The Gravium convoy halted before towering iron gates forged with golden trims. Above them gleamed the sigil of the RoyalAcademy of Arathia: a crown over a football, flanked by two lions.
Students streamed through in groups. Noble heirs in tailored training kits, commoners in simpler uniforms, all buzzing with anticipation. The chatter was a mix of nerves and excitement.
When Bram stepped out of the car, he felt the sheer weight of the Academy's aura. The sprawling complex beyond the gates stretched like a city of its own. There were training pitches thatgleamedunderthe morning sun, dormitory towers built like fortresses, lecture halls shaped like amphitheaters, and a massive stadium that loomed at the center like a colossus.
It was overwhelming.
So this… is where legends are made.
His half-brothers—Gareth, Roland, Lucien—walked ahead with their usual arrogance, already greeted by friends and admirers. Bram followed quietly, feeling invisible.
A voice boomed across the courtyard.
"First-years! Assemble by division banners!"
Instructors in navy coats held tall poles, each marked with a crest: Midfielders, Forwards, Defenders, Goalkeepers. Students broke into lines beneath them.
Bram hesitated, then walked toward the Midfielder's banners. He had always gravitated there—it was the position where vision mattered, where one could dictate the game without raw pace or brute strength.
He stood among strangers. Some eyed him curiously, some ignored him entirely.
Inside the GrandAuditorium, the first-years filled tiered seats. A giant holo-screen flickered to life at the front, projecting the figure of Headmaster VeylanArcrest.
The man was imposing—silver-haired, sharp-eyed, dressed in an immaculate black suit lined with gold. His voice carried authority.
"Welcome, Class of the 317th Year. You have entered the crucible where talent is forged and pretenders are burned away. For the next three years, you will train, study, compete, and bleed. At fifteen, only the worthy will graduate into the professional ranks. Fail, and you will leave with nothing but memories."
His gaze scanned the hall, lingering on nobles and commoners alike.
"Remember this: on this pitch, your House name means nothing. Only your performance decides your fate."
A murmur spread through the hall. Some nobles shifted uneasily, others sneered in disbelief.
Bram felt a strange warmth in his chest. So it's not just bloodlines here. Maybe… maybe I can stand a chance.
After orientation, the students were led to their dormitories. Bram was assigned a modest single room in the FalconWing, reserved for midfielders.
The room was plain—bed, desk, locker—but spotless. On the desk lay a training kit and a small metallic wristband.
"Cerebrox Sync-Band," the instructor explained. "Tracks your vitals and stats during sessions. Connect it to your device."
Bram slipped it on. The band hummed faintly, glowing blue.
And then—
[ Ding! ]
A digital chime echoed in his mind.
Bram froze. He looked around. No one else reacted.
Then, in crisp text across his vision:
[System Initialization Complete]Welcome, Bram Ashcroft.
Bound Reason (Surface):Detected unresolved obsession → Football.Detected reincarnation anomaly.System assigned: The Footballer's Path.
*[Note: Full functions locked. Progression required.]
Bram's heart hammered. His lips parted soundlessly.
This… this was the voice he had wished for in his first life.
So it's real. I really… have a system.
The words flickered again.
[Tutorial Quest Unlocked]
Attend first Academy training.
Complete all warm-up drills without giving up.
Reward: +1 Endurance, System Panel Access.
Bram blinked. "Quests? Like… a game?" he muttered under his breath.
No one else seemed to notice. Only he could see this.
He whispered internally: Panel.
The vision shifted.
[Player Status: Bram Ashcroft]
Age: 12
Position: Midfielder (Undeclared Specialty)
Overall Potential: ??? (Locked)
Physical:
Stamina: 50
Agility: 50
Strength: 45
Technical:
Passing: 64
Dribbling: 50
Shooting: 40
Mental:
Vision: 50
Composure: 40
Determination: 70
Note: Stats are beginner baseline. Growth tied to effort and training. No shortcuts.
Bram let out a shaky laugh. "No shortcuts, huh? Figures."
In his first life, he had prayed for instant brilliance. Here, the system was clear: work, and be rewarded.
That… actually felt right.
That afternoon, all first-years were gathered on Training Grounds Alpha —a sprawling pitch with lines so crisp they seemed etched in glass. Drones floated overhead, recording every movement, while auto-machines wheeled out racks of balls.
The instructor, Coach DariusMarrow, strode forward. A tall man with a scar across his cheek, he radiated authority.
"Listen well. Your journey begins with sweat, not glory. Today, we test your fundamentals. Tomorrow, we separate the serious from the spectators."
Blowing his whistle, he barked: "Warm-ups! Two laps around the track—NOW!"
Students groaned but obeyed. Bram joined in, his lungs burning halfway through. Memories of exhaustion from his first life returned. But the System's quest pulsed in his vision.
[ Quest: Complete warm-up drills without giving up. Progress: 1/2 laps. ]
No way I'm failing my first quest.
He gritted his teeth, pushed through the stitch in his side, and forced his legs to keep moving. Sweat poured down his temples, but he crossed the line, chest heaving.
[ Quest Complete! ]+1Endurance System Panel Update.
The rush hit him instantly. A subtle strength filled his body, as though his lungs had widened just a fraction, his muscles a little sturdier.
Bram blinked in awe. This… this is real power.
During stretches, Bram found himself paired with a dark-haired boy who smirked.
"Name's Callen Ward," he said. "You're one of the Ashcrofts, right? Figures. Bet you think you're untouchable."
Bram shook his head quickly. "Not really."
"Good," Callen said with a half-grin. "Because neither am I. But I'll still crush you."
Nearby, a towering goalkeeper joked loudly, earning laughs. A few nobles sneered at common-born students. Rivalries sparked immediately.
The Academy wasn't just training. It was war—political, personal, athletic.
And Bram stood at the very bottom, with nothing but determination and a mysterious system.
As the sun dipped low and training concluded, Bram collapsed on his bed in the dorm. His muscles screamed, but his heart raced with exhilaration.
He whispered into the quiet room:
"This time… I won't let the dream slip. I'll fight for it, every day."
The System's voice replied faintly:
[Acknowledge. Questline: Path of the Fooballer—Initiated.]
And with that, Bram drifted into restless, hopeful sleep.
**
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