The whistle cut through the air — sharp, final, almost cruel.
Bram stood motionless in the middle of the pitch, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples. The dome's lights reflected off the turf, shimmering faintly through the rising haze of exhaustion. Around him, the players of both teams slumped — some in relief, some in frustration.
1–1.
The scoreboard glowed with that stubborn balance. No winner. No loser. Just two teams that refused to yield.
Percy staggered toward him, grabbing his shoulder. "You… you madman," he breathed, half-laughing. "That shot— I swear I didn't even see your leg move."
Bram smiled faintly, though his vision wavered at the edges. His heartbeat felt too loud, each thud echoing behind his eyes. Too much again… he thought, pressing his palm to his temple. The faint hum of his Replay Vision still flickered behind his eyes like afterimages of light — ghost trails of movements and angles, fading slower than usual.
[System Notice]
Replay Vision Synchronization: 26%
+5 Vision Stat Gained
Current Vision: 69
[Host]: [Overuse may result in temporary neural fatigue]
"Yeah, I noticed," Bram muttered under his breath, low enough that no one could hear.
[Host is advised to rest. Excessive strain on the visual cortex could lead to longer recovery time]
He smirked faintly. You sound like Feine now.
[If Host continues to ignore proper cooldown protocol, system will be forced to limit Replay Vision activation temporarily]
"Fine, fine," he whispered, glancing up at the faint blue shimmer only he could see. "You win, system."
The voice faded. Just silence now. And the buzz of the crowd above.
Feine's sharp voice pulled him back to the present. "B-7, huddle up!"
They gathered, panting, jerseys drenched. The coach's face was calm but unreadable — a look Bram had learned to both hate and respect.
"You all did well," Feine began, voice steady. "But don't let this score fool you. A2 gave us a fight, yes — but you fought them to the last minute. That's what matters."
Percy grinned, still catching his breath. "Feels like a win, honestly."
Feine nodded once. "Maybe. But remember — the league doesn't reward almost. It rewards consistency. We have five matches left before end of the year . Every one counts from now."
Bram looked up at the digital board again —
A1 (30 pts)
A2 (24 pts)
B7 (21 pts)
The gap between them still there, but not unreachable. If they won their next few matches, top three was secure. And that meant the Trials.
That thought — the Trials — sent a quiet thrill through his chest. The stage where the academy's best faced off for recognition, recruitment, and advancement.
As they walked toward the tunnel, the dome lights dimmed slightly — transitioning into night mode. The sound of boots against the polished floor echoed in sync — a rhythm of fatigue and quiet resolve.
Percy's voice broke the silence. "You think A1's still undefeated?"
"Probably," Bram said. "But they'll fall eventually."
"Yeah? You planning to be the one who trips them?"
Bram glanced sideways, the faintest smirk on his lips. "Maybe."
Dormitory – That Night
Bram lay in bed, eyes half-open, staring at the faint holographic glow of his Status Board hovering quietly in the air.
[Updated Player Status:
Bram Ashcroft]
Age: 12
Position: Midfielder (Undeclared Specialty)
Overall Potential: ??? (Locked)
Stamina: 65
Agility: 57
Strength: 47
Passing: 70
Dribbling: 57
Shooting: 52 (+2)
Vision: 69 (+5)
Composure: 53
Determination: 78
Replay Vision – Mastery: 26%(Each progression increases Vision by +1 until base synchronization is achieved.)
He exhaled slowly. That number — 26%. Still far from mastery, but progress nonetheless.
[Host is improving at an acceptable pace. Maintain this momentum through remaining fixtures.]
"Yeah," Bram murmured. "Seven matches left… then the real test."
The room was silent except for the faint hum of the dorm's cooling system. Outside, the academy's twin moons glowed faintly over the horizon, bathing the towers in silver light.
Tomorrow would come with drills, reviews, and plans for their next match — but for tonight, Bram allowed himself a small victory.
He'd faced A2 — one of the academy's strongest — and stood his ground.
The echoes of the crowd, the clash of boots, and the shimmer of that final equalizing strike all replayed in his mind until sleep finally claimed him.
