The room pulsed faintly with blue light — quiet, alive.

Rain still streaked down the window outside, its rhythm syncing with the faint hum of the system.

Julian sat on the edge of his bed, hair still damp from the shower, eyes fixed on the hovering text before him.

…

[Quest Complete]

Call Up

Objective: Earn a call-up to the senior team.

Reward:

— S: Automatic Call-Up + Special Reward

[Accept Reward?]

[Yes] [No]

…

Julian exhaled once — slow, steady — and pressed [Yes].

The screen flared.

…

[Congratulations, Julian Ashford — Promoted to: 2. Bundesliga]

[Activating League Mission Protocol…]

…

Light rippled through his vision like veins of molten silver. The hum of the system deepened — denser, sharper.

A new line appeared.

…

[Milestone: 2. Bundesliga Season 24/25]

— Become Bench / Starter / Key Player

— Score Goals: 10 / 15 / 20

— Assist: 5 / 10 / 15

— Fame Milestone: Rising / Recognized / Revered

[Each milestone grants EXP rewards, Host.]

…

He blinked once, processing.

"This… is new," he muttered.

ASHI's voice hummed faintly, neutral yet alive:

[The league's scale requires recalibration. Greater stage. Greater metrics. Greater risk.]

Julian exhaled slowly. "So the system's adapting to the world, huh?"

[Affirmative. The higher the fame of the battlefield, the more refined the parameters become.]

He stared at the reflection of his own faint smile on the window glass.

It made sense — the world had changed around him.

No longer regional fields. No more empty stands.

Now, every goal, every mistake would echo across headlines.

Outside, thunder rolled faintly — not violent, but distant, like the low growl of something ancient stirring. It felt fitting. The air itself seemed to know what was coming.

Somewhere out there, people he didn't know would soon be saying his name aloud.

Commentators. Fans. Critics.

And with that came weight — the invisible gravity of expectation.

But Julian didn't shrink beneath it. He had lived under heavier skies before — ones filled with betrayal, blood, and gods that demanded more than perfection.

This was simpler. This was human. Manageable.

It was proof that he mattered.But beneath the calm, a memory stirred — a face, a name.

Adrian.

Their promise — a match in fate.

A duel written not in schedules, but in destiny.

Julian's jaw tightened. "So that's why you're pushing me, huh?"

[If Host fails to ascend, the connection will dissolve. The system's existence depends on the outcome of that match.]

"Then," Julian whispered, rising from the bed, eyes reflecting the faint blue glow,

"we make sure there's only one outcome."

He looked down at his boots — The Ashenstride — resting beside the bed, their faint golden lines pulsing in rhythm with the system's hum.

The path was set.

The new empire awaited.

And somewhere ahead — beneath brighter lights and sharper eyes — fate was already sharpening its blade.

…

Julian woke earlier than usual. The city outside still slept beneath the morning mist, but his pulse was already alive.

The HSV II squad had entered their break — two weeks off.

Most had gone home, back to families and quiet towns. Rest, recovery, a breath between seasons.

But not him.

Not Julian Ashford.

Today, his path led somewhere higher.

Through the glass halls of the HSV training complex.

To the office where the first team waited.

He wasn't walking alone.

Beside him were Fabio and Mageed — the other two names chosen to rise.

"For real," Mageed said with a half-laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Can't believe it's us three again."

Fabio grinned, that familiar fire in his eyes. "Then let's tear the first team apart."

Julian said nothing, but his eyes flicked forward — toward the corridor that led to the office.

He knew this wasn't going to be easy.

The HSV first team had one goal this season: promotion to the Bundesliga.

That meant every training session was war.

Every mistake, a battlefield scar.

"Let's move," Julian said quietly. "Coach Merlin's waiting."

The hallway smelled faintly of turf and detergent — that clean, metallic scent of discipline.

The polished floor reflected fragments of the blue-and-white crest ahead, flickering under fluorescent light.

Every step echoed differently here — heavier, quieter, sharper.

Julian stopped before the door marked "HSV – First Team Office."

Through the frosted glass, faint shapes moved — a turning chair, the scratch of pen on paper.

Mageed gave a low whistle. "Man… this already feels different."

Fabio grinned, tugging at his jacket. "Different? Bro, it feels expensive."

Julian didn't laugh. He simply straightened his posture, calm sliding into place like armor.

This wasn't excitement.

This was entry — another battlefield, another empire to claim.

He glanced sideways at his teammates. "Remember what Coach Soner said?"

