Chapter 71: Chapter 71: Winter’s First Cut
Minutes bled away.
The match raged on.
The cold didn’t just bite—it seeped deeper with every breath, sinking into muscle and bone. Steam rose from players’ mouths like smoke from a battlefield, each exhale proof of their struggle.
The air itself seemed alive, vibrating with tension, every gust of winter wind cutting across the pitch like a knife, rattling flags, stinging cheeks, numbing fingers.
Boots crunched into the frosted turf with each stride, sending up faint sprays of icy pellets that glittered under the floodlights like shards of broken glass.
Crenshaw threw themselves forward with raw street-ball madness.
D-Ro juggled the ball off his shoulder mid-sprint, swagger dripping from every touch.
D-Lo followed with a no-look pass to empty space—except it wasn’t empty.
Tyrese materialized like a phantom, latching onto it with reckless precision.
Their attacks weren’t just plays—they were performances, born of concrete and streetlights, improvised chaos weaponized into momentum.
Every flick, every spin seemed designed to mock Lincoln’s structure, as though rules themselves could be bent under their boots.
Lincoln answered with order. Leo’s golden eyes shone under the floodlights, threading disciplined passes through chaos like a general cutting open a path in enemy lines.
Riku hacked down flair with cold, iron tackles, his boots cracking against turf with every committed challenge.
The rhythm of Lincoln’s shape was different—measured, machine-like.
When Crenshaw dribbled with fireworks, Lincoln moved like gears in a great clock, every click and turn designed to smother the spark before it became flame.
Leo’s voice carried like iron across the field, snapping teammates back into their lines, his breath steaming in hard bursts as if even the winter bowed to his command.
Chaos and control clashed again and again, the pitch itself trembling under the war of philosophies.
Every collision rattled the boards, every duel left imprints of bodies sliding on ice.
The ball skidded faster on the frozen grass, a wild animal barely tamed, sometimes bouncing awkwardly as if the elements themselves had chosen sides.
And yet—every wave of Crenshaw pressure left its mark.
Each attack stretched Lincoln’s defense thinner, every strike forcing Cael wider, higher, louder.
His roars tore through the frozen air as he hurled himself into impossible saves, the thud of his body hitting turf echoing like thunder.
"Bring more!" Cael bellowed, grinning through the strain, taunting the Ross twins as sweat trickled down his temple despite the winter chill.
On the sideline, Coach Owen’s voice never ceased.
"Hold your line!"
"Read the play!"
"Control the pace!"
Frost puffed from his lips with every shout, his eyes burning like a hawk stalking prey.
The war dragged on. Seconds, then minutes, ticked away.
Both teams carved chances. Both teams bled effort.
But as the clock rolled forward, the cracks began to show.
Lincoln’s wall wasn’t unbreakable—it was bending.
And in the bending, chaos looked for its kill.
...
The crack came.
It started with a flicker on the left wing.
D-Ro Ross caught the ball on the outside of his boot, swagger dripping from every step.
He didn’t dribble—he performed. Juggling it thigh, shoulder, heel, the ball orbiting him like he was born with it.
Then, with a snap of his ankle, he drove it forward, grin sharp enough to cut steel.
The crowd roared. Their noise matched the rhythm of his dance.
Ethan sprinted in, desperate, boots carving into the frost. He dove into a slide tackle—studs sparking against frozen turf.
But D-Ro was already gone. The ball slipped through Ethan’s legs with a nutmeg so ruthless it left him clawing at dirt, momentum wasted in the cold.
"Track him!" Leo’s voice cracked through the winter air, sharp as steel. His golden eyes locked on the chaos ahead, legs pumping as he surged across the midfield.
D-Ro spun inward, boots drumming the ball like a war chant. But before Leo could cut him off, another shadow slipped in—D-Lo. The mirror.
His stride meshed with his twin’s, seamless, terrifying, like instinct braided into flesh.
A one-two.
A ricochet.
A flick that clipped off a Lincoln shin—ball tumbling, fate rolling loose into the box.
The stadium froze. Thousands of lungs locked in silence.
And then—Tyrese pounced.
He didn’t cushion. Didn’t settle. He just swung. A full-blooded strike, his boot colliding with frozen leather like hammer on iron.
The cannon-shot screamed through the air, tearing past defenders before they could blink.
Cael exploded sideways, gloves outstretched, body straining to its limit. His fingertips kissed the ball—bent its flight—
But not enough.
The net rippled. A brutal shiver ran through the posts.
GOAL.
1 – 0.
For a heartbeat, silence—then the stadium erupted.
Crenshaw’s fans became a storm of their own—horns blaring, drums hammering, bodies bouncing in chaotic rhythm.
White-and-teal flags whipped against the cold wind, their section a haze of frenzy and fire.
The Ross twins sprinted toward the stands, arms spread like kings of disorder feeding their temple.
D-Ro slammed his chest with both fists, roaring into the night. D-Lo blew mocking kisses at Lincoln’s bench, grinning as if he’d already buried them.
Chaos had drawn first blood.
On Lincoln’s side, the contrast was brutal. Their bench froze, disbelief plastered across every face. Shoulders sagged, jaws locked.
Ethan smacked the turf in raw frustration, his curses muffled by the roar.
Aaron bent double, hands on his knees, sweat turning icy in his hair.
Even Leo’s composure cracked for a breath—golden eyes narrowing, jaw grinding shut.
The silence that followed Lincoln’s players wasn’t just soundless—it was heavy.
Every man felt the goal not just on the scoreboard, but in their ribs, as though a punch had stolen the air from their lungs.
The kind of goal that rattled foundations. The kind that whispered: maybe this time, order won’t be enough.
For the first time all season... Lincoln High were behind.
Julian stood at the edge of the box, chest heaving. The roar of the stadium pressed against him, heavy as a mountain.
For a moment, the weight sank into his bones. His blood felt sluggish, as though the storm itself wanted to drown him.
But then—his fists clenched.
The storm had struck.
But he would stand at its eye.
His gaze locked onto the Ross twins, predators basking in their chaos. Then instinct pulled his eyes to Noah.
Noah was already staring back.
There was no fear in him. No despair. Only hunger—sharp enough to carve steel. His lips tilted into a smirk, a silent dare for Julian to match it.
The air between them tightened, dry powder catching a spark. Rivals. Partners. Strikers born to kill.
Julian’s pulse steadied, each beat like a war drum reverberating through his chest. Soul-fire smoldered in his veins, burning hotter with every breath.
He could almost hear the echo of his heart demon, mocking, waiting.
"Still here? Still dreaming?"
Julian smirked. "Dream all you want. I’m not giving up my throne."
His aura flickered—small, restrained, but enough to send a shiver through the cold night.
The referee’s whistle cut across the noise, calling the half.
But Julian didn’t move. He stood tall in the chill, eyes locked on the storm raging in the stands.
They thought they had written the script.
They thought Lincoln would fold.
But the second half would tell a different story.
The Ashen Emperor did not bow.
He broke.
And next half, the storm would break with him.