The ball rolled back from Julian's boot into Leo's possession.
Golden light shimmered faintly around him, his eyes burning with that Maestro's aura—calm but commanding, like a conductor stepping to the podium.
Across the pitch, D-Lo braced himself. His body leaned forward, every twitch of his legs humming with restless energy, the Mirrorworld waiting to split reality apart.
The clash of wills began.
Leo lifted his chin, surveying the field as though the game unfolded in sheet music only he could read.
A faint flick of his wrist, a subtle drop of his shoulder—and Lincoln's forwards shifted, each run perfectly timed, like instruments following the rise of his baton.
The rhythm was eerie. Every movement seemed inevitable, as though Leo had already seen the future and was merely letting the rest of them catch up.
His aura wasn't just golden light—it was pressure, sinking into the bones of his teammates, telling them where to stand, where to run, where to breathe.
