The dome was louder than usual. Screens glowed across the transparent canopy, broadcasting live stats and player projections as hundreds of students gathered for the most anticipated match of the mid-season: A-2 versus B-7.
Two names buzzed across every conversation.
Sulfur Varen—captain of A-2, known for his precision passing and ruthless field control.
And Bram Ashcroft, the "revived shame" of the Ashcroft family, whose last match had spread across the academy networks like wildfire.
The crowd wanted a show.
Inside the players' tunnel, the air felt heavier.
Bram adjusted his shin guards, breathing slowly. His teammates were silent, focused. Felix stood near the front, his usual grin replaced with a sharp calm. Percy was tapping his fingers against his knees, a nervous rhythm that betrayed his unease.
Feine stood before them, datapad in hand. "Alright, listen up," he said, his tone clipped and serious. "This isn't just another league fixture. A-2 is top-tier for a reason—they rotate formation faster than anyone below A-1. If we lose structure, we lose the game."
He looked to Bram. "Ashcroft, I don't care about the rumors or bloodlines. I want control. You're the spine of this team. No wild plays unless you see them. Got it?"
Bram nodded. "Got it."
Feine smirked slightly. "Good. Because after today, win or draw, they'll remember our name."
Light flooded the tunnel as both teams stepped out to the roaring echo of students and instructors alike. The dome's temperature adjusted, a soft blue shimmer forming around the pitch barrier.
B7 lined up on the left side in navy and silver. A2 emerged in crisp white uniforms accented with gold trim—the mark of top-tier status.
Bram's eyes flicked across the field. His gaze met Sulfur's. He stood at midfield, short blonde hair tied in a braid, his expression calm but eyes sharp—like he could already read him.
A strategist.
The whistle pierced the air, sharp and clean.
A2 took the first touch.
Sulfur, the captain of A2 — calm, sharp-eyed, every movement deliberate — tapped the ball back to his nearest midfielder. The pass was soft, almost lazy, but every player in blue moved in perfect rhythm the moment it rolled.
They spread.
Two defenders opened wide; the central midfielder dropped deep to receive. A2's forwards rotated diagonally — forming a living triangle that shifted the instant a B7 player moved.
It was like watching threads weave into shape — seamless, precise, patient. And just as quickly, the rhythm began.
Daren Holt sprinted forward to press, too fast, too soon. His boots scraped against the turf as he closed in on the A2 midfielder — but the ball was already gone. One touch. Two. A pass slipped behind his line.
By the time Daren turned, the ball had already been exchanged three times between Sulfur's side midfielders. A2's tempo was like water — flowing wherever pressure came from, slipping through gaps that hadn't existed a second ago.
"Fall back!" Bram's voice broke through the confusion, sharp, commanding.
But A2 had already reached their half-line in five touches.
B7's midfield pivot — Bram and Percy — sprinted to close space. Bram's eyes tracked the flow, not the ball. Every shift, every shoulder feint, every pause of Sulfur's foot told him something. The "Star Weaver" wasn't rushing. He was building — pulling threads of movement into place before releasing the next pass.
The ball went wide again.
Felix Rowan intercepted the lane just as a cross looked likely — his boot nicking it away and sending it rolling loose toward Bram.
One heartbeat. Two.
Bram stepped forward to claim it — but Sulfur was already there, sliding in from the side. Not reckless, not overcommitted — perfect timing. His boot touched first, stealing the ball away before Bram could control.
The ball shot back toward the center.
A2's rhythm didn't break — it reversed. Sulfur rose to his feet in one fluid motion, spun, and distributed a quick pass back to his defense to reset. The whole motion looked effortless, controlled.
B7 regrouped.
Callen Ward and Jory Finch exchanged glances, shifting into a tighter defensive line. Felix retreated a few steps, allowing no space between them. Percy moved up beside Bram again. "We can't chase shadows," he muttered, breath quick and heavy.
"I know," Bram replied, eyes locked on Sulfur. "But we can choke them."
A2 began again. Short passes. Recycled possession. The hum of boots and breathing filled the field.
Mhed Venn, B7's keeper, shouted instructions from the back. The sound barely reached Bram through the pounding of his heartbeat.
A2's left winger darted inward, pulling Jory with him. The moment Jory stepped, the winger released a through-ball down the left channel — exploiting the tiny gap left behind.
Perfect.
A2's right midfielder Noel, sprinted into that space, cutting in behind B7's backline.
"Felix!" Bram shouted.
Felix reacted — sliding in fast. Turf flew. The tackle clipped the ball at full stretch, knocking it just enough for it to skip off course before reaching the attacker. The winger stumbled, recovered, and tried to square it — but Mhed was already off his line, catching the ball cleanly in both hands.
A brief exhale escaped the entire B7 defense.
Bram looked toward Mhed, who raised the ball briefly — a signal of reassurance. Then, without hesitation, Mhed threw it toward the right flank where Percy waited.
