The night carried a strange calm.

After training with Fabio, Julian checked his stats.

➤ +1 Agility.

➤ +1 Stamina.

A small number — but in this world, even one point was a battlefield won.

Sweat still clung to his skin as he left the campus gym. The city outside was quiet, painted in silver by the moon. The air held that faint May warmth that whispered of summer — of endings and beginnings.

A stray breeze brushed past, carrying the scent of asphalt, salt, and grass — the smell of a city half-awake. The sound of his sneakers against the pavement echoed softly, each step deliberate, measured, like the ticking of a clock only he could hear.

Three more months until the season closed.

Three months to carve his next step.

When he returned to his apartment, he didn't turn the lights on.

He sat on the edge of the bed, body still pulsing from the grind, mind sharp as ever.

The darkness suited him. No distractions. Only the faint hum of the refrigerator and the rhythm of his breathing filled the room. Outside, car headlights traced white lines through the mist, then vanished.

He watched their reflection fade across the window — as if the city itself were exhaling, resting.

"Echo," he said softly,

"show me the class structure by attributes."

A familiar hum filled the silence.

…

[Displaying Class Tier Information…]

► Semi-Pro (700 – 1400):

Domestic Leagues and Second Tier Leagues

Players who taste the professional rhythm, but can't yet master it.

► Elite Pro (1400 – 3500):

Top five leagues. Bundesliga, La Liga, Serie A, Premier League, Ligue 1.

Every second is calculation; every touch, consequence.

► World Class (3500 – 4000):

National team mainstays. Champions League warriors.

Legends that command the rhythm of nations.

…

The words lingered in Julian's mind like an echo carved into stone.

He exhaled slowly, eyes tracing the tiers on the holographic screen.

HSV's senior squad — playing in Bundesliga 2 — sat somewhere between the 700 to 1400 attribute range.

Maybe higher.

Some of them had already stepped into the Elite Pro threshold — the kind who could push their way into the Bundesliga if given the chance.

Julian looked down at his own numbers.

590.

Still a world away from those giants.

But not for long.

[Echo] he said quietly.

[Use all my experience points. Distribute them evenly across all attributes.]

A hum answered him.

[Processing… 586 EXP = 117 Attribute Points Allocated. Remaining: 1 EXP.]

Julian inhaled deeply — then opened the panel.

…

User: Julian Ashford

Age: 17

State: Pro Tier

Title: None

Exp Point : 1

…

CORE ATTRIBUTES

► Strength : 100

► Agility : 110

► Stamina : 100

► Technique : 100

► Perception : 125

► Instinct : 124

► Charisma : 50

Total Stat : 709

…

The screen pulsed softly — a faint golden ripple.

Julian stared, silent.

He had done it.

From a frail boy reborn in a new world…

to a professional-tier athlete standing among Hamburg's finest.

Still, his expression didn't change.

It wasn't pride he felt.

It was hunger.

"Pro tier," he muttered. "Finally."

Then his passive bonuses surged — a familiar power coursing through his limbs like heat beneath his skin.

[Passive Effect Applied = +100]

[ Stamina Bracelet = +10 Stamina]

[ Battlefield Mind Lv.3 = + 10 to Perception and + 10 Instinct ]

[ Martial Memory Lv.3 = +10 to all attributes]

Total: 809

Julian stood slowly, the faint glow from the hologram washing across his face. He flexed his fingers once — the movement light, precise.

The air around him felt thinner, easier to breathe, as though the room itself had recognized the shift. He rolled his shoulders; the faint creak of tightened muscle followed.

Even the silence seemed to wait for him to move.

Julian clenched his fists slowly. The world felt lighter — sharper — as if gravity itself had adjusted to his will.

But even now, the number on his screen mocked him.

1400.

That was the benchmark — the level of starters in Bundesliga 2.

To stand on that field, to face them as equals… he still wasn't enough.

The hum of the system returned.

…

[Congratulations, Host.]

[You have reached Pro Tier.]

[From this point forward, Attribute Cost = 10 EXP per point.]

…

Julian froze.

For a moment, he thought he misheard.

Then realization set in — and he let out a short, bitter laugh.

"Of course," he muttered, tilting his head toward the ceiling.

"No gift. No celebration. Just more weight."

The ceiling above him was bare concrete, cold and still. A single droplet of condensation slid down the windowpane beside him, catching the glow of the hologram before disappearing.

The moment passed in silence — not disappointment, but understanding. Every climb came with thinner air.

