As soon as the referee's whistle pierced the air, signaling halftime, the entire stadium seemed to exhale at once. The scoreboard glowed: B-7: 0 — A-2: 0.
But everyone's eyes weren't on the score—they were on Bram.
Whispers rippled through the stands.
"That kid's unreal…"
"He's running the whole midfield on his own!"
"Did you see that tackle on Sulfur? He made the captain look ordinary!"
Even the seniors couldn't help but clap when he walked off, sweat glistening under the floodlights. His passes had carved open defenses, his composure set the rhythm, and every time Sulfur tried to overpower him, Bram answered with calm precision—like a maestro toying with a storm.
As the players trudged toward the tunnel, teammates patted his shoulder with half-smiles, still catching their breath. Sulfur threw him a glare—half challenge, half disbelief.
Inside the locker room, silence hung for a moment before Feine finally broke it.
"Listen up!" his voice echoing off the walls. "—this is the best half we've played. Bram, keep that engine running, you're dictating the tempo like a veteran. The rest of you—support him! Don't leave him stranded against Sulfur. If we keep the shape, the goal will come. Remember—control wins matches, not chaos!"
He paused, eyes sweeping across the team. "Now get your heads straight. Second half—we finish what we started."
The horn blared, echoing off the dome's high rafters. Players jogged back onto the field, boots stamping against the turf like war drums. The scoreboard still glowed:
Class B7 – 0 | Class A2 – 0
The referee blew the whistle. Second half.
The whistle echoed across the dome.
The second half began.
A2 kicked off, They made a substitution before then restart, and from the first pass, their tempo shifted. It wasn't just quick — it was calculated. Every step, every motion, carried a kind of flowing precision that forced B7 to step back almost instantly.
Bram felt it in his bones. The rhythm of their movement—tight triangles, shifting wings, and that captain, Sulfur, at the heart of it.
Sulfur wasn't big or loud. He didn't bark orders. He guided through silence. A glance, a nod, and suddenly three of his teammates moved like extensions of his thought.
Within seconds, A2's forward pushed deep into B7's right flank. Felix lunged in, barely getting a boot to deflect the cross.
"Recover! Regroup!" Bram shouted, stepping back to fill the gap.
The rebound rolled toward the edge of the box. Sulfur was already there. He didn't rush it — he waited. Waited until Percy charged forward to press. Then, with one flick of his foot, he looped it over Percy's boot, slipping between Bram and Jory like mist.
A soft gasp spread through the crowd as the ball landed perfectly for A2's striker.
A volley —A sharp save —
Mhed dived, his palms cracking against the ball, sending it spinning wide.
B7 exhaled in unison.
The pressure was suffocating. It wasn't just skill; it was pattern.
Bram closed his eyes for half a heartbeat, forcing his breathing to settle. He couldn't use the full Replay Vision recklessly — his temples still throbbed from earlier use. But he could feel fragments of it, flashes of how the field moved, like faint afterimages burnt into his mind.
And in those flashes — he began to notice it. The thread.
A2 moved in layers. Every pass pulled defenders slightly off their marks, until a lane opened — always near Sulfur.
"They bait wide, then cut central," Bram muttered, half to himself. Percy heard him. "You seeing something?" "Yeah… they're not chasing openings — they're making us create them."
They tightened their lines. Callen shifted inward. Jory and Felix closed the half-spaces.
For the next five minutes, A2 probed. Fast, slow, then fast again. Each failed entry only seemed to make them calmer.
Then Sulfur's eyes flickered toward Bram — and he smiled.
In an instant, Sulfur changed the tempo. A sharp one-two on the left wing. A dummy in midfield. A cutback.
B7's defense twisted. Sulfur sprinted forward into the gap, calling for it — and the pass came, slicing between Percy and Felix.
He took one touch. Two. Then curled it to the far post.
Mhed dived — fingertips grazing it —Crossbar!
The ball bounced up, high, spinning, and dropped right back into the box—chaos erupting as both sides scrambled.
Bram sprinted back, chest pounding, slid in at the last second —Cleared!
He felt the sting on his leg, grass scraping his knee, but he didn't care. For the first time since the half began, B7 had stopped A2's perfect rhythm.
But even as he stood, sweat dripping, he saw Sulfur watching him again. Not angry — interested.
"You're different," Sulfur said under his breath. "You read too fast for your level."
Bram didn't answer. He just nodded to Percy and reset formation.
He could feel the strain building — the edge of his mind twitching from faint Replay Vision activation. The flashes were starting to stack again, like static.
And yet… a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
Because the more Sulfur pressed, the clearer the rhythm became. And somewhere deep inside that chaos — Bram could already sense the faint golden thread that would lead to their chance.
The clock ticked past the fortieth minute.
The dome pulsed with the low roar of voices—students, instructors, and watchers from other classes. Everyone could feel it: A2 was closing in.