Percy controlled with one touch and turned, seeing space ahead — A2 was high up, pressing.
"Go!" Bram barked.
Percy obeyed — sprinting forward. His first pass went long toward Daren, who tried to chase, but A2's defender cut across and cleared back to midfield.
The game didn't slow.
A2 regained control and reset their rhythm immediately. Back and forth. Shift. Turn. Pivot. Pass.
For ten straight minutes, B7 barely touched the ball for more than a few seconds at a time. Yet Bram's expression didn't show frustration — only calculation. Every failed press, every interception attempt, every misstep of Daren or Percy, he memorized.
His eyes stayed locked on Sulfur.
The A2 captain never seemed hurried. His head moved side to side constantly — scanning, scanning, like he could see the entire field at once.
But something about that rhythm clicked in Bram's mind. A sequence. A pattern.
He didn't know what yet — but his instincts whispered that he was close.
The whistle blew briefly for a foul in midfield — a shove by Percy on Oliver A2's winger. B7 used the moment to regroup.
As players repositioned, Bram's gaze never left Sulfur. He wasn't watching the ball anymore — he was watching intention.
"Okay," Bram murmured under his breath. "I see how you weave."
The restart came with A2 still in control. Sulfur touched the ball first again, his movements composed — not fast, but deliberate. Every motion seemed to draw B7 into a trap.
Percy pressed too early. Bram didn't move. He waited — eyes locked on the ball, but his mind tracing the rhythm of A2's flow.
One pass. Then another. Each touch, a note in a melody he was beginning to recognize.
Something flickered behind his vision — faint, hazy, like a ghostly overlay of movement across the field. He blinked. The players' outlines split for an instant — showing faint echoes of where they would be in the next second.
Replay Vision.
His breathing slowed unconsciously. The world around him felt muffled — like everything else had been soaked in water.
But it wasn't perfect. The flicker stuttered, breaking apart before he could trace the full sequence. Pain rippled faintly at the back of his skull — a warning.
Not yet… not too long.
He blinked hard, the glow fading. Still, even in that short glimpse, he'd seen something — the passing rhythm, the anchor point of A2's pattern.
"Percy," he called under his breath, as the play restarted near midfield. "Don't chase him. Watch the pivot. They pull us in, then flip to the opposite side."
Percy glanced over, uncertain, but followed.
This time, when A2 began their fluid triangle, Percy held his position instead of lunging. When Sulfur dropped his shoulder and looked left, Percy didn't move — he waited.
That pause disrupted the link. Arnold A2 midfielder hesitated, then turned back inside — straight into Bram's path.
Bram intercepted.
The ball clanked off his boot awkwardly — not clean, but enough to break A2's rhythm. He immediately pushed forward, sending a sharp pass toward Daren.
Daren controlled with his chest and turned — his first real possession of the match. He looked up and saw Percy overlapping on the right.
A2's defenders reacted quickly, closing in, but Bram's voice rang out behind: "Hold it — switch!"
Daren twisted and rolled the ball back to Bram. Bram's eyes flickered again — replay vision flashing for half a heartbeat — and he saw the empty space forming on the left side before it truly existed.
He didn't hesitate. A long diagonal pass sliced through the air, curling toward the far flank. Felix, surprised but alert, stepped into the space and received cleanly.
The crowd's hum shifted. B7 was finally moving.
Felix advanced a few meters, feeding the ball into Percy who cut inside. Percy faked left, drew a defender, and pushed the ball back toward Bram.
Bram barely looked. He turned his body sideways, dragging the ball behind his foot, shielding it from Sulfur's approach.
The A2 captain lunged lightly — testing.
Bram used his shoulder to feint, pivoted sharply, and threaded a quick pass through two defenders — finding Daren once more between the lines. The striker spun, unleashed a low shot — deflected.
A2 cleared desperately.
Gasps rippled through the field — it wasn't a shot on goal, but it was the first time A2's defense had been forced to scramble.
Bram exhaled, his chest rising and falling with effort. That flicker of vision — even for seconds — left his temples pulsing faintly. He pressed a hand briefly against the side of his head, gritting his teeth.
He couldn't rely on it too often. But he could use it smartly.
Sulfur retrieved the ball deep in his own half, his face unreadable. Their eyes met for a brief moment — a silent exchange of understanding.
You can see it too, can't you?
The rhythm resumed, faster now. A2 wanted to reassert control, but B7 no longer chased blindly. They moved as a block — compact, patient, their shape tightening under Bram's subtle signals.
Every small gesture — a hand flick, a glance — told Percy or Felix where to step, when to drop, when to press.
At the fifteenth minute, Sulfur tried to cut inward again. Bram followed — not pressing, but shadowing, waiting for the rhythm to shift.
And when it did, he was already there — intercepting the pass meant for the midfielder before it reached.
"Counter!" he shouted.
