Chapter 70: Chapter 70: Chaos Given Shape
The warm-ups faded into silence, tension hanging like frost in the air.
Then—
Prrrriiiittttt!
The referee’s whistle split the winter evening.
Both teams gathered at the center, lined in ritual formation. Lincoln High in their home blue, Crenshaw North in their away white trimmed with teal. Two armies, one pitch.
Right hand extended for home. Left for away. The old gesture of respect before war.
Julian clasped palms that were rough, calloused, trembling with contained violence.
He could feel it in their grip—the Ross twins, the chaos engine of Crenshaw. D-Ro’s grin was feral, D-Lo’s smirk cold, calculated.
Tyrese’s stare was wildfire, Javion’s grip felt like steel clamps around his fingers.
The clash of hands wasn’t a handshake—it was a warning. Every palm said the same thing: "I’m here to break you."
Then the line dissolved.
The referee raised the ball.
Dropped it.
The game began.
Kickoff. Crenshaw North, the away side, drew first blood with the ball.
The cold pressed into bones, breath rising in pale clouds, winter wind slicing across bare skin.
But on the pitch, no one felt it. Ninety minutes stretched ahead, and only one truth mattered—who would walk away still perfect.
Julian stood at the center, gaze narrowing as Crenshaw made their first move. He felt it immediately.
Disorder wasn’t their weakness. It was their heartbeat.
...
The Ross twins struck first.
D-Ro took the opening touch, Leo already closing in, golden eyes locked on him.
But the striker didn’t even hesitate—heel flick, spin—Leo was bypassed as if he were just another training cone.
Gasps tore through the stands as D-Ro launched a rainbow flick into the frozen night.
And D-Lo was already there. One body, one soul. He read his brother’s move as if it were his own thought, darting beneath the falling arc with perfect timing.
His first touch fired him straight into Lincoln’s half, the ball tethered to his boots like destiny.
"Stop him!" Riku’s voice ripped across the pitch.
Aaron lunged forward, cleats tearing frost. But D-Lo mirrored his twin exactly—same flick, same body angle, same mocking grace.
It was like watching a reflection come alive, two halves of the same chaos. One soul, two bodies.
Then came Tyrese, storming from deep. D-Lo slipped the ball his way.
Everyone braced for the logical move—a neat through ball, a sharp one-two, a clinical cut into Lincoln’s ribs.
Instead—
Tyrese unleashed hell.
From twenty-seven meters, his boot thundered. The strike was reckless, raw, and merciless, the ball screaming through the winter air. It swerved unnaturally, a missile born of chaos itself.
Cael’s instincts exploded. He hurled himself sideways, full stretch, fingertips brushing leather.
Thump!
The ball shaved the post and spun wide.
For a heartbeat, the stadium froze.
Then the white-and-teal section erupted, their roars a storm crashing down.
Crenshaw’s football wasn’t elegance.
It was chaos given shape.
...
Julian’s eyes sharpened. He inhaled slowly, feeling the threads of disorder pulling taut around him.
To everyone else, it was madness. To him, it was a puzzle waiting to be solved.
And then—
[Battlefield Mind Lv.2]
The world slowed. His instincts spread wide, every movement translating into threads of rhythm.
Chaos wasn’t chaos—not to him. Beneath the laughter and tricks, he could see the skeleton of their play.
The Ross twins weren’t random—they were mirrors of each other, one wild, the other calm, weaving confusion out of symmetry.
The crowd saw improvisation. Julian saw design. The flicks, the tricks—they weren’t spur-of-the-moment.
They were rehearsed chaos, sharpened until even defenders couldn’t tell if it was instinct or witchcraft.
Even so, knowing the pattern didn’t mean stopping it. They had numbers. They had momentum. And most dangerously—they had belief.
Julian shadowed D-Ro on the next run, reading every twitch, every sway.
But the boy slipped past anyway, not because he was faster, but because his twin had already moved into the exact spot Julian expected him to cover.
It was like fighting two bodies with one soul.
Lincoln’s line bent. The storm pressed harder.
...
Then came the first spark.
Julian’s eyes locked on the pass. His chest tightened. His soul surged.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: Agility Focus +10]
The world snapped sharper, cleaner—every angle, every twitch of muscle painted in crystal clarity. His body felt lighter, faster, harder to break.
A blur of blue and frost.
Julian slid. Cleats carved through frozen turf, dirt and ice spraying into the air. The ball clipped his foot and spun loose.
The interception.
He didn’t stay down—he bounced up in a single breath, momentum snapping him upright. Vision widened, instincts sharpened into blades.
Already scanning. Already ready to strike back.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +3 To All Attributes]
And then he saw it.
Noah. Half-marked. Half-forgotten.
Julian’s eyes lit—just a flicker, a signal.
The ball whipped across the pitch like a bullet.
And Noah... vanished.
One second he was there, the next his marker blinked—and he was gone.
A shadow slipping into the blind spot, a predator materializing in lethal space.
Gasps rippled through the stands as necks twisted, desperate to track him.
It wasn’t speed. It wasn’t trickery. It was disappearance. Phantom Step—the gift of a natural-born striker.
Noah’s first touch was perfection—smooth, deadly. He surged forward.
Julian was already moving, sprinting the instant the pass left his boot.
Blocked. Noah’s lane shut down. But the ball popped back—one touch, no hesitation. Straight to Julian.
Julian exploded through the line, legs hammering, body braced for the strike. He drew back—
Only for Javion to come crashing in.
A brutal shoulder-to-shoulder slam.
Julian’s balance snapped, his shot skewed wide, rattling against the side netting with a metallic claaang.
"Shit," Julian hissed, teeth clenched, glare locked onto Javion.
The center-back met his eyes without flinching.
A silent clash. Predator to predator.
For a moment, the stadium noise vanished. It was just two beasts staring each other down, daring the other to blink.
Noah jogged up, smirk tugging at his lips.
"Nice pass," he said casually. Then, sharper, laced with sarcasm: "But please—score next time."
Julian didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His silence was its own promise. The next chance wouldn’t be wasted.
...
Lincoln had survived the opening storm. But Crenshaw wasn’t done. And deep inside, Julian could feel it—this game wasn’t going to be about beauty or tactics.
It was going to be about who could endure the chaos longer without breaking.