His gaze drifted to the window — Hamburg's skyline shimmered in the distance, cranes and towers piercing the mist.

The world outside never stopped moving. Even at night, someone was always building, running, dreaming. He exhaled through his nose, the kind of breath that sounded like quiet defiance.

His reflection in the window stared back — calm eyes beneath the faint city glow.

That quiet, simmering fire burned again.

"Fine," he said softly. "Raise the price. I'll still pay it."

Outside, the lights of Hamburg stretched endlessly — a city full of dreamers.

But only one of them looked at the skyline like it was a throne.

The Emperor had taken his first step into the professional world.

Now came the war to rule it.

…

VfB Oldenburg vs HSV II ended 1–0.

A loss — expected, considering Soner had sent out a full reserve lineup.

Still, keeping it to a single goal wasn't bad. It showed structure, control, potential.

Julian watched the replay later that night, expression unreadable.

No frustration. No jealousy.

Only calculation.

The screen's light flickered across the dark apartment, painting faint blues and greys along the walls.

Outside, the rain had returned — soft, persistent, brushing against the glass like a heartbeat. The scent of wet concrete drifted through the cracked window, clean but cold.

Players moved across the screen — flashes of white and navy under floodlights. Julian's eyes followed every line of play, every hesitation, every half-second of lost rhythm.

He paused, rewound, studied again. It wasn't about judging. It was about mapping — learning the pulse of his new team like a surgeon tracing arteries.

If he wasn't on the pitch, then he'd make sure every second off it still counted.

His reflection lingered in the black edges of the screen — a faint outline, still and disciplined. The hum of the refrigerator, the whisper of rain, the slow rhythm of his breath — all of it folded into silence. In that quiet, ambition wasn't loud. It was patient.

…

The next morning, the training center hummed with the steady rhythm of routine — treadmills whirring, weights clanking, balls thudding against walls.

Julian was there early, sweat already tracing the line of his jaw, his body still adjusting to its new power.

But he wasn't here just to train.

He was hunting mentors.

He had learned what the system meant by Mentor Effect — direct attribute boosts during one-on-one training, depending on the mentor's own stats.

It was more than teamwork; it was transfer of essence.

Fabio Baldé — his agility and acceleration were top-tier, smooth like mercury.

Perfect for speed work.

Mageed — vision and control so natural it was almost instinct.

If anyone could sharpen Julian's technique, it was him.

And Luis Seifert — the team's anchor, quiet and immovable.

Strength. Stamina. Endurance.

Julian ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling.

If attributes were his army, these men were his generals.

He opened his schedule app, typing quietly between breaths:

Monday–Wednesday: Agility sessions with Fabio

Thursday: Strength & stamina drills with Luis

Friday–Saturday: Ball mastery & technique with Mageed

He stared at the list — a map of his next evolution.

The next phase of the Emperor's rise wouldn't come from magic.

It would be built — one sweat drop, one breath, one lesson at a time.

…

Julian trained with the team under Coach Soner's daily schedule — the same structure, same drills, same demands.

But when others went home, he stayed.

His true work began after the whistle.

…

"Training with me again?" Fabio called out, towel slung around his neck, a grin cutting through his sweat.

Julian nodded. "Yeah. I need to boost my agility."

"Good," Fabio said, already setting up cones and ladders. "Then try to keep up this time."

The session started under the hum of the indoor lights.

Ladder drills — fast feet, balance, precision.

Cone zig-zags — cut, twist, explode.

T-drills — full-speed change of direction, again and again.

Fabio's movements were sharp, almost dance-like, each step landing with surgical rhythm.

Julian mirrored him, breath steady, muscles screaming.

"Move, Julian! Move!" Fabio barked. "This the best you got?"

Julian didn't answer. He just exhaled through his teeth, sweat dripping down his temple as his body burned through another set.

The sound of boots hitting turf echoed like a war drum.

[ Mentor Detected: Fabio Baldé — Agility Training +10% ]

The notification flickered across his vision.

Julian pushed harder.

Sweat blurred his vision, turf burned beneath his feet, but his rhythm never faltered. His timing tightened — body and mind syncing until movement became instinct.

By the time they finished, his legs felt carved from iron and flame.

Fabio dropped onto the turf beside him, chest heaving. "You know," he said between breaths, "most guys your age would've quit halfway."

Fabio clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. "Not bad, Kaiser. You're starting to look like a sprinter."

Julian smirked, chest still heaving. "Give me a week."

Fabio laughed. "You'll need two."

