After scanning Selke's attributes, Julian didn't stop there.

He kept going—one by one—his vision flickering with light as data unfolded across his mind.

[Activating Scan Lv.3…]

The numbers hit him like thunder.

The prospects and reserves? Around 1300–1400 total attributes.

The rotation players—those who barely left the bench? 1500–2000.

The starters, the ones carrying HSV through every match? 2000–2500.

And the key players—the pillars of the first team—each stood like titans, hovering between 2800–3000.

Julian's own total? 849.

Mageed and Fabio barely scraped 700.

It wasn't a gap. It was a chasm.

And yet, Julian's pulse didn't falter.

If anything, the fire in his chest burned brighter.

"Monsters," he muttered under his breath, half in awe, half in challenge.

Then his gaze shifted to one man—

the flash of movement on the far right wing, cutting defenders apart like shadows.

…

User: Jean-Luc Dompé

Position: RW

Best Attributes:

Agility : 580

Stamina : 430

Technique : 580

Skills:

Flash Step (Legendary)

Illusion Cross (Legendary)

Age: 29

Total Attributes: 2960

…

Julian watched him move—fluid, unpredictable, artistry wrapped in chaos.

Every touch was deception, every feint a story told too fast for the eyes to follow.

That's what 2960 felt like.

Not just power. Not just speed.

But mastery.

Each motion looked effortless, but beneath it, Julian sensed an orchestra of instincts—timing, space, and momentum woven so seamlessly it mocked logic itself.

The ball seemed drawn to his feet, obeying every flick and whisper.

Fabio whispered beside him, voice almost reverent. "Bro… that's a different species."

Julian's lips curved slightly. "Good."

The fire in his chest didn't dim—it deepened.

He turned his focus again, letting [Scan Lv.3] drift toward the left flank, where another player was locking down his side like a wall of iron.

The screen flickered, data unfolding like the surface of calm water disturbed by depth.

…

User: Miro Muheim

Position: LB

Best Attributes:

Agility : 480

Stamina : 610

Technique : 470

Skills:

Endless Engine (Rare)

Shield Wall (Rare)

Age: 26

Total Attributes: 3030

…

Julian's brows lifted.

"Over three thousand," he murmured.

Muheim wasn't flashy like Dompé.

He didn't need to be.

Every motion he made was economy itself—efficient, tireless, perfect in rhythm.

The man didn't just run. He endured.

It was as if his lungs had forgotten what exhaustion meant.

[Skill Detected: Endless Engine — stamina drain reduced by 60%.]

[Skill Detected: Shield Wall — physical duels +40%.]

Julian exhaled through his nose. "So that's what a wall looks like."

Across the field, Muheim barked orders to the winger beside him, voice steady even while sprinting back into position. His presence was magnetic—less about charisma, more about gravity.

Every movement carried a kind of mechanical purity, the unbroken rhythm of repetition refined into instinct.

It wasn't the shout of a warrior but the rhythm of a sentinel. His boots carved grooves into the turf like tracks of inevitability, his shadow moving with mechanical precision.

This was what it meant to play in a promotion-level squad.

Not raw strength.

Not chaos.

Consistency so unbreakable it looked divine.

Julian's gaze shifted again — toward the center of the pitch.

The man anchoring it wasn't the loudest, or the fastest. But the way the others moved around him — the spacing, the timing, the precision — told Julian everything he needed to know.

The data shimmered to life.

…

User: Jonas Meffert

Position: DM

Best Attributes:

Strength : 420

Stamina : 500

Perception : 580

Skills:

Spatial Awareness (Rare) Command Pulse (Rare)

Age: 30

Total Attributes: 2860

…

Julian studied the lines of light.

So that was the brain of the team.

Not fast, not explosive — but immovable.

He read the field the way generals read maps.

[Skill Detected: Spatial Awareness — expands environmental perception radius by 15 meters.]

[Skill Detected: Command Pulse — enhances coordination and confidence of nearby teammates by 10%.]

It wasn't flashy. It was terrifyingly functional.

Every time a teammate drifted too far, Meffert's voice would hit the air — one short command, one wave of the hand — and the entire formation snapped back into balance like a machine re-aligning its gears.

Julian exhaled.

This was power that didn't need to shout.

Power that simply existed — constant, inevitable, unbreakable.

