The chill of the North Sea air bit gently against his skin.

Floodlights burned overhead, cutting through the early dusk.

Julian stepped onto the pitch — first out, first breath, first step into his new battlefield.

His boots pressed into the turf, damp and alive.

Grass. Real. Measured. Waiting.

The hum hit next — low at first, then rising into a roar.

Thousands in the stands, blue scarves raised, faces painted, some bare-chested under the cold.

Banners cracked in the wind.

Drums thundered. Voices merged.

The heartbeat of Emden.

And he could feel it in his bones.

HSV II fanned out across the pitch, the circle of warm-ups snapping to life — one-touch passes, crisp, sharp, alive with rhythm.

Boots kissed the ball. Breath fogged the air. Orders barked. Laughter cut through the noise.

Julian found his place in the pattern — touch, move, turn. Again. Again.

Every pass was a promise. Every breath, a vow.

His heartbeat aligned with the rhythm — touch, step, glance, move — the language of the pitch. The sound of connection. The echo of trust.

This is it. The first professional match.

Not a friendly. Not a high school game.

A real war — where mistakes drew blood, and brilliance drew history.

The crowd's rumble pressed down like a physical weight, heavy and electric. Even his breath carried that tension — drawn slow, released steady, as if he were calming the air itself.

The crowd's noise blurred into a storm.

But for Julian, everything narrowed to the space in front of him — the ball at his feet, the pulse in his chest, the weight of the gray boots.

He flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders.

His system whispered silent, unseen, but his soul already burned bright.

This was the stage.

And tonight… he would belong.

…

The whistle from the referee cut through the air — sharp, commanding.

Warm-ups stopped. Balls rolled to stillness.

Both teams turned toward the tunnel.

The calm before the charge.

Julian fell in line beside Mageed, heart steady, boots tapping against concrete.

The tunnel lights buzzed above them, cool and white.

Outside, the roar of the crowd built like a tide waiting to crash.

"You nervous?" Mageed asked, half-grinning.

Julian exhaled, a quiet smile breaking through. "Yeah. But more… excited."

"Hah! Nice one." Mageed chuckled, shoulders loose, energy buzzing.

At the front, Captain Anssi stood tall — posture straight, armband gleaming.

Beside him, the captain of Kickers Emden, Dennis Engel, matched his stance — eyes sharp, jaw set.

Two leaders. Two armies ready.

Julian's gaze lingered on Engel's silhouette — broad-shouldered, boots planted, the kind of stillness that came from years of war.

The air around him seemed heavier, disciplined. A presence built from battles survived.

"Alright, boys," someone muttered behind them, voice half-prayer, half-fire.

Then —

the signal came.

The teams began their walk.

Boots echoed on tunnel floor.

The pitch ahead glowed under the lights — green, alive, waiting.

As they emerged, the noise hit like thunder.

"EMDEN! EMDEN! EMDEN!"

Chants rolled across the stands — flags whipping, drums pounding, fans painted blue screaming their anthem into the night.

Julian lifted his head. Didn't flinch.

He'd walked into battlefields before — just not with goalposts.

Both teams lined up across the center circle.

Right side, HSV II — calm, focused, silent.

Left side, BSV Kickers Emden — loud, defiant, burning.

The contrast struck him — HSV II's quiet precision against Emden's storm. Discipline against chaos. Calculation against emotion. But both sides carried fire. Different forms. Same hunger.

A reporter snapped photos — flashes sparking like lightning across faces carved in focus.

Handshake. One by one.

Referee. Assistants. Opponents.

Julian's palm met rough gloves, cold skin, steady grips.

Each shake carried the same message — respect before war.

He felt it — the unspoken code shared by fighters. Whatever came next, they'd bleed for their crest.

Then—

a flicker behind his eyes.

[Activating Scan Lv.3…]

Blue lines traced across his vision, locking onto targets.

Faces sharpened. Numbers emerged.

One by one, the pillars of Kickers Emden revealed themselves.

…

User: Dennis Engel

Position: RB

Best Attributes:

Charisma: 134

Technique: 123

Perception: 121

Skills:

Aegis Formation (Legendary) Commanding Roar (Legendary)

Age: 29

Total Attributes: 808

A commander in flesh and boots — his presence felt heavier than the armband. The captain's aura was a wall, his voice a weapon.

…

User: Tobias Steffen

Position: AM

Best Attributes:

Technique: 138

Perception: 142

Instinct: 118

Skills:

Set-Piece Mastery (Legendary) The Architect (Legendary)

Age: 33

Total Attributes: 754

The old maestro. Every glance calculated, every touch already two steps ahead. A man who saw patterns before they formed.

…

User: Pascal Steinwender

Position: RW

Best Attributes:

Stamina: 123

Perception: 119

Instinct: 128

Skills:

Gale Dash (Legendary) The Swift Wing (Legendary)

Age: 28

Total Attributes: 756

Fast. Fluid. Untouchable. His eyes carried the calm of someone who already knew he'd beat you.

…

Yeah, that's what Julian expected from BSV Kickers Emden's key players.

Especially their captain — 808 total attributes.

A seasoned warrior.

From what Julian remembered, Dennis Engel had played in the 3. Liga before dropping down to the fourth.

Experience carved into every movement. No wonder his aura felt heavier than anyone else's.

The rest? Solid — six hundreds, seven hundreds — comparable to HSV II's core. But that man…

He stood apart.

The stadium anthem faded into the night.

The roar of the crowd remained — echoing, alive, hungry.

Julian glanced at his teammates — Anssi rolling his shoulders, Mageed bouncing lightly on his toes, Omar silent but focused beside him. For a moment, their eyes met.

The rivalry was gone. What remained was understanding — soldiers on the same front.

Julian gave a small nod. No words. Just the promise of battle shared between those who'd bled through training together.

The referee turned, lifting the whistle to his lips. The stadium's hum tightened, coiling like a spring. Every fan held their breath. Every player froze between anticipation and explosion.

Julian drew a long breath, the salt wind brushing against his face.

And somewhere deep inside, his heartbeat synced with the rhythm around him — drums, chants, footsteps.

In that instant, the world sharpened — the smell of grass, the taste of iron on his tongue, the sound of boots scuffing earth. Everything clear. Everything real.

It was time.

Kickoff awaited.

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