Percy broke forward, Daren already sprinting ahead.
Bram launched a clean, low pass through the center — threading between two defenders. The ball curved perfectly into Daren's path.
A2's keeper came rushing out —Daren lifted his foot —And the ball struck the side netting.
So close.
The chance was gone, but the momentum had shifted.
For the first time, the field tilted slightly toward A2's half. B7 wasn't just defending anymore — they were reading.
Sulfur's expression hardened as he walked back to restart. He adjusted his armband once, eyes narrowing at Bram across the field.
Bram stood still, one hand still on his knee, sweat trailing down his temple, eyes burning bright with a sharp mix of focus and pain.
A2 had felt the shift — and they didn't like it.
Their passes came sharper now, their movements tighter. Each player moved like a cog in a machine designed to suffocate the opposition. Sulfur's calm command began to spread through his team like current in a wire — rekindling their earlier dominance.
B7's brief surge had unsettled them, but it wasn't enough to crack a team like A2.
By the twenty-first minute, the ball was back in A2's possession, their formation expanding like a net.
Sulfur's first touch was silk. He drew Bram forward with a faint motion of his shoulder, then released a quick side pass. Two touches later, the ball had already swung to the right wing.
Felix sprinted to close down, but A2's winger sidestepped him with a burst of pace, dragging the ball along the line before cutting inside.
Jory Finch slid across, forcing the winger to delay. But that single delay was enough for A2's midfielder to slip through the channel — a perfect through ball found him.
He shot.
Mhed, B7's keeper, dove sideways — fingertips brushing the ball wide.
"Good save!" Percy shouted, pumping a fist.
Mhed barely nodded, eyes darting across the field as he leapt up to reset for the corner. His chest heaved, but his voice stayed level: "Mark up!"
The corner came swinging in with brutal precision. Bodies collided midair — a forest of arms, elbows, and heads. The ball skimmed off Callen Ward's shoulder before bouncing dangerously near the post.
A collective gasp swept through the stands — but Bram was there, clearing it first time, hoofing the ball clear.
The pressure didn't stop.
A2 pressed again. Sulfur orchestrated every sequence — a pass, a drop, a pivot, then a diagonal switch that forced B7 to chase shadows.
It wasn't just football anymore; it was chess played at sprint speed.
Bram's lungs burned. His legs ached. But he forced himself to breathe evenly, eyes tracking everything.
He didn't see the glowing patterns anymore — just movements, habits, rhythm. His brain filled the blanks his strange ability couldn't sustain for long.
Every motion, every misstep, every heartbeat on the field told him something.
When Sulfur feinted with his left boot, Bram was already shifting to intercept the right. When Percy overstepped in pressure, Bram silently adjusted behind to cover his blind spot.
"Stay tight!" Bram yelled, his voice cutting through the noise.
The moment of discipline made A2 hesitate.
At twenty-six minutes, that hesitation gave them a window.
Jory intercepted a pass, pushing it up to Percy, who turned on instinct and found Bram.
Bram's head snapped up instantly — scanning.
Daren was already peeling off his marker. Felix was sprinting up the flank for width.
Bram held the ball just long enough to draw two midfielders in — then nudged it sideways, a faint, almost lazy-looking touch.
But that single touch opened a passing lane no one else had seen. He rolled it into the channel — clean, sharp, perfectly weighted.
Percy ran onto it like he'd known it was coming all along.
Percy crossed first time. The ball curled toward the box — Daren leapt — the header thudded against the crossbar.
The dome erupted in shouts.
So close. Inches.
Bram froze for a heartbeat, sweat dripping from his jaw, his pulse roaring in his ears. His chest felt heavy — the kind of exhaustion that came not from running, but from thinking too fast.
He wiped his face, steadying his breath. His ability — whatever it was — wasn't something he could lean on constantly. It drained him fast. But the feeling… that half-second where everything connected — it was intoxicating.
Across the pitch, Sulfur watched him quietly. The A2 captain's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of curiosity — not suspicion, just… recognition. The way Bram positioned himself, the way he anticipated movement — it was something Sulfur hadn't seen in most first-years.
"Interesting," Sulfur murmured under his breath.
A2 reset quickly. At the twenty-ninth minute, they struck again — a swift combination play down the left. The ball swung across the box, a striker diving in — but Callen intercepted with a desperate slide, booting it away for a throw.
The referee checked his chrono-band — seconds to halftime.
Bram exhaled deeply, straightening as the whistle echoed across the dome. He turned toward his teammates, clapping his hands once.
"Good half," he said simply. "We adapt faster now. Keep it that way."
The players gathered, panting, nodding, sweat dripping down their faces. They'd survived.
But deep inside, Bram knew — they hadn't seen the full strength of A2 yet. And to face that… he'd have to push his limits again.
The thought made his temples pulse.
Halftime. Score still locked at 0–0.
The real battle was about to begin.