He could feel it now, the hierarchy on the field.

Selke ruled the front.

Dompé carved chaos into art.

Muheim guarded the flank like a fortress.

And Meffert — he held the blueprint together.

Julian's pulse steadied.

Every one of them was a pillar.

And if he wanted to rise among them, he had to be something else entirely — the storm that moved the pillars without breaking them.

He flexed his fingers, boots sinking into the slick grass.

"Alright," he muttered under his breath. "Let's see how high order climbs."

…

The whistle blew.

Training ended.

The first day with the senior team — over.

And Julian felt it in every muscle, every breath.

This wasn't high school.

This wasn't Regionalliga.

This was the summit of German steel — every touch, every decision, forged in precision and speed beyond what he'd ever faced.

He walked off the pitch in silence, boots heavy with mud, breath thin but steady.

The floodlights buzzed above, cutting long shadows across the grass.

He had watched, learned, calculated.

He'd seen how fast Dompé shifted space, how Selke bullied through lines, how Meffert ruled the rhythm with invisible hands.

And now he understood — the gap wasn't just physical.

It was structural. Tactical. Spiritual.

The pros didn't fight for dominance; they moved within harmony. Their every step was a thread in something vast, invisible, and ancient—the rhythm of football at its purest form.

A mountain stood before him.

Two thousand points high.

And skill alone wouldn't bridge it.

Julian clenched his fists, the veins along his forearms tightening.

He could feel his system humming faintly, like it wanted to speak — but even ASHI's light couldn't erase that difference.

"Not yet," he whispered. "You're not enough yet."

There was no despair in that voice. Only calculation — a cold acceptance of the battlefield before him.

For him, failure wasn't an ending. It was a measurement. And every defeat, every gap, every second spent behind someone stronger — was data. Information to weaponize.

He looked back at the field one last time — the senior players chatting casually, stretching, laughing.

Even their ease was different. The way they carried themselves, like veterans who'd already bled for the crest.

Julian exhaled, slow and controlled.

He didn't feel defeated.

He felt awake.

If they were mountains —

then he'd become the storm that reshaped them.

He turned, walking toward the tunnel, the sound of the ball still echoing faintly behind him.

Every step he took felt heavier, sharper — but his eyes burned with the same light as always.

The Emperor wasn't daunted.

He was simply measuring the throne.

…

Julian's apartment was quiet when he returned — the kind of silence that still carried echoes of the day.

He dropped his bag by the door, kicked off his shoes, and let himself fall backward onto the bed.

The ceiling spun faintly. His body ached everywhere — lungs raw, calves trembling, shoulders heavy from repetition.

But it wasn't pain that filled him.

It was clarity.

The rhythm of the field still echoed inside him—the sound of cleats biting turf, the sting of cold air in his throat, the weight of 3,000-point titans moving around him like gods.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Crest.

He grabbed it, pressing it to his ear.

"Hello."

"How was it? Your first day?" Crest's voice was calm, but the undertone of curiosity was sharp as always.

Julian exhaled. "Not bad," he said. "But… it burns. Every drill felt like walking into a furnace."

A quiet laugh came from the other end. "That's good. Fire refines iron, remember?"

Then her voice softened — steady, patient, grounding.

"Julian, you've always started from the bottom. In high school, you were the boy who couldn't even play. And you climbed.

In Regionalliga, you were just a kid with no record — and still, you reached the top."

Julian's eyes closed, listening. The weight of her words sank in, slow and deep.

"So this," Crest continued, "this is just another summit. A taller one, sure — but the climb hasn't changed. You know how to rise."

He smiled faintly, gaze drifting toward the window where city lights blurred through glass.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I'll reach it. No matter how high it gets."

"Good," Crest said. "Then rest. Tomorrow, start climbing again."

The call ended.

Julian lay there for a long time after the line went dead. His hand was still around the phone, his breathing slow, steady.

In the corner of the room, The Ashenstride glimmered faintly beneath the dim light—its black sheen like a silent vow, listening to its master's resolve.

His world was shrinking to essentials again: sweat, breath, purpose. No noise. No distractions. Just ascent.

The room fell silent once more — except for the faint hum of rain outside and the quiet pulse of determination beneath Julian's skin.

He turned on his side, whispering into the dark:

"Summit, huh? Then let's see how high this world goes."

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