Chapter 106: Chapter 106: The Warrior’s Oath
Coach Owen walked in silence beside Julian, their footsteps steady on the pavement outside the restaurant.
The dusk air carried a faint chill, the kind that sharpened thoughts rather than dulled them.
Streetlights buzzed faintly as they flickered awake, stretching long shadows across the sidewalk. The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was waiting.
Julian finally broke it.
"Well, Coach... it’s like this."
The words spilled as he explained about David Mateo—the agent, the offer, the possibility of Europe. And what it meant: leaving Lincoln.
When he finished, the weight of it hung in the air.
"So you want to leave," Coach Owen said, his tone unreadable.
Julian’s jaw flexed. His eyes dropped to the ground. "I don’t know. I want to. To reach the world stage. But at the same time... it feels wrong. Leaving Lincoln now would be like betraying them." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "And I know what betrayal feels like."
They turned into a small park, quiet except for the creak of swings in the evening wind.
Coach Owen slowed, scanning the grass, until his boot nudged something half-hidden in the bushes. A scuffed ball.
"Nice," he muttered, pulling it free. He set it down and passed it lightly toward Julian. The ball rolled across the grass, steady, waiting.
"They’re your brothers, Julian," Owen said, his voice firmer now. "And brothers want the best for each other. They’ll support you. You know that."
Julian trapped the ball beneath his sole, the faint scrape of leather against rubber loud in the quiet. His gaze tightened. He knew Owen was right.
Deep down, he knew it. But he also knew the sting that would come with his departure—the silence in the locker room, the absence in training, the ache when his name was no longer on the roster.
The images rose too vividly: Leo forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, Cael standing wordless with gloves still on, Riku masking hurt with a joke that would fall flat. He could picture them too clearly, and the thought pierced deeper than any blade.
He exhaled, passing the ball back.
"Really, what are you hesitating for?" Owen asked, juggling it once before flicking it toward Julian again. "Most of these boys dream of becoming professional, but dreams don’t open their own doors. You have a door in front of you. This is your chance."
Julian’s chest tightened as he brought the ball under control with flawless touch. The motion was automatic, but his mind was not. Europe. Lincoln. The choice gnawed at him.
He looked at Owen, and for a second the answer flickered in his eyes. He would leave. He had to. But not yet. First, he would take Lincoln to CIF. Not just to win it—
—but to carve an undefeated season into history.
That was the oath of a warrior, not just a footballer. To leave behind proof.
To etch a mark so deep that even when he was gone, his name would still burn inside the walls of Lincoln High.
Coach Owen saw the change. Saw the fire settle in Julian’s expression. He nodded once, slow and sure.
"So. You’ve already decided," Owen said. "It was there all along. You just needed to kick the weight loose."
The ball rolled back to Julian’s feet. He stopped it dead. The night breeze whispered through the trees, carrying Owen’s last words like a command.
"Never hesitate, Julian. Not on the pitch. Not in life."
"Yes, Coach."
Julian bowed his head, a gesture sharp and deliberate.
Coach Owen raised a brow before chuckling. "Hah. What are you, some kind of martial artist?"
But Julian didn’t laugh. For him, the bow wasn’t a joke. It was a gesture he reserved for only a few—for those who earned his respect. And Coach Owen had.
Owen caught the ball back under his boot, juggling it lazily as he spoke. "So... when do you plan on telling the team?"
Julian’s gaze burned, the night air frosting around the fire in his eyes. "After the San Dimas match. We need focus first. I’ll bring Lincoln High to CIF. Not just to win—without losing a single match."
The fire in his voice cut through the cold February night.
"Good," Owen said, a rare smile tugging at his lips. "Then I’ll keep my mouth shut. But when the time comes—you tell them first. Don’t make me do it." He flicked the ball back with a precise kick.
"Yes, Coach."
The ball stopped at Julian’s feet, but the moment had already shifted. The two began walking back toward The Final Whistle, the glow of its lights breaking through the shadows of the street.
"It was David, right?" Owen asked casually.
Julian’s head tilted. "You know him?"
"Yeah." Owen’s eyes drifted upward, toward the night sky. "He’s one of those people with big dreams."
"What kind of dreams?"
Owen stopped for a moment, his breath misting in the cold. His eyes burned with the same intensity as the boy beside him. "To bring America a World Cup. That’s his dream. He scouts young talent, throws them into the fire of the world stage, hoping they’ll sharpen, survive, and come back stronger. Strong enough to lift this country to the top."
The weight of those words pressed hard into Julian’s chest. A World Cup. He had fought for crowns of martial worlds before, but this—this was something different.
Not a solitary throne, but a banner carried by millions. A dream so vast it almost felt absurd. And yet Owen spoke it without hesitation, like a general declaring a campaign.
His hand came down heavy on Julian’s shoulder, solid, steady.
"So go. Show the world our level. And when the time comes—come back. Lead this country to glory."
The command struck like a hammer. Not just advice, not just encouragement.
It was an order passed from one fighter to another, a torch thrust into his grip. And Julian—Julian could feel his pulse answering.
Julian’s chest tightened, but his reply came firm, unshaking. "Yes, Coach. You can count on me."
Inside, the warrior in him roared. The boy who had been betrayed, abandoned, cast aside—that boy sneered at fate. This time, he would not fall.
He would not be erased. He would carry his brothers, his school, his country—until the world itself bowed before the fire he carried.
The two of them walked on, side by side, as February’s cold night wrapped around them. But in their eyes, it wasn’t cold at all—only fire.