Julian stepped out of the tunnel and into the beating heart of Hamburg.

The Volksparkstadion.

Home of HSV.

Capacity: fifty-seven thousand.

And even empty, it breathed.

He wasn't alone.

Mageed and Fabio walked beside him, their sneakers tapping against the concrete in perfect rhythm.

Ahead of them, Coach Fave, the assistant, turned slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"You guys ready?"

"Yeah," Julian, Mageed, and Fabio answered in unison.

They stepped onto the grass — the kind of turf that seemed to hum underfoot, sharp and immaculate, cut by countless battles fought in this arena.

The stadium stretched above them like a steel cathedral, every seat a silent witness to history.

Julian took a slow breath, eyes tracing the stands.

It was unreal.

He had seen it before — on screens, in highlights, through interviews.

But being here… standing inside the roar of German football, even when the stands were empty, was something else entirely.

The light filtering through the roof came pale and silver, catching on the edges of the seats like frost.

The faint smell of rain from the previous night still clung to the turf, cold and clean. Each exhale misted faintly in the morning air, vanishing into the quiet immensity.

It felt less like a stadium and more like a sanctum — a place where devotion met demand, and every blade of grass carried memory.

The air itself carried a pulse — a faint, electric vibration that made the skin prickle. Somewhere high above, pigeons circled under the stadium roof, their wings echoing faintly against the steel beams.

Each sound felt amplified in the emptiness. Even the distant hum of wind seemed to carry applause from ghosts of matches past.

The passion here wasn't a game — it was religion.

The people would bleed for their colors, fight for their crest, die for their pride.

Mageed let out a low whistle. "Man… this place feels different."

Fabio grinned, glancing at the rows of seats. "Yeah. It's like walking into a monster's mouth."

Julian didn't smile. His gaze was fixed on the far goal, silent, focused.

"Then let's prove we belong inside it," he said quietly.

Coach Fave turned, studying them for a moment. He nodded once.

"Good," he said. "Because from today on—every step, every touch, every mistake—you're being watched."

Julian's pulse didn't quicken. It steadied.

He'd walked into chaos before. But this… this was order's new frontier.

And today, he would prove he was meant to rule it.

…

The first-team squad was already assembled on the training pitch.

Even from a distance, Julian could feel it — the difference.

The presence.

The maturity.

The quiet weight that came only from years spent fighting in the upper leagues.

He hadn't even activated Scan yet. He didn't need to.

He recognized the faces — and the auras.

Davie Selke — the veteran striker.

Top scorer. Built like a wall, eyes sharp as a hawk. A classic target man who thrived on chaos in the box, who turned crosses into kills.

Jean-Luc Dompé — the left winger, fast and fearless.

Every touch carried a spark, every step a chance to break rhythm. The kind of player who could tear open defenses with one cut inside.

Miro Muheim — modern, relentless, a full-back who played like a winger.

Left foot like a blade, always overlapping, always pressing.

Jonas Meffert — the core.

Calm, disciplined, anchoring everything from behind. The type of midfielder who didn't need flash — just control.

And behind them, even the substitutes moved with surgical precision. No wasted gestures.

No noise. Just quiet efficiency. Julian could feel their experience press against him — an invisible weight that made the world narrow, the grass feel smaller beneath his boots.

It was like stepping into another frequency — one where motion obeyed different laws, where instinct had been burned into the body until it moved without thought.

Julian felt the gulf not as intimidation, but as invitation. The perfection here wasn't cold — it was earned.

Even without numbers, Julian could sense it — that aura that came from mastery.

Not raw energy. Not chaos. But command.

He felt a thrill rise in his chest.

This was what he came for.

The smell of cut grass and liniment filled the air. The clang of boots on metal benches. The soft thud of balls being juggled, passed, volleyed.

It was all rhythm — a living metronome of professionalism.

The smell of cut grass and liniment filled the air. The clang of boots on metal benches.

The soft thud of balls being juggled, passed, volleyed. It was all rhythm — a living metronome of professionalism.

The air itself seemed heavier around them. The veterans carried something invisible — not just muscle or speed, but an unspoken rhythm.

Every glance, every shift of weight carried understanding. It wasn't just about being better; it was about being inevitable.

Julian could almost feel his system hum in response, like it too wanted to learn their language.

