Morning came quietly—another dawn, another climb.

Julian's day began like every other—

Martial drills. Gym work. Shower. Discipline.

Each motion carved into habit, every breath a reminder—

you build greatness one repetition at a time.

By 7:00 a.m., he was already packing his gear, eyes sharp, movements steady.

The Alexander-Otto-Akademie waited.

He called Crest before leaving.

She answered with the sound of gulls in the distance, her voice calm. "Everything's good here. Hamburg's beautiful when you're not buried in training."

Julian smiled faintly. "Enjoy it while you can. Once season starts, I'll drag you to every match."

"I'll be there before you can blink," she replied, maternal warmth beneath her composed tone.

David's update came next—

"Your follower count broke ten thousand," he said, voice tinged with satisfaction. "10,003 to be exact. You've hit Local Buzz territory. HSV's PR team's impressed, and I've got a social media specialist lined up for you. Someone to handle your posts, brand, and timing. You just keep performing."

Julian nodded. "Good. Let them handle the noise. I'll handle the pitch."

He checked his phone again. Notifications lit up his feed—photos from the press day, reposts from HSV fans, clips from his sprints.

It was growing—slowly, but surely.

One milestone at a time.

Before leaving, his gaze fell to the new boots resting by the door.

Plain. Gray. Unnamed.

They looked almost cheap compared to the vibrant pairs lined across his shelf.

But he knew better.

These weren't just boots.

They were a promise.

Three official matches.

Three chances to evolve them—

to earn the right for their name.

Julian crouched, tying the laces with care.

The leather was firm, snug, built for control.

Not made to shine.

Made to grow.

"Gray before glory," he muttered, a faint grin forming.

He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

A new day.

A new chance to build strength, inch by inch.

And as he stepped into the crisp Hamburg air, the city hum buzzing around him, he felt it again—

The weight of potential pressing at his back.

The road was long.

But he was already running.

…

Julian and Megeed rolled into the campus on their bikes just as the first sunlight cut through the mist.

The morning light spilled across the training complex, bouncing off glass panels and turf nets. The canteen was alive with chatter—trays clinking, spoons scraping, conversations humming in different languages.

Megeed tucked into his diet meal as usual, groaning at the plain taste, while Julian loaded his tray with a clean, balanced plate—oats, eggs, and chicken. Fuel for the day.

They had barely sat down when Coach Soner's message came through the internal channel.

"Analyst room. Ten minutes."

The murmur in the canteen shifted instantly. Chairs scraped, trays emptied faster, and players began filing out with purpose.

Julian followed, curiosity flickering behind his calm

…

The analyst room was dim and orderly, filled with rows of seats facing a massive LCD screen. The air was cold, the hum of the projector like distant thunder.

Coach Soner Uysal stood at the front—arms folded, eyes sweeping the room. Calm authority radiated from him.

"All of you—listen up," he said. "We'll be using the same base shape as the first team. 4–2–3–1."

The screen filled with a schematic of the formation. Lines traced the movements—short passing lanes, quick rotations, pressing triggers.

"This formation is built for short passing and high tempo," Soner explained. "We press as a unit. When the ball enters their half, the two sixes hold the center and cover transitions. The three attacking midfielders must rotate and create passing triangles. Full-backs—RB and LB—be aggressive. Push high, join the attack. If you give width, we get overloads."

He paused the animation to highlight a sequence: the right-back overlapping, the nine dropping to create space, the ten pulling defenders out of line.

"Watch the timing. It's not random runs; it's coordinated. When you overlap, the winger must cut inside. When you press, the nearest midfielder steps—the rest follow. No lone hunters."

Soner switched slides. "If we need to break a packed defense, we'll switch to 4–3–3—we overload the midfield, quick one-twos, break lines with vertical runs. If we must lock down defensively—protect a lead or absorb pressure—we reform into 3–4–2–1. Compact, hard to break, and able to counter quickly through the two behind the striker."

He ran through set-piece routines—cut runs, decoy movements, where to plant the body for headers.

He pointed to the striker's responsibilities: hold-up, turn, press the defensive line, and create space for the attacking midfielders.

Julian listened, taking it all in. He'd known tactics before, but the detail here felt surgical.

What the coaches asked for wasn't improvisation; it was precision.

He didn't get to be the free-roaming threat he'd been at Lincoln—at least, not yet.

Here, every run had a purpose; every touch had to fit the pattern.

As Soner closed the tablet and the team stood, Julian's place in the system settled into him: central forward in a 4–2–3–1—spearhead, press initiator, link to the midfield. Omar Silah held that role for now. Julian felt the weight of it like a gauntlet thrown down.

"Let's build it on the grass," Soner said. "I want discipline. I want timing. And I want to see who actually understands the system."

Julian nodded inwardly.

No freedom without earning structure first.

No crown without the climb.

…

Coach Soner stepped closer to the screen, voice sharpening with purpose.

"What I want from each of you is clarity," he said. "In this system, everyone has a role. A single weak link breaks the chain."

He pointed to each position as he spoke—each word slicing clean through the room.

"Goalkeeper — accuracy in distribution. You don't just stop shots; you start attacks. And be vocal. Command your box."

He turned next.

"Full-backs — I want you high and aggressive. Provide width. Overlap with intensity. And stamina—you'll be the engine on both ends."

His laser pointer shifted again.

"Center-backs — stay calm under pressure. Don't hide. Step forward when needed—break lines, intercept early. You're not statues; you're breakers."

He tapped the space before the defense.

"Defensive midfielders — you're the shield and the distributor. Win the ball, build the rhythm. If you lose focus, the whole spine cracks."

The screen moved higher.

"Attacking midfielder — you're the creator. Vision, timing, intelligence. Press when you lose the ball—force mistakes before they breathe."

He turned to the wings.

"Wingers — pace, off-ball runs, and sharp inside cuts. You stretch the pitch. You stab through it."

Finally, his gaze settled on Julian.

"Forward — you're the target man. The first press. You lead the hunt. When we lose possession, you start the fire. Everyone else follows."

Julian straightened unconsciously.

Target man. Press starter. The tip of the spear.

Soner stepped back, arms crossed.

"When we lose the ball—press immediately. No hesitation. I want reaction, not reflection. You lose it, you hunt it."

"Yes, sir!" the room answered in unison.

He paused, scanning each face, voice softening into something heavier.

"Tactics are your language. If you speak them fluently…" — his gaze lingered, steady, proud — "…football listens."

"Yes, sir!"

The words echoed through the room—

sharp, disciplined, and hungry.

Julian felt the weight settle in his chest.

This wasn't high school football anymore.

This was war written in geometry.

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