Bram Ashcroft hadn't always been Bram Ashcroft.
In his first life, he had been Bram Nolan, a boy born to nothing and burdened with too much.
He remembered the peeling paint of his one-room apartment, the flickering light that buzzed every night, and the stack of overdue bills his mother fought to pay while his father worked endless shifts in a steel factory. He remembered clutching an old, half-deflated football, the kind bought secondhand at a yard sale, and sneaking out to the cracked asphalt of the neighborhood court.
There, under the hum of broken streetlights, Bram had lived his only joy—football.
He wasn't special, not in skill or talent. But his love for the game burned so fiercely that he devoured every match he could find. Premier League, La Liga, Serie A—he streamed them on a borrowed laptop, eyes wide with wonder. He memorized the runs of midfield maestros, the courage of keepers, the thunderous strikes of legends.
At school, he had tried out for the football team. He had some technique, some vision, but life was crueler than talent. His father had collapsed one winter, lungs damaged by years of factory dust. Medical bills piled. Bram left training sessions to work at a local shop. By the time he was sixteen, his boots gathered dust, and by twenty, the dream had crumbled entirely.
He became a man who only watched.
A man who shouted at TV screens with friends, who scribbled formations in notebooks he never used, who whispered to himself during long nights:
"If only I had another chance."
That chance never came—at least, not in that world.
On a rainy evening, while rushing home from work, a screeching bus barreled through a slick street. The headlights filled his vision, white and blinding. He had a single thought as the world crashed into him:
"I never even stepped on a real pitch."
Darkness swallowed him whole.
When Bram's eyes opened again, it wasn't to the smell of hospital disinfectant or the noise of machines.
It was to the faint fragrance of sandalwood, the quiet crackle of a hearth, and the soft rustle of silk curtains stirred by morning air.
He sat up abruptly. The bed was too large, its sheets far too smooth. A canopy carved with intricate crests loomed overhead. Sunlight poured through tall windows, spilling over bookshelves, polished wood floors, and an ornate desk stacked with scrolls.
He scrambled out of bed—and froze.
The body staring back at him from the gilded mirror was not his tired, twenty-two-year-old self.
It was younger. A boy of twelve, lean and sharp-featured, with deep brown hair that fell messily across his forehead and gray eyes that seemed older than they should have been. His frame was neither frail nor strong—average at best—but there was an aristocratic sharpness in his jaw, a trace of refinement that never belonged to the boy from the slums.
What… what is this?
A name surfaced, unbidden, through a flood of foreign memories.
Bram Ashcroft.
Son of Alistair Ashcroft, head of the illustrious House Ashcroft—a noble family revered for its footballing lineage.
Bram staggered through the halls of the mansion as fragmented memories pieced themselves together.
House Ashcroft wasn't just noble—it was one of the pillars of the Kingdom of Arathia. Every generation had produced footballers of renown: strikers who led national teams, managers who built dynasties, defenders who etched their names into legend. Their family crest—a silver falcon clutching a ball—was displayed proudly across the manor walls.
But nobility brought weight.
The Ashcrofts were large in number. Cedric Ashcroft, the patriarch, had three wives and more than a dozen children, along with cousins, nephews, and relatives all vying for influence.
At breakfast, Bram experienced it firsthand.
The dining hall stretched wide, its high ceiling decorated with painted murals of legendary matches. Long tables brimmed with plates of eggs, buttered bread, and fresh fruit. Servants moved silently, refilling cups of steaming cafra (a bitter morning drink, stronger than coffee).
Cedric Ashcroft sat at the head, a man in his late forties. Broad-shouldered, graying at the temples, with eyes sharp as steel. He had once been a midfielder who led Arathia's national team to continental glory. His reputation was iron, his standards harsher still.
At his side sat Lady Seraphine, Cedric's first wife, regal in bearing, her beauty untouched by time. Next to her were her three sons—all prodigies.
Gareth Ashcroft (16) – the eldest, a striker with 27 goals in the Academy league last season. Tall, golden-haired, confident to arrogance.
Roland Ashcroft (14) – a central defender, disciplined, already captain of his age group.
Lucien Ashcroft (13) – a playmaker, known for his composure and passing vision.
Across from them sat children of Cedric's other wives—cousins, half-siblings, all buzzing with their own ambitions.
And then, further down, half-forgotten, was Bram.
Born of Alistair's third wife, who had no noble background and little influence, Bram had no great record, no prodigious skill. He had trained, yes, but compared to Gareth's dominance or Roland's strength, he was ordinary.
"Why is he even entering the Academy?""He'll be eliminated before the first trials.""A disgrace to the crest."
Bram clenched his fists under the table. The sting was real. In his past life, he had been ignored by circumstance. In this one, he was ignored by blood.
Alistair's voice cut through the hall.
"Today, several of you begin your first year at the Academy." His gaze swept the table, pausing on Bram only briefly. "Remember—Ashcrofts do not simply participate. We dominate. Fail, and you shame not only yourselves but this House."
The words sank heavy.
From memory, Bram pieced together the system of this world:
Academies: At age 12, children entered. They trained, studied tactics, and played in youth leagues until 15. Graduates were scouted by professional clubs—the elite Houses ensured their own always found placements.
Councils: Heads of noble Houses, all once renowned players or managers, formed the Kingdom Football Council, deciding rules, transfers, and academies.
FA: Each Kingdom's king presided over the council.
FIFA: The global body—made up of all kings and council heads—governed international tournaments.
Football wasn't just sport—it was the spine of society. Nobility, politics, prestige—all intertwined.
After breakfast, servants brought sleek black vehicles to the courtyard. Unlike the carriages of old, these were Gravium Cars, floating a few inches above the ground using aetheric engines. Nobles of Arathia valued tradition, but technology had advanced, shaping a unique blend of past and future.
Bram slipped into the last row of one such car. Gareth lounged at the front, boasting about breaking another record this season. Roland polished his boots. Lucien typed quickly on his Cerebrox Device, chatting with fans and peers over NeuroSync. Notifications flashed across Bram's own device—but his contacts list was pitifully empty.
As the convoy sped through the capital streets, Bram gazed outside. Towering stadiums glittered in the distance. Billboards projected highlights of last night's Academy matches, commentators debating future stars. Fans in jerseys crowded sidewalks, children kicking balls in every alley.
This world was football, through and through.
Bram's hands tightened into fists.
In my last life, I never even played a real match. This time… even if they mock me, even if I start at the bottom, I will not waste this chance.
The Gravium car slowed.
Through the tinted glass, Bram saw them: the towering gates of the Royal Academy of Arathia, where dreams began and legends were born.
He swallowed hard.
His second life was about to start.
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