As the three of them stepped onto the grass, the group's conversation died down.

A few curious glances turned their way.

Then, one voice — loud and teasing — cut through the air.

"Well, well. Look what we got here. The new young guns, huh?"

It was Selke, grinning, arms crossed, that big-brother energy radiating.

A few of the others chuckled.

But then Coach Merlin turned.

One look — calm, sharp, enough to cut through the laughter.

Selke's grin faded instantly. "Alright, alright," he muttered under his breath.

Merlin stepped forward, hands behind his back. His voice carried the weight of steel and expectation.

"Listen up. These three are your new additions."

He gestured to the trio. "Ashford. Mageed. Fabio. You've earned the call-up — now earn your place."

Julian took a half-step forward. His tone was steady, firm.

"My name is Julian Ashford. Number 77. Forward."

Mageed followed. "Omar Mageed. Number 56. Midfield."

Fabio grinned and added, "Fabio Balde. Number 45. Winger."

Merlin nodded once. "Good. Welcome to the first team."

He turned, voice rising slightly. "Now — training starts. Prove why you're here."

As the whistle hung in the air, Julian's gaze flicked around instinctively — the positioning of cones, the shadows, the patterns on the turf.

He wasn't just looking. He was calculating. Every breath became a note; every heartbeat, a metronome.

And just like that, the session began —

passing drills, positioning work, pressing intensity twice what Julian had faced before.

The rhythm was relentless. The ball snapped from foot to foot with military precision. The air echoed with commands — German, English, fragments of shouts that blended into a single organism of sound. Boots scraped. Sweat fell. The field felt alive.

As the whistle blew, he could feel it — the air changing.

Sharper. Faster. Harder.

The pros didn't play to show off.

They played to survive.

And for Julian Ashford… that was exactly the kind of battlefield he belonged to.

…

This was their first training session with the HSV first team—

and it hit like a storm.

"Huff… huff… huff…"

Mageed bent forward, hands on his knees, gasping like a man lost at sea.

Fabio wasn't faring much better, sweat dripping off his chin as he muttered something in Portuguese that definitely wasn't polite.

Julian tried to steady his breathing, but even he wasn't spared.

Every sprint burned, every drill hit like war.

Each pass carried impact. Each duel bruised. You could hear the cleats biting into turf like teeth. The veterans didn't ease up; they sharpened themselves on the youth. It wasn't hazing — it was hierarchy.

The pace was unreal—no wasted seconds, no room to hide.

Even water breaks lasted five breaths at most before another whistle sliced the air.

The difference between good and professional wasn't talent.

It was cruelty.

The veterans moved with rhythm that bordered on mechanical precision.

Their passes hit the ground with purpose, not noise.

Their recovery runs came before the ball was even lost.

They were showing the new kids something simple—

This is our world.

"Come on, young gun!"

Selke's voice cut through the noise as he muscled past Julian to win a duel. His grin was all challenge, no mercy.

Julian clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing.

Fine.

He activated it.

[Activating Scan Lv.3…]

Lines of data shimmered faintly across his vision, forming patterns of light around each player.

…

User: Davie Selke

Position: CF

Best Attributes:

Strength : 610

Stamina : 430

Instinct : 460

Skills:

Adrenaline Surge (Rare)

Iron Body (Legendary)

Age: 30

Total Attributes: 2860

…

Julian's pupils tightened.

Two thousand eight hundred and sixty.

That wasn't a number — it was a mountain.

A gulf so wide it could swallow teams whole.

He was barely brushing nine hundred, even after every grind, every sleepless night, every scar earned since America.

That meant he was still two thousand points short.

Two thousand points between him and the top of this world.

Between a dream and the throne.

Mageed would've cursed. Fabio would've gone pale.

But Julian…

He smiled.

Not out of arrogance — but recognition.

It was the same look a wolf gives when it sees the first sign of fire.

A flicker of challenge. A promise written in hunger.

"So that's what a dragon looks like," he murmured under his breath.

Then, louder, to no one in particular—

"Come."

Because if he couldn't match that strength yet,

he would learn how to hunt it.

And as the next whistle blew, Julian sprinted again — lungs burning, eyes locked on Selke's back.

Every step was a vow.

Every breath, a declaration.

The distance between them wasn't a wall.

It was fuel.

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