League Standings — After Matchday 9
1. A-1 – 30 pts
2. A-2 – 27 pts
3. B-7 – 21 pts
4. A-3 – 18 pts
5. D-14 – 16pts
6. A-4 – 16 pts
7. C-9 – 11 pts
8. B-8 – 11 pts
9. C-12 – 8 pts
10. D-16 – 8 pts
....
The training dome smelled faintly of disinfectant and dew. The sun filtered through the high glass panels, painting thin streaks of light over the artificial turf.
Class B-7 stood gathered around Feine, dressed in their gray recovery kits. Their faces carried that same tired pride from yesterday — the kind that followed a hard-fought match.
Feine's expression, however, was unreadable as always. He held a slim black tablet, its surface alive with tactical grids and moving icons.
"Sit," he said simply.
They obeyed.
The screen behind him flickered to life — the replay of yesterday's match beginning to roll. Lines of code traced each movement, showing heat zones, passing webs, and real-time metrics.
Bram's eyes narrowed slightly. His body was sore, but his mind felt sharp — too sharp. Even without his system's aid, he could almost see where the rhythm had faltered.
Feine paused the replay.
"Here," he said, pointing to a frozen frame — A2's midfielder weaving past Bram. "Do you see it?"
Percy raised a hand. "He cut inside too early?"
Feine shook his head. "No. Bram's positioning forced him to. But Bram—" his gaze shifted toward him "—you were late by half a second."
Bram blinked. "Half a second?"
Feine nodded. "That's all it takes. Against A2, half a second is the difference between recovery and conceding."
He tapped the screen again, rewinding. "But this—" he froze the clip at the thirty-second mark of the final half "—this is why you're starting to matter in this team."
The replay showed Bram's last-minute equalizer: a blur of movement, a perfect read of chaos. Feine replayed it twice, then turned to him.
"I don't know how you saw that passing window," he said quietly, "but that kind of instinct… it can't be taught."
The others turned to look at Bram. Percy smirked faintly. "He's just weird like that."
"Not weird," Feine said. "Sharp." His gaze lingered on Bram for a moment longer. "Keep sharpening it — but don't burn it out trying to be everywhere at once."
Bram looked down. "Understood."
The next phase was slower, but not easier. The dome filled with the sound of boots against turf, the steady thud of passes, the rasp of controlled breathing.
Coach Marrow had assigned recovery drills mixed with vision conditioning — forcing players to track moving lights across the pitch while keeping ball control. It wasn't about speed today; it was about focus.
"React, don't think!" Marrow barked.
Bram weaved through the cones, his foot guiding the ball in perfect rhythm. Every step sent faint echoes up his calves. His mind replayed yesterday's match unconsciously — every turn, every breath, every decision.
The images flickered, faint and ghostly — his Replay Vision feeding him flashes from his memory. He gritted his teeth as his head pulsed faintly. Not now. Not too much.
[Host exceeding neural limit. Recommend cooldown.]
"Yeah, yeah, I'm almost done," he muttered.
A whistle blew. professor Marrow voice cut across the dome. "Enough! Stretch and cool down."
Bram dropped to one knee, breathing hard. Percy jogged over, tossing him a bottle. "Still alive?"
"Barely," Bram said, catching it.
Percy chuckled. "Man, I don't get how you do that thing — the way you predict passes before they even happen. It's freaky."
"Just practice," Bram lied smoothly.
Percy squinted. "Uh-huh. Sure. Practice."
Before he could press further, professor Marrow whistle blew again. "All right, class B am leaving the rest to your assigned coaches " he said, crossing his arms.
Feine called B7 "Listen up. The next match is in three days. Opponent: B-8."
A low murmur rippled through the team. B-8 stronger than B6, but they were notoriously unpredictable — fast, erratic, and dangerous when under pressure.
Feine continued, "They're compact and rely on counter bursts. Not powerful, but relentless. They'll punish hesitation."
He turned toward Bram and Percy. "You two — midfield link as usual. Bram, focus on reading their rotations. Percy, cover the gaps."
Percy nodded. "Got it."
Bram met Feine's gaze. "And if they change formation mid-game?"
Feine's lips curved slightly. "Then you adapt. I trust you to see what others can't."
Bram froze for a moment. There was something almost knowing in that tone — not suspicion, exactly, but curiosity.
