The office smelled faintly of leather and ink — the scent of business, not battle.

Julian sat across from David, pen in hand, the contract before him glowing under the white light.

The hum of the ceiling vent filled the silence — soft, clinical, steady. The kind of silence that came before a verdict.

Outside the window, Hamburg's skyline shimmered beneath a pale drizzle, glass and rain merging into silver streaks. The world looked cold, efficient, and expectant.

"Not bad, kid," David said with a grin. "You really did it. A call-up before eighteen."

Julian's lips curved faintly. "I told you I would."

David chuckled, but his tone softened as he leaned back. "The deal's set. You're officially part of the first team now. But listen — they're fighting for promotion this season. Playing time won't come easy. I can't promise minutes."

Julian looked up, eyes steady. "That's fine. I don't need promises. I'll make them regret keeping me on the bench."

David's grin widened. "That's the spirit."

He hesitated, then added quietly, "Crest knows already, by the way. She nearly made me double-check every clause twice. You'd think she was the one signing."

Julian chuckled under his breath. "That's Crest. Always two steps ahead."

David nodded. "Yeah. She looks out for you more than most parents do their own kids."

Julian smiled faintly, then replied, "She earned that right."

David flipped through the final page, then paused. "When's your birthday again?"

"November 14," Julian answered. "A little longer, and I'll finally be eighteen."

David chuckled, shaking his head. "Still seventeen and already in the second league. You're moving too damn fast, kid."

Julian smiled faintly. "No such thing as too fast when you're chasing time."

David laughed quietly, then leaned back in his chair. "You sound more like an old man every time we talk. Guess that's what happens when you hang around people like Soner."

Julian just shrugged. "Or maybe I've just been through too many battles."

The agent's grin softened. "Yeah… that's what makes you different. Just remember — this league's not a playground. They'll hit harder. The spotlight burns hotter. Don't let it blind you."

Julian nodded, serious now. "I won't."

David pushed the final contract toward him. "Then sign here, Emperor. Welcome to the big stage."

Julian took the pen — smooth, steady hand — and signed his name.

He set the pen down and leaned back, exhaling softly.

"Another battlefield," he murmured.

David smiled. "And you've already started conquering it."

Julian rose, shaking his agent's hand firmly. "Thanks for everything, David."

"Don't thank me, kid. Just make sure they remember your name by winter."

Julian's eyes glinted. "They will."

…

Outside, Mageed and Fabio were already waiting near the entrance, each holding a folder stamped with the HSV crest.

Mageed grinned wide enough to show every tooth. "So it's official, huh? We're teammates again — just with a bigger paycheck."

Fabio laughed, slinging an arm over his shoulder. "And a bigger chance to screw up."

Julian zipped up his jacket as the faint drizzle misted the air. The reflection of the city lights danced off the wet pavement.

"Pressure's just gravity," he said. "We rise anyway."

Mageed snorted. "You always gotta make it sound like a prophecy, man."

Julian's smirk was small, but sharp. "Because it usually is."

The three of them stepped out into the cool evening, their breath fogging in rhythm.

They passed quiet storefronts, tram lines buzzing overhead, a cyclist gliding by under a streetlamp's halo. Hamburg at night had that strange duality — alive, but calm. A city that moved even when you weren't looking.

The streets of Hamburg glistened — lamps reflected on rain-soaked asphalt, cars whispering by, the faint thrum of the city alive even past midnight.

A bus roared past, its windows filled with strangers who had no idea three teenagers standing at the curb had just crossed a threshold. Julian watched the tail lights fade, his expression unreadable.

He'd fought to reach this moment — through mud, sweat, and silent nights. And yet, even as he stood there, something in him refused to feel satisfied.

The summit was still above him, invisible, but real. The 2. Bundesliga wasn't an end. It was the gate. The keyhole before the throne.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, and the sound folded into the hum of the city. The world kept moving, uncaring, as if daring him to keep up.

…

A few blocks later, they ducked into a small café — the kind tucked between offices, half-empty and quiet except for the hiss of the espresso machine.

The interior smelled of roasted beans and rain-damp coats. A single jazz track murmured from the speakers, soft enough to blur into the steam's rhythm. Candlelight flickered on the tables, warm gold against the slate-gray world outside.

