Chapter 99: Chapter 99: Midfield War Begins
Julian remembered clearly how Riverside played the last time.
Midfield domination. Their engine, their rhythm, their crushing weight all came from the center.
But this time—he wasn’t a striker waiting up front. He was in the middle, in the fire.
And he believed.
With Ricky and Felix beside him, they could break Riverside’s spine.
The ball moved across Riverside’s backline. Calm. Patient. Like they were daring Lincoln to step forward, trying to bait them in, to open gaps in the press.
Even the sound of their passes carried arrogance—flat, crisp thuds echoing sharp against the frozen turf.
It was a language of control. Each touch, each shift of hips said the same thing: "We run this."
Noah surged first, pressing hard on the center-back.
The defender didn’t panic—one touch, then a clean pass down into midfield.
Straight to Damian.
Damian’s first touch was velvet, his body already swiveling as if the pitch itself was his canvas. His sharp eyes cut across the field—then locked briefly on Julian.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +5 To All Attributes]
Julian closed the gap fast, shadow sharp, steps quick.
Damian hesitated—just for a flicker of a second.
Then bang!
An explosive touch forward. His acceleration was vicious, like a whip crack. Julian’s lunge snapped just short—Damian slipped past with fluid grace.
But Lincoln didn’t break.
Ricky read it perfectly, sliding across like a wall. He cut off the angle, forcing Damian to dump the ball sideways.
Straight to Nico.
Nico received, body low, broad shoulders rolling like a bull settling into the dirt. Felix darted in, teeth bared, going shoulder-to-shoulder, trying to wrestle the ball away.
WHAM!
The impact echoed. Felix shoved—Nico shoved harder.
Felix’s balance cracked, and he toppled to the grass, breath ripped from his lungs.
Julian’s eyes sharpened.
Not to Nico.
Not to the ball.
But to the true core of Riverside.
Silas Malik.
Already gliding into space, the captain waiting to turn tempo into a weapon.
Nico still held the ball, bulling forward, but Aaron was on him, shadowing with every step. Pressure mounting.
Julian closed in on Silas, marking tight.
"It’s been a while," Julian said quietly, eyes never leaving the play.
Silas’s smile curved, calm, sharp. "Yeah. I see—you’re captain now."
"For this match only," Julian replied, voice flat, feet never still.
Their words were quiet, but the air between them carried weight.
Every step Silas took was deliberate, his aura threading through Riverside’s shape like invisible strings.
Julian felt it—this wasn’t just an opponent. This was a mirror. A rival built for command.
...
Nico’s options narrowed fast.
Forward? Zion blocked the path.
Backward? Aaron was closing.
The only outlet—Silas in midfield, waiting like a spider.
But Nico tried to force it forward.
Bad choice.
CRACK! Zion slid across, cutting it out clean.
Counterattack.
Zion wasted no time, threading a low pass to Aaron.
Aaron swept it wide to Felix, who carried down the right with speed.
Julian tracked into the middle, keeping the line. Felix pushed, drew a defender, then slipped the ball inside—straight to Julian.
The crowd roared as Julian touched forward.
Silas was there instantly, breathing down his back.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +15 To All Attributes]
Silas lunged for the tackle—Julian’s feet danced, slipping past. One cut, one swivel, ball still alive.
But danger never came alone.
Damian Rowe streaked in from the blindside, a flash of gold and black.
Julian saw it. He shifted, body twisted at an impossible angle, and with one hard push of his instep—he shoved the ball sideways.
A desperate pass, but it hit Ricky’s path.
Damian’s boot scraped it, changing its spin—but not enough. Ricky caught it under control.
Two Riverside defenders swarmed him instantly. He braced, back bent, ball shielded, nowhere to breathe.
Until—
"Noah!" Ricky snapped, and let it go.
The pass cut through. Noah, sprinting into the gap, met it in stride.
Julian was already moving. Reading it before it happened.
From midfield general—straight into the role of striker.
He surged forward, eyes locked on the box.
The first real crack in Riverside’s wall was here.
Noah drove the ball with speed, close to his feet, his body weaving through space. Julian pushed higher, dragging defenders with him, opening channels.
Nico saw the danger and stormed in from behind, muscles coiled, instincts sharp.
But Noah burst—one acceleration, one flash—and Nico was left lunging at air.
The crowd gasped. Nico could only watch Noah fly past.
That forced a choice. The center-back who had been glued to Julian peeled away, stepping toward Noah. Pressure closed in as Noah sliced into the box.
And then—timing perfect—he slipped it sideways.
The ball spun across the grass, rolling to Julian’s stride.
One touch.
Shot chambered.
Goal in sight.
But from nowhere—CLANG!
Damian Rowe slid in like a phantom, his boot clipping the strike just as Julian’s leg swung through. The ball’s path warped, spinning helplessly upward.
It floated, slow, harmless, into the waiting gloves of Riverside’s keeper.
The chance was gone.
Julian’s gaze snapped to Damian. Their eyes locked across the box—Damian’s steady, unreadable, a hunter’s calm.
It wasn’t arrogance. It wasn’t even provocation. Just... certainty. Damian’s eyes told him: "I’ll be there every time." And that was more dangerous than any smirk.
Julian exhaled, stepping back, retreating into position.
The message was clear.
Riverside wasn’t going to give him anything for free.
The crowd responded in waves—Riverside’s side erupting in cheers, Lincoln’s fans groaning, fists clutching banners.
On the bench, Coach Owen’s jaw tightened, his bald head glistening under the stadium lights. Beside him, Laura’s pen scratched furiously against her clipboard, her eyes darting like a hawk tracking every movement.
In the stands, every scout’s pen moved. Every notebook filled. This wasn’t just a high school match anymore. It was theater. It was war. It was examination under floodlights.
Julian dragged a sleeve across his forehead, smearing away the sweat. His gaze never left Silas Malik.
The ball might have slipped away. The strike stolen from his boot. But the battle wasn’t over—no, it was only beginning.
Silas stood tall in the center circle, aura calm, the rhythm of the game beating in time with his breath. A shaman’s stillness wrapped around him, as though the pitch itself bent to his pulse.
Julian inhaled sharply.
If Riverside wanted to choke the midfield, to steal the air from his lungs, then he would turn every breath into a blade.
He would carve holes through their suffocation.
And with every cut, he would make them bleed..