After the tactical session under Coach Soner, training shifted to an 11v11 match.

Two sides. Two colors. One mirror.

The squad split cleanly across the pitch—blue bibs versus red.

Julian found himself in blue, alongside Mageed.

Across the field, under the faint glare of the morning sun, stood Anssi and Omar Silah—the current spearhead of HSV II.

Julian flexed his hands, waiting.

Any moment now—

A whisper. A chime.

A quest.

But nothing came.

[ … ]

Silence.

Julian blinked, slightly frowning.

No new mission. No echo in his mind.

Why?

Did this scrimmage not count?

Was this match meaningless—just a test, not a trial?

He breathed out slowly, letting the question dissolve.

Even if the system was quiet, the pitch wasn't.

Ball down. Whistle sharp.

The match began.

Julian surged into position, following everything Soner had drawn on the board earlier—

Stay central.

Pin the backline.

Press on trigger.

Hold shape in possession.

He wasn't here to freestyle. Not today.

No martial flow, no wandering instincts.

Just discipline. Geometry. Structure.

He pressed when the ball shifted wide.

He held the line when Mageed dropped deep.

Every step had a purpose; every run carried a line traced from Soner's tactics.

The temptation to break free burned in him—to carve chaos into order, like in high school.

But he bit it down.

First, master the system.

Then, bend it to your will.

Across the field, Omar Silah moved like a shadow—efficient, powerful, nothing wasted.

Julian's eyes narrowed.

That's the man he had to surpass.

The man whose spot he wanted.

He clenched his jaw.

If this wasn't a quest, he'd treat it like one anyway.

Every duel. Every sprint. Every touch—

It all counted.

Coach Soner didn't shout.

Didn't whistle.

Didn't bark orders like so many others would.

He simply watched.

Arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Eyes sharp as a chess master overseeing a board of living pieces.

No praise. No correction.

Only observation.

Julian realized what it meant.

This wasn't about instinct anymore—

It was about comprehension.

Execution.

Mastery.

Every run he made followed a line from memory—

drop between defenders when Mageed received,

press the six when possession turned,

check short when the wing stretched wide.

No improvisation.

No martial flow.

Only precision.

If the system was the language of this team,

then today—

Julian was learning to speak it fluently.

Each motion carved discipline into muscle memory.

Each touch whispered understanding.

This wasn't freedom—

It was foundation.

And he would master it.

…

The duel began to take shape.

Whenever the blue side pressed, Omar's red team countered.

When Julian led the line, Omar mirrored him—two forwards reading the same system, two minds trying to out-sync the other.

It wasn't a friendly scrimmage anymore. It was a silent contest.

When Julian closed a passing lane, Omar found another.

When Julian baited the backline, Omar punished space.

They were reflections—one raw, one refined.

Julian moved with growing rhythm, pressing not just with legs but with understanding. His angles sharpened; his timing tightened.

Every time the red defenders tried to build from the back, he set the trigger—

first step forcing the pass, second cutting the lane, third drawing the trap.

Mageed swept in behind, intercepting the rushed pass.

The ball broke free.

Julian received, one touch to settle—another to turn.

He didn't shoot.

He waited, drew the center-back in, then slipped a diagonal ball to the winger bursting through.

A clean finish.

Goal.

The blue bibs erupted in short, disciplined cheers.

No celebration. Just acknowledgment.

Across the pitch, Omar lifted his chin, expression unreadable.

Julian didn't need words to understand what that meant.

One for you. Let's see if you can keep it.

From that moment, the scrimmage escalated.

Omar responded immediately.

A swift build-up through the red midfield.

One pass, two, three—fluid and precise.

He ghosted into the pocket, received between the lines, turned with a flick that left the defender spinning, and buried it bottom corner.

Clinical. Ruthless. Efficient.

Julian felt the vibration ripple through him.

So that's your standard, huh?

He didn't flinch.

Didn't chase glory.

He just reset his stance.

Waited for the next trigger.

Press. Intercept. Pivot. Distribute. Move.

Each repetition felt smoother than the last.

He wasn't chasing highlight moments anymore—he was becoming part of the machine.

When Mageed cut through midfield, Julian peeled off the shoulder.

A quick pass. A spin.

He didn't blast it—he placed it, low and clean, through the keeper's reach.

2–1.

The duel intensified.

Omar equalized minutes later, slipping between two defenders and flicking the ball in off the far post.

2–2.

The match became a pulse of mirrored movement—

Two strikers testing the same formula, pushing its limits.

Omar's precision versus Julian's adaptation.

The veteran's calm versus the newcomer's momentum.

Julian began to notice small patterns—when Omar pressed, the team shifted half a beat faster. When he led the trigger, the shape clicked perfectly.

That was the difference between mastering the system and commanding it.