Mageed smirked. "Yeah. Don't embarrass him."

Fabio chuckled. "Too late for that."

Julian's lips curved faintly. "Then let's make sure we don't regret walking through this door."

He knocked twice — firm, deliberate.

A voice answered from within — deep, steady, carrying command.

"Come in."

The door opened.

Inside, Coach Merlin sat behind a sleek desk cluttered with reports and tactical diagrams.

Even seated, his presence filled the space — gray at the temples, posture rigid, eyes the color of cold iron. Years of pressure had carved authority into his face.

Beside him stood Fave, the assistant coach, tablet in hand. He caught Julian's eye and nodded — a brief flicker of familiarity from their first meeting months ago.

Coach Merlin leaned back slightly, gaze sweeping over them.

"So," he said, his voice low but carrying. "The next generation arrives."

It wasn't mockery. It was assessment — the kind that weighed futures.

Julian led the group, stopping exactly one step before the desk. "Julian Ashford. Thank you for the opportunity, Coach."

Fabio and Mageed followed with quick nods.

Coach Merlin studied them for a long, silent moment — the kind that measured people rather than intimidated them.

"I've watched your matches," he said finally. "HSV II had something unusual this season. You three were part of that."

He leaned back. "Now you're here. Bundesliga Two. This is not a place for experiments. It's a battlefield of ambition."

His gaze locked on Julian. "And ambition without control burns out fast."

Julian met his stare evenly. "Then I'll make sure mine burns slow, Coach. Slow enough to light the whole field."

A flicker — maybe a smirk — crossed Coach Merlin's face. "We'll see."

He turned to Fave. "Get them their kits and schedules. Tomorrow, they train with the first team."

The assistant nodded and began typing.

Coach Merlin's voice followed them as they turned to leave.

"One more thing."

They paused.

"Welcome to the real game."

Julian didn't answer. He just smiled faintly — the same calm smile he'd worn under floodlights and storm.

Because to him, the real game had only just begun.

…

Outside the office, the corridor seemed longer. The air felt different — heavier with pressure, sharper with promise.

The faint hum of the HVAC mixed with the echo of boots on tile. Mageed exhaled softly, running a hand down his face.

"That guy," he muttered, "he's like a damn general. I swear his eyes saw through me."

Fabio chuckled. "You? Bro, he looked through me. I felt like a kid again."

Julian said nothing. He was still replaying Merlin's words in his mind — not as judgment, but as challenge. 'Ambition without control burns out fast.' It wasn't just advice. It was a warning.

The words reminded him of someone — a teacher long gone, whose lessons had been written not in chalk but in scars.

The same principle, reborn in a different world: power means nothing without stillness.

As they reached the end of the hall, sunlight began breaking through the clouds outside — a soft gold hue spilling through the glass walls.

The view stretched across Hamburg's skyline: the Elbe River winding in the distance, cranes moving slow in the harbor, the city breathing.

"You think we're ready for this?" Mageed asked quietly.

Julian turned slightly, eyes steady. "Readiness isn't something you wait for. You make it. One match at a time."

Fabio grinned at that, punching Julian's shoulder lightly. "Still sound like a robot when you're serious, man."

"Better than sounding scared," Julian replied, tone even.

They laughed then — brief, real — before the sound faded into the open space of the corridor.

…

Later that evening, Julian returned to his apartment overlooking the training ground. The lights below glowed faintly — goalposts, empty benches, the field soaking under misty rain.

He stood by the window for a long time

Far below, he could see one of the youth players still practicing under the drizzle — a small figure chasing the ball across wet grass, alone.

It made Julian smile, faintly. He saw himself there. The hunger. The silence. The devotion that never needed applause.

This was no longer about survival.

It was about ascension.

He closed his hand slowly, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat align with the system's rhythm — one steady, relentless march forward.

"Let's begin again," he whispered.

The city outside didn't answer, but the wind did — low, heavy, and full of promise.

Somewhere beyond those lights, another dreamer was preparing to stand in his way. Another rival. Another battle. But Julian didn't dread it.

He thrived on collision. Because for him, greatness was never achieved through peace — only through struggle sharpened by will.

Because from here on, every step would echo louder.

Every move would be watched.

Every goal, every breath, every failure — magnified under the light of the professional world.

And Julian Ashford would meet it all with calm fire.

Because this time, Julian wasn't just ruling some small empire.

This time — he would conquer one of the greatest leagues on Earth.

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