B7's players were breathing heavier now. Sweat gleamed on Callen's forehead as he pressed forward to meet another wave of blue jerseys. Percy's shirt clung to his back, his movements sharp but slower than before.
A2 wasn't faster anymore. They were smarter.
They were shaping the game, sculpting space itself—compressing and stretching it at will. Every time Bram thought they'd exhausted a flank, Sulfur redirected play with a subtle flick or glance, forcing B7 to start defending from scratch.
42'
A long pass flew from the back. Felix leapt, heading it clear—but the ball dropped near the center circle.
Sulfur didn't even look up. His right boot caressed the ball backward as if tugging an invisible thread, sending it spinning toward his winger, who burst past Callen.
"Felix—cover!" Bram shouted, racing back.
The winger cut inside. One, two touches—then slipped it to Sulfur again, who hadn't stopped moving.
Sulfur received it, spun on his heel, and shot.
The ball curved wickedly—curling away from Mhed's outstretched hands then.
Goooal.
The goal was classic. Beautifully. And well imagine it yourself.
A2 1 – 0 B7.
The dome erupted in cheers. Sulfur didn't celebrate much. He simply raised a hand toward his team, calm, collected.
"That's our web," someone in A2 muttered.
Bram stood near the halfway line, eyes fixed on Sulfur. He wasn't angry—he was analyzing.
The replay flashes were faint, flickering like candlelight behind his eyes. He'd seen it before—the exact buildup. The space between Felix and Percy had opened the same way three times before the goal.
They didn't need power to win—they only needed repetition.
"Percy," Bram said quietly as they regrouped, "they repeat patterns every third push. Watch Sulfur—he never breaks formation until that moment." Percy frowned. "Third push?" "Yeah. First, they bait. Second, they adjust. Third—they strike."
Percy's brow furrowed, then he nodded slowly.
"Got it. So we break the pattern before they reach the third."
Bram smirked slightly. "Exactly."
45'
Feine on the sideline was having a thought of substitution, but something told him that will cost them so he decide to wait.
The restart began. B7 pressed higher. This time, instead of reacting, they moved in sync—guided not by instinct but by Bram's whispered directions.
Daren chased the back line; Percy shadowed Sulfur tightly; Callen and Jory compacted the defense.
When A2 tried to weave again—first pass wide, second cut inside—Percy stepped early, cutting off the triangle before it closed.
A2's rhythm stuttered.
Bram intercepted the loose pass and drove forward, threading through midfield. A faint flicker pulsed in his mind—Replay Vision sparking for half a second, outlining two possible lines of play.
One line ended with a block. The other—a perfect opening toward Daren.
He took the second.
The ball flew—a curved pass that skipped through two defenders like water finding its path.
Daren sprinted onto it, chesting it down, ready to shoot—
—but Sulfur appeared again, sliding in cleanly, clearing it with surgical precision.
"Tch." Daren spat under his breath.
Bram straightened slowly, his temples pounding now. The flash from the vision had been short, but the strain was heavier than usual.
Still, he smiled faintly. He was getting closer.
48'
A2 countered again. Their winger sprinted down the line, sending a low cross into the box.
Mhed shouted, diving—Punched it away!
The ball spilled wide—Percy reached it first, turning sharply to escape pressure.
"Bram!"
Bram received the pass, turned his shoulder, and felt the thrum of the field around him. Every sound faded for an instant—the crowd, the boots, the shouts.
He saw it again: Three shapes moving ahead, faint afterimages predicting their next positions.
He didn't fight the headache this time. He used it.
He twisted, slipping the ball through a narrow lane only he could see.
Collins, who had just subbed in, caught it perfectly in stride. He sprinted upfield, crossing into open space—A2's defenders scrambling to retreat.
A roar rose from the stands as B7 pushed back for the first time in ten minutes.
Sulfur intercepted near midfield, stopping the counter. But his expression had changed.
He looked at Bram—not as a rival, but as a mirror.
"You're reading it, aren't you?" Sulfur murmured, just loud enough for Bram to hear.
Bram met his eyes, sweat rolling down his jaw.
"Not fast enough… yet."
The faintest grin curved Sulfur's lips. "Good. Then let's make it faster."
The last stretch of the half approached—the final ten minutes, where the game would tilt toward chaos.
The crowd buzzed with energy, sensing the storm to come.
Both captains adjusted their stances. Both teams tightened their lines.
And as the ball rolled again, the dome seemed to hold its breath.
Because everyone could feel it—The match was no longer just about skill.
It was a battle of perception.
The sound of boots slapping against turf filled the Dome. Every pass, every shout, every heartbeat seemed sharper now—like the match itself had narrowed into a single moment of tension stretched over time.
Fifty minutes gone. A2 still led, 1–0.