And yet—

Julian was catching up.

He pressed again, cutting off the pivot.

Forced an error.

Mageed scooped the ball, lobbed it forward.

Julian met it mid-run, chest control, half-volley—net.

3–2.

The whistle cut through the air.

Training over.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then Coach Soner clapped once, breaking the silence.

"Good tempo," he said simply. "Both sides learned something today."

His eyes flicked between Julian and Omar, and for the briefest second—

acknowledgment.

No words, but a message clear as thunder.

That's the level. Keep rising.

…

After the training ended, the HSV II team gathered at the edge of the pitch, cleats crunching softly against damp turf.

Coach Soner stepped forward, clipboard tucked under one arm, his voice steady and clipped.

"Tomorrow, I'll announce the starting lineup for our match against BSV Kickers Emden. Our focus will be set pieces—corners, free kicks, defensive shape."

He scanned the group, eyes sweeping across each face.

"The day after tomorrow, we travel. It's their home ground, so expect pressure. Stay sharp."

Then his tone softened just slightly, the way a general might before dismissing his soldiers.

"Go back. Rest. Protect your bodies. The game's close."

"Yes, sir!" the team answered in unison, voices carrying across the fading light.

Julian hit the showers, letting the steam wash the strain from his muscles.

When he stepped out, towel slung around his shoulders, Mageed was waiting by the lockers.

"That was a good session," Mageed said, grinning. "You might've just earned yourself a spot in the lineup tomorrow."

Julian returned the smile, a quiet confidence flickering in his eyes. "Three goals help, huh?"

Mageed laughed. "Yeah, they tend to notice that. But remember—Coach Soner's said it before. Here at HSV II, we're not just chasing wins. We're chasing growth. Development. Everyone gets their chance, but what you do with it… that's on you."

Julian nodded. "Yeah. I get it."

The two slung their bags over their shoulders and rolled out into the cool Hamburg evening, the academy lights fading behind them. Streetlamps glowed softly against the misty air as their bicycles hummed over the quiet road.

After a few minutes, Mageed glanced over. "Hey, Julian—how about some food?"

Julian raised a brow. "Food? We're on the nutrition plan, remember? The team dietitian would kill us if we eat off-program."

Mageed groaned dramatically. "Yeah, yeah—but come on. There's this Fischbrötchen stand nearby. Local favorite. Sandwich with fish. Fresh, juicy, warm bread. You gotta try it, man."

Julian blinked. "Fish… sandwich?"

Mageed nodded eagerly. "A Hamburg classic. One of life's real blessings. Trust me."

Julian hesitated, weighing the temptation. One time wouldn't hurt… right?

"Alright," he said finally, fighting a grin. "One time."

Mageed punched the air. "Yes! Let's gooo!"

They pushed their bikes through a narrow street lined with old brick walls and found themselves before a food truck parked near the canal—Dock 51 painted in blue across its side. A small crowd clustered around it, laughter and chatter spilling into the air.

Julian's nose caught the scent first—warm bread, sea salt, fried fish, and something tangy, fresh. His stomach growled.

The line moved quickly, and when they reached the counter, a tall Black man in a Hawaiian shirt looked up, grinning wide. His braids hung neatly, sunglasses perched on his head.

"Ohhh, if it isn't Mageed!" the man said. "Same order?"

Mageed grinned back. "Yeah, Lars. Make it two—my friend here's gotta experience greatness."

He nudged Julian forward.

Julian smiled. "Hey, I'm Julian."

"Julian, huh?" Lars shook his hand firmly. "Name's Lars Hagen. That accent—American?"

"Yeah."

Lars chuckled. "An American in Hamburg playing football? Man, that's rare. Welcome to the real game."

Mageed laughed. "He just joined HSV. Thought I'd introduce him the right way."

"Then he's in good hands," Lars said, turning to the grill. "Give me two minutes."

The aroma grew stronger—crispy fish layered between soft rolls, pickled onions, fresh herbs, and a light, creamy sauce. When the sandwiches landed in their hands, the paper warm, Mageed led them to a small bench by the canal.

Julian took one bite—and froze.

Crisp crust, tender fish, bright acid from the pickles, and a mysterious spice that danced across his tongue.

His eyes widened. "This… is amazing."

Mageed grinned smugly. "Told you. I always get one after matches. But sometimes…" he leaned closer, lowering his voice, "…I cheat and get one before the game too."

Julian's gaze sharpened, like a hawk catching prey. "So that's why you wanted company, huh? A partner in crime."

Mageed laughed nervously, holding up both hands. "Hey, don't look at me like that! You're in it now too!"

Julian just shook his head, chuckling as he took another bite.

For a moment, beneath the silver glow of the streetlights and the quiet ripple of water nearby, the world felt simple—warm food, good company, and the calm before another climb.

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