The match day had arrived.

Morning mist still hung over the HSV campus, the dew clinging to the blades of grass like quiet anticipation.

Training was light — just enough to keep the rhythm alive without draining the fire.

Touches, passes, movement. Nothing forced. Nothing wasted.

Julian rolled the ball beneath his boot, eyes half on the horizon, half inside himself.

It wasn't nerves. It was focus.

The others felt it too — that tension before the storm. The kind of silence that made every sound sharper.

Cleats scraping against turf, the soft thump of leather meeting leather, Soner's voice occasionally cutting through like a blade.

No jokes, no wasted words. Every player moved as if every touch mattered.

A chill breeze drifted through the open training field, carrying the faint scent of wet grass and morning coffee from the nearby staff room.

The sun still hid behind the pale veil of clouds, its light scattered and cold, touching the players' breath as it misted faintly in the air.

From afar, the main stadium loomed like a sleeping colossus — empty stands, steel beams glinting faintly, banners flapping in rhythm with the wind. Even at rest, it felt alive.

" So," Anssi said, walking up beside him, voice casual but edged with captain's energy. "What are you planning to deliver today?"

Julian tilted his head, pretending to think. "Hmm… maybe a hat trick?"

He looked up at the sky like he was consulting fate.

Anssi laughed, shaking his head. "Let's just win first, Emperor."

Julian smirked. "Yeah."

Mageed joined them next, tapping his chest proudly. "Of course we'll win. I trained you."

" We trained him," Luis cut in, appearing with Fabio, both grinning like brothers ready for battle.

Before Julian could answer, Hannes called out from across the pitch, towel slung over his shoulder.

"Wait, wait, wait — you trained with them but not me?"

Anssi threw his hands up, feigning outrage. "Yeah, what the hell, man? I'm your captain!"

Julian arched an eyebrow. "Are you jealous, Anssi?"

Anssi clutched his chest dramatically. "Betrayed. Utterly betrayed."

Laughter rippled across the group, that easy kind of sound that only came from a team finally feeling like one.

Even Coach Soner, from the far sideline, allowed himself the faintest smile before clapping his hands once.

"Alright," he called out, voice cutting through the morning air. "That's enough comedy. Focus up — match in five hours. Keep your heads clear, hearts steady."

The tone shifted instantly. The field went quiet again.

Boots shuffled. Balls rolled.

Julian exhaled, eyes lifting toward the empty stands that would soon be filled with noise and judgment.

Five hours from now, it wouldn't just be another game.

It would be Discipline versus Freedom — and the Emperor was ready to prove which one ruled the pitch.

The players dispersed slowly, their footsteps leaving small dark patches on the damp turf. The sound of the locker room door shutting echoed faintly across the open air.

Somewhere beyond the fence, a few academy kids chased a ball, their laughter distant but bright — a reminder of where every journey began.

Julian stood there, unmoving, letting the world quiet around him. His breath merged with the wind. His focus drew inward, like the calm eye of a brewing storm.

He stood still for a while after Coah Soner dismissed them, watching his teammates leave the pitch one by one.

He could hear their laughter fade into the distance, replaced by the hum of wind and the faint creak of goal nets swaying. That moment — alone on the grass — always steadied him. The calm before chaos.

He closed his eyes briefly, breathing in the smell of wet turf. Every game was a chance to carve a mark, but this one… this one felt heavier.

Bremen weren't just rivals. They were a test of style — art against order, risk against control. And for Julian, it was more than football. It was proof of evolution.

…

By kickoff, the air itself felt alive.

The faint hum of chatter, the scrape of boots, the distant echo of drums — all merging into that familiar pre-match tension that only football could summon.

The stands weren't full.

HSV II didn't draw the same crowds as the senior team — their supporters were fewer, their cheers smaller — but they were louder. Loyal faces in navy scarves, voices cutting through the spring wind like a battle cry.

Vendors shouted by the entrance, the smell of grilled bratwurst and roasted nuts curling through the corridors of the small stadium.

Flags rippled in the breeze, blue and white blurring against the gray afternoon light. The echo of cleats against the tunnel floor mixed with the low bass of stadium music warming the crowd.

It wasn't grandeur — it was something raw, intimate, close enough to feel every heartbeat on the pitch.

A few youth academy kids leaned over the barriers, waving signs with names scribbled in marker — "Anssi!", "Julian!", "Mageed" — faces bright with belief. The smell of bratwurst, damp air, and rain on concrete mingled with the metallic tang of anticipation.

The floodlights flickered on one by one, washing the pitch in silver.

Above, the sky had begun to darken — clouds pulling tight, as if the heavens were bracing for a storm.

