It had only been a day since the clash between B-7 and C-12, yet the echoes of that match still pulsed through the academy corridors like a living current.
Everywhere Bram went—cafeteria screens, training halls, even the chatter-filled dorm hallways—someone was replaying that moment. The pass.
The one that made the crowd erupt. The one that made instructors lean forward in disbelief. The one that made people whisper his name with something new behind it—respect.
He sat quietly at breakfast, hood drawn low, listening as nearby students buzzed.
"Did you see that chip pass? No way that's the same Bram Ashcroft."
"Kid's got bloodline instincts after all."
"Bloodline, my ass. That was skill."
Felix elbowed him lightly. "Enjoying the fame, prodigy?"
Bram smirked faintly. "It'll die down by next week."
But deep down, he knew it wouldn't—not after that performance.
The match had changed everything.
[Flashback – The Day Before]
The whistle blew sharp and cold, echoing through the enclosed dome. The digital scoreboard blinked:
Matchday 7 – B-7 vs C-12
00:00 – First Half Begins
The moment the ball rolled, B-7's rhythm clicked like clockwork. Their passes were crisp, their spacing tighter than ever. Feine's training routines had finally sunk in—rotations, triggers, transitional spacing—it all flowed.
Felix commanded the midfield like a conductor, Percy moved between the lines, and Bram… he was starting to feel the rhythm of the game again. His replay vision flickered faintly, just at the edge of control.
C-12, though, wasn't backing down. They were organized, disciplined, and annoyingly hard to break through.
By the 20th minute, the score was still 0–0.
Then came the opening.
A loose ball bounced awkwardly near the halfway line. Percy lunged first, intercepted cleanly, and without hesitation slipped it to Bram.
Bram's mind sharpened like a blade.
A faint blue shimmer blinked across his vision—his Replay Vision activating.
Dozens of golden lines of potential movement flashed before him, curving across the field like ghostly threads. Most dissolved instantly, collapsing under bad timing or poor positioning. But one—just one—remained.
It led straight to Daren.
He didn't think. He trusted it.
With a gentle flick, Bram chipped the ball over the pressing midfielders. The pass was weightless, perfect—a spiral of light sailing through the air, slicing the defensive line clean.
The entire dome seemed to hold its breath.
Daren's eyes went wide. Even he hadn't expected that.
He sprinted forward, caught the ball mid-flight, and struck it on the volley before it could drop. The shot screamed toward the top corner.
The keeper dove. Too slow.
Goal.
The scoreboard blinked: B-7 – 1 | C-12 – 0
The dome erupted.
Instructors watching from the stands were left speechless. A few exchanged murmurs, voices low but awed.
"Did you see that touch?"
"That pass... that awareness—unreal for a first year."
"The Ashcroft name runs deep after all."
High above, inside the observation gallery, Headmaster Arcrest stood beside Instructor Lys, eyes fixed on the boy who was now being mobbed by his teammates.
"Remarkable," Lys murmured. "For a twelve-year-old."
"Age isn't the right metric here," Arcrest said quietly. "Instinct is."
Lys tilted her head. "You think he's ready?"
Arcrest's expression softened, unreadable. "Not yet. But his path has begun. Keep an eye on him—and the others. When the semester ends, we'll review."
Lys nodded. "Understood. I've already logged his data into the Candidate Registry."
"Good. And what of the other one?"
"Data gathered. Submission pending."
"Send it when ready," Arcrest said, turning back to the match. "The board will want results before the Trials."
The conversation faded behind the roar of the crowd.
C-12, stung, regrouped quickly. They tightened their shape, pressing higher. By the end of the half, their persistence paid off—a slick counterattack through the right flank, a low cross, and a simple finish.
Halftime: 1–1.
Feine clenched his fists on the sideline. "Don't lose composure! They feed on panic. Focus on flow, not speed!"
The boys nodded, breathless. Bram wiped sweat from his brow. His head was pounding—the cost of using Replay Vision for too long.
Still, as the whistle blew for the second half, he pushed it aside.
50th minute. A foul in the box.
Collins, one of the new substitutes, was tripped during a breakthrough run. The referee awarded a Penalty.
The crowd buzzed as Daren stepped forward, eyes locked, calm as ice.