Then it was gone. Feine turned away.
"Dismissed. Review clips by tonight. Tomorrow we focus on transitions."
Evening — Dorm Balcony
The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain. Bram leaned against the railing, gazing over the training towers.
He could still feel the phantom pulse in his head — the dull echo of yesterday's overuse. But alongside it came that quiet satisfaction — 26% synchronization. One step closer.
[Host performed admirably. Replay Vision adaptation rate improving. Estimated full sync: Undetermined.]
"Undetermined?" he murmured.
[External variables prevent stable projection. Host's environment remains dynamic — beneficial for growth.]
Bram smirked faintly. "So you're saying I'm unpredictable."
[Affirmative.]
He chuckled softly. "Guess that makes two of us."
Below, the pitch lights blinked off one by one, leaving the academy shrouded in soft silver and shadow.
Tomorrow would bring preparation, drills, and the next test —B-8, the fast, chaotic class that never stayed still.
But for now, he just watched the lights fade, eyes half-closed, replaying that equalizer once more — the instant where time slowed, and he'd found clarity in chaos.
The next few days slipped by quietly, though the academy's halls were anything but calm.
Rumors had a way of spreading fast in the Academy. And this one… was thunder.
"They said he's leaving at the end of the year which is one in month time." "No way, Gareth Ashcroft? The Lynel?" "Solaris Prime scouted him—one of Arathia's top clubs!"
Bram heard it everywhere — whispered between lockers, murmured during breakfast, even echoing through the training dome before drills. His brother's name hung in the air like a banner, both heavy and blinding.
Lynel, the prodigy of the academy. Captain of year 3 Class SS-1. The golden boy everyone looked up to — and the shadow Bram had lived under since the day he first kicked a ball.
During the afternoon break, Percy was watching highlights of the third-years' match. Bram sat close to Percy as he saw the match.
On the pitch, Gareth was poetry in motion. Every touch had purpose, every pass tore through defenders like wind slicing through silk. When he scored, it wasn't just a goal — it was an announcement. Calm. Certain. Beautiful.
Even Percy went quiet. Bram watched in silence, his hands tightening around the railing. For a moment.
"He's really going," Percy murmured."...Yeah." "You think you'll ever face him, before he leaves?" Bram's eyes followed the arc of the ball. "Maybe one day."
When the match ended, Gareth raised a hand toward the stands — not to the crowd, but to someone beyond them. Scouts, rumored to be hidden among the instructors. No one knew who they were. No one ever did. They simply appeared. Watched. Chose. And vanished.
By evening, the academy's atmosphere had shifted. Students trained harder. Talked less. Eyes were sharper — not just for the league, but for those unseen watchers in the crowd.
Later that night, Bram walked along the glass bridge that linked the dormitory towers. The sky above was clear, twin moons bright enough to paint silver lines across the glass floors.
Footsteps approached — light, measured, almost musical. He turned slightly, and froze.
The princess.
Even in the soft light, her presence was unmistakable. Graceful posture, pale hair tied loosely, the faint shimmer of her academy crest — Girls Class A1.
For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Then she smiled faintly, a calm curve of her lips. "You're Bram Ashcroft, right?"
"Y-Yeah," he said quickly, straightening. "I didn't expect you to—uh—know my name."
Her gaze was steady, though not unkind. "I watched your last match. Against… A-2 ."
She paused, as if choosing her words carefully. "You play differently. Not just with strength — but with something else."
He blinked. "Something else?"
She tilted her head, the moonlight catching her eyes. "You see things before they happen, don't you?"
The words hit too close. Bram's pulse stuttered. "…I just watch a lot," he said quickly, forcing a grin.
The princess smiled again — soft, knowing. "Then keep watching. The field always tells a story… if you can read it."
She walked past him, her steps fading down the bridge, leaving Bram staring after her.
For some reason, his chest felt tight — not from nerves, but from something heavier. Expectation. Possibility. The kind that burned.
That night, as he lay staring at the dorm ceiling, Gareth's name and the princess's words tangled in his thoughts.
"Keep watching…"
Tomorrow, training would begin again. And soon, another match — another chance to prove he could stand on his own, beyond anyone's shadow.