The sun rose over the backyard, painting gold over the dew-streaked grass.
Julian was already moving.
Even without a system quest, he trained.
Juggling. Passing. Dribbling. Shooting.
No crowd. No coach. No praise.
And the rhythm of the grind.
In his past life, martial cultivation taught him one thing:
"Master the basics until the basics master you."
Without a stable foundation, the next step would crumble.
Without discipline, talent was just noise.
Crest’s voice rang out from the kitchen, familiar and motherly.
Julian stopped mid-dribble, caught the ball under his foot, and jogged inside.
The table was already set.
Steaming rice, grilled salmon, miso soup, and sautéed greens—
A clean, powerful meal for a body still rebuilding.
He ate without a word.
Once the dishes were cleared, Crest sat across from him, tablet in hand.
Her tone shifted—professional now, almost like a secretary giving a report.
"I looked into Lincoln High."
Julian raised an eyebrow.
"It’s... a good private school. Strong academics. Excellent facilities. Very sports-focused. But the football team?"
"They’ve existed for ten years and never once made it to CIF playoffs. No trophies. No significant improvements."
Julian’s brow furrowed slightly.
"So they’re a weak team."
"They were," Crest corrected. "Until last year."
Julian looked up from his water glass.
Crest tapped her screen and scrolled.
"A new coach. Name: Henry Owens."
"Never heard of him."
"Ex-MLS player. Injured out of the league. Started coaching in high schools instead. Took one underdog school and made them one of the best programs in the country."
Julian’s eyes narrowed.
Crest’s lips twisted.
"It came with problems. Parents started bribing the school to guarantee their kids made the lineup. Coach Owens refused to play along."
Julian’s fingers drummed lightly against the table.
"Let me guess. They pushed him out?"
"Not just that. They used their influence to blackball him. No high school would hire him after that. Until..."
"Exactly. Lincoln brought him in quietly. They’re rebuilding now. He’s laying low, avoiding attention. But from what I can gather, he’s serious."
Julian leaned back in his chair.
"I like him already."
A coach who stood for integrity.
A coach who didn’t bow to money or politics.
A coach who burned it all down rather than sell his values.
Julian could respect that.
"From what I’ve seen, two names stand out on the team."
"Lemme guess—Leonardo?"
"Yep. Nickname: The Maestro. Captain. Midfield controller. He’s their heartbeat."
"The other is Riku Tanaka. The Iron Wall. Japanese-American. Center-back. Strong, disciplined—practically a human wall," Crest added.
Julian nodded slowly, absorbing the names.
Then his tone shifted.
"What about the permission from... them?"
His voice dropped—colder now.
Even without saying it, Crest knew who "them" meant.
The parents who had money, power—
But no time, no warmth.
No place for the sick son they once locked away in silence.
Crest’s answer was calm.
"They said you can do what you want. I don’t even need to check in unless there’s an emergency."
Julian’s eyes narrowed—then relaxed.
"Good. Then please help me enroll in Lincoln High."
"Of course. You can expect to start Monday," Crest said with a nod.
"Thanks. I appreciate that."
Walked back to the backyard.
The grass still held the soft impression of his training steps.
He picked up the ball again.
And without another word—
The rhythm was off at first.
Then it smoothed out.
Basics. Always the basics.
Because true strength wasn’t about being flashy.
It was about being unshakable.
Not much, but enough to feel it.
And Crest—true to her word—moved fast.
By the following afternoon, she returned with a folder in hand and a small, satisfied smirk.
"It’s official," she said. "You start school on Monday."
Julian raised an eyebrow.
"Private school," she shrugged. "As long as the paperwork clears and the testing’s passed, they don’t ask many questions."
A respected institution.
Not elite... but rising.
And now, it would be Julian’s first real school.
His first real classroom.
The standard kit had already arrived in a folded package:
Blue dress shirt, black slacks, black tie.
Clean. Formal. Restrained.
Julian tried it on in silence.
It felt strange—tight around the collar, stiff along the shoulders.
Like a uniform for a soldier who hadn’t yet seen war.
He would enter as a senior, 12th grade.
The school year had only just begun—one week in.
That part was fortunate.
But the real challenge?
Crest placed a thick packet on the table.
"You’ll need to pass the placement test tomorrow. You don’t have to be perfect—but you do need to show you can handle the coursework."
Julian stared at the packet.
History. English. Science. Math. Economics.
At least it had logic.
Abstract theories with no immediate tactical value?
It made his brain itch.
But he sat down at the desk anyway.
Straight-backed. Calm. Determined.
Just like martial arts, this was another form of discipline.
Focus through frustration.
He didn’t need to become a scholar.
He just needed to clear the gate.
But when morning came—
Julian’s face looked like death.
Dark circles under his eyes. Shoulders slightly hunched.
He’d studied all night, absorbing every piece of knowledge he could hold.
Math, history, science, literature...
Pressed his uniform shirt flat.
Straightened his black tie.
He looked in the mirror.
Crest drove him to school—again.
But this time, not as a quiet observer.
Today, she walked him all the way inside.
They entered the administration office.
The walls were clean and modern, the floor polished tile.
Students passed by the windows, laughing, calling out, full of noise Julian wasn’t used to.
A few students passed by the office window. One slowed, glancing in—then looked away with a smirk.
At the counter, Crest handled the final registration while Julian waited silently, reviewing facts in his mind.
"Julian Ashford?" a staff member called.
"Come with me. Time for your placement exam."
The test wasn’t easy.
The room was silent, just the faint buzz of the lights above.
Julian’s pen moved steadily, but his brain protested every paragraph, every abstract question.
History made him want to punch something.
He didn’t need an A+.
Julian exhaled quietly, nodding once.
Another gate, cleared.
Crest gave him a tired smile.
She handed over a packed lunch, ruffled his hair once, and turned to leave.
Julian stood beside the teacher now, ready for the next step.
"Alright, Julian. Let’s head to your classroom."
They walked down the hallway—his shoes clicking softly on the tile floor.
The battlefield had changed—
But the warrior remained.