One step. Two. Three. The keeper dove left.
The ball curved right.
2–1.
"Classic Holt strike," murmured Arcrest from above. "The bloodline produces forwards like few others."
"Seems the new generation's waking up," Lys replied.
But the lead didn't last.
56th minute. Kael, another sub, hesitated during a back-pass. C-12 pounced instantly, stole the ball, and scored.
2–2.
The dome trembled with noise. Feine slammed his tablet shut in frustration. "Focus, Kael! Reset the tempo!"
And yet—it was in that tension that brilliance struck again.
The final minute of the match.
B-7 pressed hard, desperation turning into controlled aggression. Bram's vision flared once more—his head throbbing, but his senses sharp as a knife.
He saw it again: those golden threads of possibility. This time, two overlapped. One failed path—blocked. The other—open, fleeting.
He went for it.
A slicing through-pass between defenders, curling low toward the penalty arc. Collins caught it perfectly, sidestepped the last man, and fired.
Goal. 3–2.
The dome exploded.
Whistles blew, echoing the end of the match.
B-7 had won.
The moment the final whistle echoed through the Dome, the noise was deafening.
Students poured down the stands, cheering, laughing, replaying the goals on their holo-bands. Instructors gathered at the sidelines, analyzing every play, and even the older players in the observation deck couldn't help but nod in appreciation.
Bram Ashcroft, once mocked as the weakest Ashcroft, had just shown one of the best-performance of the academy this season.
[Inside the Dome – Post-Match]
Bram leaned against the wall near the exit tunnel, sweat dripping down his temples, chest rising and falling fast.
His head still buzzed faintly from overusing Replay Vision, but he couldn't stop the small smile tugging at his lips.
Felix ran up beside him, grinning ear to ear. "You insane little freak—you actually did it!"
Percy laughed, slapping Bram's shoulder. "That pass, man. That pass."
Bram winced playfully. "Hey—easy, my brain's already half-dead."
Feine approached then, tablet in hand, eyes shining with approval he rarely showed. "Ashcroft," he said simply.
Bram turned.
Feine gave a faint smile and walked off. Felix elbowed him again. "You heard him, golden boy. Don't die before the trials."
[Later – Across the Academy]
That night, the entire Academy NetFeed was ablaze with clips from the match.
Hashtags swarmed the student feeds:
#AshcroftAwakens
#B7 Miracle Pass
#Who Is Bram?
Clips of his chip pass replayed in slow motion, the light tracing the perfect arc as Daren's volley hit the net. Comment sections exploded with debates:
"Is this kid really twelve?"
"That's not instinct, that's advanced vision prediction."
"I heard he's from the Ashcroft family—thought they cut ties with him?"
By midnight, Bram's name had spread beyond the Dome. Even the upper-classmen—who rarely cared about rookie matches—were watching.
[Training Dome 3 – Elira's Perspective]
Elira Ashcroft was in the middle of her endurance drill when a teammate, Rina, rushed in with her Cerebrox band.
"Hey, Elira—you need to see this."
Elira frowned, wiping sweat from her forehead. "What is it this time?"
Rina smirked. "Your brother just became a viral sensation."
She tapped her band, projecting the match highlight midair. The moment Bram's chipped pass floated and landed on Daren's volley, the hologram froze—perfectly capturing the motion.
The room filled with gasps and murmurs.
"Wait, that's your little brother?"
"No way. He was the one everyone called the shame?"
Elira's expression didn't change much. She only said softly, "I knew he'd get there."
But as the clip replayed, she felt her chest tighten—not from pride alone, but something deeper. He really improved since that day.
Rina tilted her head. "Since what day?"
Elira didn't answer. She simply turned back toward the training wall and resumed her drills—each strike faster, sharper, harder than before.
[Dormitory 2 – Lucian's Perspective]
In another wing of the academy, Lucian sat alone in his dimly lit dorm, eyes fixed on the same clip.
He watched the pass twice. Then a third time. Then he smirked.
"Not bad," he muttered. "But that's only the beginning."
A faint smile crossed his lips—half amusement, half challenge.
He leaned back, resting his arms behind his head. "We'll meet soon, Bram Ashcroft. Let's see if you're worth the hype."
[Somewhere Else.]