They found a corner booth, dropped their folders onto the table, and exhaled together.

Mageed leaned back, hands behind his head. "So… we're pros now?"

Julian raised a brow. "We were pros before this."

Fabio took a bite of his cake, crumbs clinging to his lip. "Yeah, but Regionalliga barely counts. No one's watching you unless you're setting something on fire."

Mageed groaned. "That's depressing, bro."

Julian chuckled quietly, stirring his coffee. "Then we give them something worth watching."

Mageed sighed. "Easier said than done. You saw the first team's roster — full of veterans. Some of those guys have been playing since before we were born."

Fabio shrugged, swallowing his bite. "Then we take their spots."

Julian nodded once. "Exactly. It's not about waiting for permission. It's about conquering your turn."

For a while, they just sat there — three teenagers on the edge of something enormous, the kind of silence that carried both fear and fire.

Fabio finally broke it. "So what now? The team's on break for two weeks. Only the youth squad's still training."

"I'm heading home," Mageed said. "It's been months since I saw my parents."

Julian looked out the window, eyes reflecting the faint city glow. "I'll train."

Fabio blinked. "Of course you will."

Julian smiled faintly. "Every empire starts in silence."

Fabio leaned back, exhaling. "Then maybe I'll follow your madness. Someone's gotta keep you from killing yourself with those drills."

Mageed rolled his eyes. "You two are ridiculous."

Julian smirked. "Ridiculous wins games."

And under the soft hum of the café lights, the three of them laughed — young men bound by ambition, already hearing the rhythm of a higher stage calling their names.

…

Days folded into weeks.

Julian's life became a rhythm of solitude — morning runs through misty streets, the sound of his breath merging with the city's pulse.

He ran past the docks sometimes, where gulls screamed above cranes and ships. The air tasted of iron and salt, cold enough to sting. His shoes struck the pavement in even rhythm — not chasing distance, but silence.

The chill air burned his lungs, but he welcomed it. Each dawn, he measured himself against silence — against how long he could keep running before his thoughts caught up.

When he wasn't outside, he trained indoors.

The weight room became his cathedral, the hum of iron his hymn. Sometimes he saw Fabio join him, sweating through drills.

Sometimes he didn't. It didn't matter — consistency was Julian's companion.

Crest called a few times. Her voice was calm as always, but he could sense the pride hidden between her measured words.

She didn't say "congratulations." She just said, "Don't plateau." And that, to Julian, meant everything.

Time passed.

Two weeks became a month.

A month became two.

The break slipped by like a quiet breath before the storm.

Julian, Mageed, and Fabio each carved their own path.

Mageed visited his parents back home, sending the occasional photo of home-cooked meals that made the others jealous.

Fabio joined Julian for a few sessions in the gym before vanishing into tactical drills with a private coach.

Julian, though — he never stopped. Morning runs. Weight sessions. System training. Every day sharpened him a little more.

Sometimes he'd stand at his window at night, looking down at the city — lights flickering like constellations caught in glass.

He'd whisper old mantras from his past life under his breath, quiet promises meant only for himself.

And now, the new season had arrived.

Julian stood in his apartment, the early sunlight spilling through the blinds in long, golden lines.

He pulled on the latest HSV training kit — the new one for the 2. Bundesliga season, fabric still crisp from the packaging.

Then he reached for them.

The Ashenstride.

The boots glimmered faintly beneath the light — black like the night sky, traced with thin silver veins and a hint of gold at the crown.

He slipped them on, the fit perfect, almost alive.

Click. Click.

He tightened the laces, feeling the faint hum beneath his soles — the quiet promise of power.

"Let's see," he murmured, standing. "How strong the first team really is."

He picked up his jacket, gaze steady.

He wasn't walking into training.

He was walking into conquest.

Because if this was the next battlefield — he expected monsters.

He wanted monsters.

"Don't let me down," he whispered under his breath, eyes sharp as iron.

"Make it hard for me."

Then Julian Ashford, the Emperor of Order, stepped out of his apartment and into the dawn of a new league — ready to test whether the legends of the first team could withstand what he'd become.

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