The day rolled into the afternoon grind.
After the tactical drills, Soner blew the whistle for individual sessions.
Players split across the complex—some toward the technical grids, others toward the gym.
Julian didn't hesitate.
He went where the iron waited.
The weights clinked softly in rhythm, mirrors catching the golden hue of late sunlight. Sweat carried the faint scent of metal and salt, the air dense with effort and focus.
Julian wrapped his hands, inhaled deep, and began.
Bench. Pull. Core.
Rep after rep.
Each motion carved strength into muscle, each breath forged control into will.
He'd felt it during training—Germany wasn't just fast. It was heavy.
Every duel. Every shoulder clash.
Even without his boosters, he'd been pushed back more than he liked.
That wouldn't stand.
If this country demanded iron, he'd forge it in his own bones.
By the time the clock neared 16:00, his arms trembled faintly, lungs full of clean ache.
