The whistle shrieked across the field, sharp enough to cut through the chatter of the academy grounds. The players gathered in a circle for rondo drills, cleats thudding against artificial turf as the ball zipped between them in quick, crisp passes.
To most of the boys here, this was just another morning at the Hayes Academy's youth camp—a routine session, a chance to sharpen their touch before the weekend scrimmage. For Arthur Hayes, however, the sound of every pass felt like a reminder.
Every name called by the coach. Every cheer when a clean move was executed. Every snicker when someone mis controlled a ball. All of it piled onto him.
Because unlike the others, Arthur's surname carried weight. A heavy, suffocating weight.
Hayes.
Once, that name was etched into history books. The Hayes family senior team had stood among the nobility's top football houses for generations. Their academy had produced stars who were worshipped, nobles who were respected. The Hayes crest used to gleam like a crown, a mark of dominance both on and off the pitch.
But that was the past.
Now, whenever Arthur walked onto the academy pitch, his surname was not a badge of honor. It was a brand of shame.
Two relegations. Two humiliations. And with the senior team banned from competition, the Hayes were nobility in name only.
The whispers started again.
He jogged to the sideline with the others, sweat dampening his shirt, heart pounding.
After the day dragged on with more drills.
That evening, he went back to the Hayes estate, which is close to the academy, he sometimes chooses to stay to focus on his training.
Silence of the mansion greeted him like a familiar ghost.
The estate was massive, sprawling with echoing corridors, manicured gardens, and walls lined with dusty portraits of footballing ancestors. But without the constant flow of visitors, journalists, and nobles who once filled these halls, the place felt more like a tomb than a home.
Arthur's footsteps echoed as he walked toward the dining hall.
His parents were already seated at the long oak table. His mother, Lady Eleanor Hayes, wore a faint smile, her delicate hands folded neatly by her plate. She had the look of someone who had weathered storms, her once-bright eyes softened by years of disappointment yet never fully dimmed.
"Arthur," she greeted warmly as he sat. "How was training today?"
Arthur hesitated, the taste of the morning's still bitter in his mouth. "It was… fine," he lied.
Her smile wavered but didn't fade. "That's good. You're working hard, I can see it."
Across the table, his father, Duke Reginald Hayes, cut his steak with slow, deliberate movements. His presence was heavy, commanding, the kind of man who could silence a room with a single glance.
When he finally spoke, his voice was firm, steady, carrying the weight of a man who had seen his legacy crumble.
"Fine?" Leonard's knife clinked against his plate as he set it down. "Fine isn't enough, Arthur."
Arthur looked up, meeting his father's stern gaze.
"You are a Hayes," Reginald continued. "Do you understand what that means? Football is not just a sport for us—it is our foundation, our nobility.
Without victory, without dominance on the pitch, our title is nothing but hollow air. Hayes is not meant to survive. We are meant to lead."
Arthur's chest tightened. He saw the steel in his father's eyes, he swallowed the words.
His mother reached over gently, placing her hand over his. "Don't be too harsh, Reginald. He's still finding his feet. He's our only son… let him grow into it."
But Reginald's expression didn't soften. "Grow into it? The world won't wait for him. Nobility won't wait.
Every day we remain in disgrace, our family sinks deeper into the mud. Arthur, if you don't rise now, Hayes will be forgotten forever."
Arthur's grip tightened around his fork. Forgotten forever. The words echoed in his mind long after dinner ended.
That night, lying in his bed, the shadows of the room pressing in, Arthur whispered into the quiet:
"I won't let Hayes be forgotten. I can't."
And as if responding to his resolve, the system's mechanical voice chimed in his mind.
Ding!
[New Quest Available: Passing Consistency]Successfully complete 50 consecutive short passes in training without losing possession.
Reward: Short Passing +1, Vision +1.
Arthur blinked at the glowing blue prompt floating before his eyes. Fifty consecutive passes. A cruel joke, considering his teammates barely passed to him at all.
His chest tightened, frustration bubbling, but then—slowly—he exhaled.
It wasn't impossible. Not with the system. Not with the Dream Ground.
Arthur turned onto his side, eyes narrowing in determination.
"I'll do it," he murmured to himself. "For Hayes. Even if they ignore me now… I'll force the world to see me."