his foot, ready to slide the pass into Julian’s path.
And that was exactly what Malik had hunted for.
He had baited it. Overcommitted not to Leo, but to the line between them. He hurled his body sideways, arms outstretched—cutting directly into the pass lane.
"Impossible!" someone screamed from the stands.
The ball left Leo’s boot.
Malik dove.
Gloved hands snapped around leather. A clean catch.
The stadium erupted. A wave of voices crashed down from every corner—cheers, chants, applause, disbelief.
Malik rose from the turf, fist clenched, ball locked in his arms, a roar tearing from his throat.
The San Dimas crowd went wild, chanting his name.
"MA-LIK! MA-LIK!"
On the other side, Lincoln froze in disbelief. The link, their perfect connection, broken in an instant.
Julian’s jaw tightened, sweat dripping into his eyes. He could still feel the vibration of the pass between his feet, the weight of destiny in that moment—ripped away by the eagle in gold.
The war hadn’t ended.
But San Dimas had answered back, louder than ever.
Malik’s eyes didn’t leave Julian.
Like a predator marking its prey.
Julian met the stare without flinching, then turned to Leo.
"Sorry for that," Leo muttered, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temple. His golden aura flickered—dimming, but not gone.
Julian shook his head. His voice was calm, steady, unshaken.
"It’s okay. We’ll make another try."
Leo exhaled, nodded once, and straightened his back.
The Maestro wasn’t broken.
The Emperor wasn’t shaken.
And the battle raged on.
...
After that chance, Lincoln dropped deeper, their shape bending like a bow under strain.
San Dimas pressed harder, sharper, hungrier.
Every attack felt like a hammer blow.
Riku and Leo barked orders, scrambling to hold the rhythm together, while Julian and Noah even retreated deep into their own half. From the stands, it looked like Lincoln had no striker at all. Only bodies, blue shirts stacked like a wall before Cael’s goal.
But San Dimas wasn’t ordinary. They weren’t just attacking. They were devouring.
Miles was the architect—each pass struck like a code written by a machine. The angles, the weight, the timing—perfect, merciless, impossible to anticipate.
Kai wasn’t a left back anymore. He was a storm unleashed. Every chance he got, he blitzed forward, tearing into Lincoln’s defense like a cavalry charge, forcing Noah to sprint, chase, and sweat just to hold him back.
And Victor—
Victor was a barrage all on his own.
Shots from outside the box, bullets from the left, daggers from the right. Every strike was honed, every attempt a razor edge.
One rattled the crossbar so violently the metal sang, the vibration echoing through Cael’s bones.
Another whistled past the post close enough to shear a strand of grass. Each attempt pushed Lincoln closer to the cliff’s edge.
Cael’s goalkeeper shirt, once clean, was now streaked brown with dirt and grass stains. His arms shook from the constant saves, his body slick with sweat. Every dive felt like it could be the last.
Julian’s heart pounded, the storm battering them without pause. The pressure was suffocating, the noise of the San Dimas fans a wave crashing against his skull.
The chants of "VICTOR! VICTOR!" blended with "MA-LIK! MA-LIK!" until it felt like the entire stadium had been seized by their enemies.
Lincoln’s supporters clapped, screamed, begged to be heard, but their voices were swallowed by the gold tide.
Then—
He saw it.
Leo.
The faint shimmer. The golden hue returning, like dawn breaking through the dark. His captain’s eyes ignited, blazing with that impossible light.
The Maestro had returned.
Julian’s lips curved, fierce and sharp.
The trance was back.
The rhythm was theirs again.
And with it came the truth—
Lincoln couldn’t hold forever.
They needed to strike.
They needed to end this.