Across the campus, another boy sat in a private lounge—quiet, composed, hair color golden similar to Bram's. His eyes glowed faintly blue under the holo-screen light.
He replayed the same video once, his expression unreadable.
"So, you've started climbing," he murmured. "Interesting."
A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Let's see how long that lasts."
The holo-screen reflected his sharp eyes—another Ashcroft.
[Ashcroft Mansion – Far Away]
Kilometers away, inside the grand Ashcroft estate, the patriarch sat alone in his private study. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the holo-projector.
The clip played once, twice, three times.
The old man leaned back in his chair, the faintest smile forming. "So... the boy finally wakes."
He tapped his cane lightly against the floor.
"Perhaps the shame of the family isn't a shame after all."
The celebration didn't last long
By midday, the Academy League Board released the next round of fixtures — and the moment the names appeared, the entire campus froze.
Next Fixture: B-7 vs A-2
The announcement spread like wildfire.
A-2. The second-ranked class in the entire academy. A squad known for precision, raw talent, and the terrifying coordination of their captain — Sulfur Varen, the prodigy midfielder nicknamed The Star Weaver.
For most teams, facing A-2 was a sentence. For B-7, it was a test — one that could define their season.
[Cafeteria – Noon]
"Did you see the lineup? They're facing A-2 next week!"
"No way B-7 can win that one. A-2's been undefeated since week one."
"Still… with the way Bram played last match—maybe?"
The chatter filled the cafeteria like a wave. Some doubted, some hoped, and a few just wanted to see how far the so-called Ashcroft miracle could go.
At the corner table, Bram sat quietly with Felix, Percy, and all the B7 teammates . The table buzzed with tension.
Felix leaned forward. "You know they've got two players with Insane control in their front line, right? One slip and they'll break through."
Percy smirked. "Then we just don't slip."
Bram didn't say anything for a while, his gaze fixed on the projected fixture hovering above the table. The faint blue letters of "A-2" glowed like a challenge written in light.
Then he smiled faintly. "Good. Let's see where we really stand."
[Training Dome – Later That Day]
Feine watched from the upper platform as B-7 gathered for extra training. Bram was the first to step onto the pitch, adjusting the band on his wrist. His eyes glowed faintly for a moment — the afterimage of replay vision flickering briefly before fading.
Feine's voice echoed from above. "You'll be facing one of the top two tactical teams in the academy. Remember — rhythm wins your games."
Bram nodded, silently absorbing every word.
As the drills began, something about his movement felt sharper — his timing tighter, his vision cleaner. Replay Vision still strained his mind, but its precision had grown. He could see more clearly now — not perfectly, but enough to sense the flow before it unfolded.
"Let's check my progress." "System show me my stat."
He then murmured to himself.
His stat flickered into existence.
[ Updated Player Status: Bram Ashcroft ]
Age: 12
Position: Midfielder (Undeclared Specialty)
Overall Potential: ??? (Locked)
Stamina: 65 (+3)
Agility: 57 (+2)
Strength: 47 (+1)
Passing: 70
Dribbling: 57 (+2)
Shooting: 50 (+3)
Vision: 64 (+2)
Composure: 53 (+3)
Determination: 78
Replay Vision – Mastery: 20%(Each progression increases Vision by +1 until base synchronization is achieved.)
He stared at the glowing numbers for a moment. They were small steps — but every increase was earned through exhaustion and strain.
Felix jogged past him, laughing. "Still imagining another world class pass? You know that won't save you when A-2 starts pressing."
Bram smirked. "Good. Then we'll press back."
[Academy Main Hall – That Evening]
The news spread again — this time through holo-announcements across the campus.
"Match of the Week: B-7 vs A-2" Location: Main Arena Dome,
The words "Match of the Week" were enough to stir every student in the academy.
For Bram, it wasn't just a match. It was a chance — a step closer to understanding what this new life was pushing him toward.
He looked out from the dorm balcony that night, the lights of the domes reflecting off the misty horizon.
Somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of the A-2 training dome echoed — sharp, rhythmic, confident.
Bram exhaled, gripping the rail. "Alright," he muttered. "Let's see how bright the Star Weaver really shines."
Above the academy, the twin moons drifted apart, casting two separate pools of silver light — one for the stars, and one for the rising storm.