Inside the locker room, Soner's words still echoed.

He hadn't yelled. He never needed to.

Just a calm, deliberate tone that carved its way into their focus.

"Remember our rhythm," he'd said. "When Bremen open the field, don't chase the ball. Control the space. Let their freedom collapse under our patience."

And then he'd turned to Julian — steady, unreadable.

"You'll get one window today. Maybe two. Make them count."

Julian had nodded once. That was all it took.

On the field, both teams lined up.

Green and white versus blue and white.

Werder Bremen II — the free spirits, bold and fluid.

HSV II — the disciplined wall, precise and relentless.

Julian rolled his shoulders once, breathing in the electric air.

Each breath carried the scent of wet grass, iron, and adrenaline.

His pulse slowed, steady as a drumbeat.

He looked toward the opposite half — saw the faces of Bremen's prodigies, the ones everyone talked about.

And then, as the whistle brushed against the referee's lips, Julian's expression turned cold.

The match wasn't about crowd size.

It wasn't about noise.

It was about dominance — about who would command the pitch when no one else was watching.

The kind of battle where silence spoke louder than cheers.

Both teams gathered in the center circle, boots aligned over trimmed grass glistening beneath the floodlights.

Cameras flashed. A few supporters clapped half-heartedly.

A photo. A handshake. The calm before collision.

Julian could feel it — the invisible thread between both teams tightening. Every player hiding their nerves behind blank stares and steady breathing.

The referee's whistle hadn't even sounded, yet the game had already begun in their eyes. Subtle glances. Micro-movements. Everyone analyzing, calculating.

Julian's gaze sharpened.

[Activating Scan Lv.3…]

Blue grids flickered faintly across his vision — one by one, faces turning into numbers, names into data.

Most hovered between 600–650 total attributes — solid, disciplined, predictable.

But Julian's focus wasn't on them.

It was on the five whose presence bent the rhythm of the warm-up itself.

The ones whose energy pulled gravity toward them — the true threats.

And as the scan completed, cold data spilled before his eyes…

…

User: Joel Imasuen

Position: CF

Best Attributes:

Stamina: 99 Agility: 121 Instinct: 143

Skills:

Predator Instinct (Rare) Quick Reload (Legendary)

Age: 20

Total Attributes: 699

A striker molded by repetition — a predator who never stops circling the kill. 'The Emerald Finisher'

…

User: Dennis Lütke-Frie

Position: CM

Best Attributes:

Instinct: 121 Perception: 122 Technique: 126

Skills:

Thread of Silver (Legendary) Flow Surge (Legendary)

Age: 22

Total Attributes: 711

A conductor with silk in his veins — sees the pass before anyone even blinks. 'The Vision Crafter'

…

User: Cimo Röcker

Position: CB

Best Attributes:

Strength: 132 Stamina: 108 Instinct: 99

Skills:

Zone Lock (Legendary) Iron Pivot (Legendary)

Age: 31

Total Attributes: 717

The wall. Cold, methodical, immovable — the kind that doesn't chase, but waits for you to come to him. 'The Tactical Anchor'

…

User: Abdenego Nankishi

Position: LW

Best Attributes:

Stamina: 143 Agility: 152 Instinct: 102

Skills:

Rapid Thrust (Legendary) Phantom Cut (Legendary)

Age: 22

Total Attributes: 704

Lightning in human form — movement too sharp for thought to catch. 'The Counter Spear'

…

User: Isak Hansen-Aarøen

Position: AM

Best Attributes:

Technique: 114 Perception: 96 Strength: 105

Skills:

Drifter's Vision (Legendary) Rhythm Mirage (Legendary)

Age: 20

Total Attributes: 749

An artist among warriors — a player who paints chaos with control, bends the tempo with a single touch, and turns pressure into poetry. The Nordic Artisan.

…

Julian's eyes flickered as the data came through.

Numbers stabilized. Patterns aligned.

Not overwhelming.

Not impossible.

Within reach.

He exhaled slowly, lips curving into the faintest smirk. Attributes were one thing — cold numbers. But skill? Skill was instinct. Hunger. The will to dominate.

And on that battlefield, Julian never bowed.

Let them come.

Because fear wasn't in his blood — only the hunger to rule.

The whistle blew.

Werder Bremen II took formation, the ball at their feet. Across from them, HSV II stood ready — their lines tight, their focus sharp.

Julian at the front.

Mageed beside him.

Anssi commanding behind.

Luis and Fabio anchoring the core.

Every piece in place.

Every heartbeat in sync.

"Let's go," Julian whispered under his breath.

The match began.

And as the whistle split the air, the storm finally moved.

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