Julian wiped the sweat from his jaw, breath steadying, the same calm fire still alive in his eyes.

Because to him, this wasn't practice.

It was evolution.

…

The next day, the focus shifted — strength and stamina.

Julian approached Luis Seifert after team drills, finding him in the gym beside the squat rack, wrapping tape around his wrists.

"Luis," Julian said, voice even. "Can you help me with strength and stamina training?"

Luis glanced over, a faint grin tugging at the edge of his mouth.

"Can you keep up, kid?"

Julian returned the smile — small, confident. "Of course."

Luis chuckled, shaking his head. "Alright, Kaiser. Let's see what you've got."

…

The session hit hard from the start.

Core strength — weighted planks, controlled twists, relentless tension.

Upper body stability — medicine ball throws, balance board holds, slow push-ups that made muscles burn like fire.

Then came functional drills — resistance runs, jump squats, compound lifts that demanded both strength and rhythm.

Every rep thundered through Julian's body. His breath came in measured bursts, sweat tracing down the curve of his neck, muscles trembling yet steady.

Luis watched closely, correcting form with sharp taps of the finger. "Engage your core. Control your descent. Don't lift — command."

Julian adjusted instantly, body obeying. The old discipline from his past life bled through every motion — precision born of battle.

Between sets, Luis tossed him a bottle of water. "You're quiet," he said. "You always train like you're solving something?"

Julian drank, nodded. "Because I am. Every rep's a move. Every burn's information."

Luis laughed softly. "You're weird, man. But the good kind."

They ended with endurance work — sprint intervals paired with ball drills, forcing technique under exhaustion.

By the time they finished, the air felt thick with heat and effort.

Luis tossed him a towel, laughing softly. "Nice, kid. You've got a stubborn engine. Keep training like this, and I'll run out of ways to push you."

Julian took the towel, a faint smile crossing his lips. "Then you'll just have to evolve too."

Luis grinned wider. "Deal. Same time tomorrow?"

Julian nodded once. "Always."

And as he turned toward the mirror, muscles aching, lungs burning, the reflection staring back wasn't the same boy who first walked into HSV Campus.

It was sharper.

Harder.

Becoming.

Because this was no longer training.

It was transformation.

…

The last mentor came with noise.

"Really, you're only realizing my greatness now?" Mageed grinned, spinning the ball on his finger with that familiar arrogance that somehow never annoyed — it inspired.

Julian crossed his arms, deadpan. "We're friends, right?"

"Yeah, yeah," Mageed said, already walking toward the small side pitch. "Follow me, Emperor. Time for a proper education."

…

Under the afternoon sun, the turf shimmered faintly — heat rising, breath steadying. Mageed set the tempo, ball at his feet, movements fluid and effortless.

"First touch," he said. Tap. Stop. Turn. Every motion was silk. "You control it, it doesn't control you."

Julian followed, his steps quieter, sharper. Each contact clean — not perfect, but close.

Mageed circled him, barking small corrections.

"Loosen your hips."

"Eyes up before the touch."

"Don't chase the ball — make it wait for you."

Then came the weak-foot drills — endless repetitions until left and right felt the same.

Toe taps, inside-outs, drag flicks, rolling transitions.

Simple movements. Brutal repetition.

Each strike sounded the same — the rhythm of obsession echoing across the empty pitch.

Julian's body adjusted in fragments — muscle by muscle, neuron by neuron — until instinct began to overwrite effort.

At one point, Mageed stopped, watching Julian work. "You know," he said quietly, "you remind me of when I first joined. I used to stay till midnight doing this stuff too."

Julian didn't look up. "What changed?"

Mageed smiled faintly. "Nothing. That's why I'm still here."

Mageed whistled low. "You learn fast. It's almost annoying."

Julian smirked, chest heaving. "Almost?"

"Almost," Mageed said with a grin. "Give me one more week and you'll start copying my celebrations too."

Julian shook his head, laughter slipping out despite the exhaustion. "Not in this lifetime."

Mageed nudged the ball toward him. "Then make your own. Just make sure it's legendary."

…

By the time the sun dipped low, the air was painted in orange and sweat.

Julian's shirt clung to his skin, his breath steady, eyes sharp.

Every drill, every correction — it wasn't just polishing technique.

It was sharpening identity.

From strength to stamina, from speed to touch — each mentor had given him something real.

But from Mageed… he learned something deeper.

How to play beautifully.

And as he jogged back across the fading field, the thought burned quietly in his chest.

He wasn't just training anymore.

He was building the player he was meant to become.

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