B7 had grown quieter—not defeated, but focused. The kind of silence that comes before lightning strikes.
Sulfur stood at the center circle, hands resting loosely on his hips. His breathing was steady, his eyes locked on Bram. He didn't taunt, didn't smile this time. He respected the boy standing opposite him.
"Keep formation," Bram called softly to his teammates. "No wild tackles. Force them to overcommit."
A nod passed through the team. Daren clenched his fists, Collins adjusted his stance, and Callen and Jory tightened their defensive line.
51'
The ball rolled to Sulfur.
He pushed it forward, dragging Collins with him. A flick, a step-over, then a sudden switch to the left.
The rhythm looked identical to before. First push. Second push.
Bram felt the pressure building—like watching a storm he already knew was coming.
On the third push, he moved early.
He darted forward, intercepting the triangular pass before Sulfur could pivot. His boot touched the ball mid-spin, redirecting it to the right flank where Daren was waiting.
A2's rhythm shattered instantly.
"Go!" Bram yelled.
Daren surged forward, cutting through open space. The crowd's noise swelled—shoes stomping, shouts echoing.
A defender lunged in. Daren sidestepped, kept the ball close, then sliced a diagonal pass across the pitch.
Bram had already read it—his body moved before the ball even reached.
A faint click pulsed in his mind. Replay Vision, igniting like a second heartbeat.
For a moment, time fractured.
He saw two overlapping layers—the present and the possible. A2's defenders shifting, one fraction too slow; Sulfur moving to intercept but half a step delayed.
It hurt—like glass behind his eyes—but he held the vision.
He slid between two midfielders, catching Daren's pass on his left foot, flicking it into open space ahead.
53'
Collins joined the rush, calling for it.
"Middle!"
Bram sent a short pass, quick and sharp. Collins took one touch, then passed back. The ball moved like a pulse—quick, precise, alive.
B7 had changed rhythm completely. They weren't chasing anymore—they were conducting.
But A2 recovered fast. Sulfur sprinted back, his aura calm yet heavy, like gravity itself pulling B7's flow inward.
He blocked Bram's next lane, forcing him wide.
"You've improved," Sulfur said quietly, sliding into position. "Not enough," Bram muttered.
A2 compressed again. Bram's vision flickered—three silhouettes forming that familiar triangle.
Not this time.
He feinted left, then rolled the ball backward, drawing Sulfur in. Then, just as the captain lunged—Bram heel-flicked the ball sideways, sending it behind him to Collins again.
Collins caught it perfectly, whipped a long cross toward Daren—
Header!
The ball flew, spinning—then crashed against the post.
The entire Dome gasped.
Mhed clenched his fists in the distance; even Sulfur exhaled deeply, that near miss almost cutting through their control.
56'
Tension thickened like fog. A2 held the lead, but their formation had cracks now.
Sulfur started slowing the tempo again, drawing passes across the backline. But every touch felt heavier, every turn more pressured.
Bram stayed quiet, eyes scanning, watching patterns form and dissolve. The faint hum of Replay Vision was gone—his body too drained to invoke it again.
But he didn't need it anymore. He'd learned the rhythm himself.
58'
A2 launched a late attack—one last thread of their web. Their winger slipped through, sending a low cross into the box.
Felix intercepted but stumbled. The ball bounced loose—Sulfur lunged for it—
Bram slid in clean, scraping the turf, kicking the ball free before Sulfur could shoot.
It rolled toward Collins, who booted it forward in one motion.
"Counter!"
Daren picked it up near midfield and sprinted, weaving between defenders.
"One minute!" Callen shouted from the back.
59'
Daren cut in from the flank, sending the ball across to Collins—Collins back to Bram—Bram chest-controlled it mid-run.
The entire Dome was on its feet.
One defender. Two. Sulfur closing in.
Every sense in Bram's body screamed now or never.
He didn't see lines anymore. He felt them.
He feinted right, twisted left, then unleashed a curling shot from the edge of the box.
The ball curved sharply—rising, dipping—past Sulfur's stretched leg, past the goalkeeper's fingertips— then...
GOOOOOOOAL.
B7 1 – 1 A2.
The Dome erupted.
Bram didn't celebrate at first. He just stood there, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the goal as his teammates swarmed him.
Collins jumped onto his back, shouting incoherently. Daren punched the air. Callen and Felix sprinted from the backline, shouting Bram's name.
Sulfur stood still, hands on his knees, watching Bram quietly. A smile—brief and proud—crossed his face.
"You broke the web," he murmured.
The referee's whistle blew three times. Full time.
A2 1 – 1 B7.
No winner. No loser. Just two teams that had evolved through each other.
As the crowd's cheers softened into applause, Bram finally exhaled. His vision blurred at the edges, that faint headache returning—but he smiled anyway.
Because this time, he hadn't just played the game. He had understood it.