The afternoon sun hung low above Arathia Royal Academy, scattering long streaks of gold across the marble paths. Students poured toward the central arena in a steady stream, laughter and chatter echoing off the walls.
For once, it wasn't about them. Today belonged to the Year Threes — the final-year elites, the ones closest to stepping into Arathia's professional leagues.
"Man, the crowd's huge," Daren muttered, craning his neck.
Bram walked quietly in the middle of his team, hands in his pockets. Every shout of his brother's name seemed to echo inside him.
Percy elbowed him lightly. "Guess your brother's kind of a big deal." Bram only smiled faintly.
The air smelled of roasted nuts and dust — students selling snacks, others arguing over who'd score first.
As they neared the arena steps, a sudden hush rolled over the crowd. A group of instructors passed by, followed by a few figures in sleek dark coats — strangers, eyes hidden behind shaded lenses.
"Scouts," Callen whispered. No one needed to confirm it. The tension in the air said enough.
The stadium was alive. Every seat filled, every eye focused on the green field below. The banners of Class SS-1 and their rivals A-1 waved like battle flags.
Bram and the rest of B-7 found seats high in the middle row. The air buzzed with energy. On the field, Gareth and his teammates were warming up — fluid, sharp, effortless. Every movement carried the calm of mastery.
Daren leaned forward, eyes wide. "Is that him? Your brother?" "Yeah," Bram said softly. "Number 8. The one with the armband."
Gareth's posture was unmistakable — back straight, presence commanding, eyes scanning the field with quiet control.
He turned once, glancing toward the stands. For a split second, his gaze found Bram's. Then he smiled — a small, confident grin that said everything: Watch me.
The referee's whistle pierced the noise. Instantly, the game came alive.
SS-1 started with possession. Gareth dropped back, collecting the ball from midfield, moving with elegant control. Every touch was minimal — as if the ball obeyed him without effort.
"Pass — shift — turn," Percy murmured under his breath, studying." They're already rotating shape," Callen added. "That's… ridiculous."
Gareth sent a long diagonal pass — cutting through the defense to reach their winger. The touch was instant. The winger crossed. SS-1's striker met it with a diving header — just wide.
The crowd gasped. Thirty seconds in, and the message was clear: This was a different level.
SS-1's rhythm was like watching art in motion. Every player seemed to anticipate the next pass before it was even made.
A-1 fought hard — their defense compact, their captain barking orders — but Gareth orchestrated everything from midfield, his passes threading impossible gaps.
At the 9th minute, he intercepted a pass mid-air, twisting mid-spin to volley it forward. The ball didn't even touch the ground — straight to his winger's path. "Holy…" Daren whispered. "He didn't even look."
Gareth continued moving, hand signaling, shifting the tempo.
At 12', SS-1 built up through the center again. A quick one-two, Gareth feinted left, drawing two defenders before flicking the ball backward to his forward. The striker unleashed a curving shot —Goal!
The dome erupted. Students jumped, shouted, drums thundered from the stands.1–0.
Gareth raised his hand slightly, calm amid chaos. No wild celebration — just quiet authority.
Bram's chest swelled. That was his brother — and also the gap between them.
But A-1 weren't pushovers. They regrouped, playing deep and fast. Their captain, a tall midfielder named Rorik, began pressing higher, testing Gareth's control.
At 19', A-1 launched a counter. Their winger cut in, passed to Rorik — a low strike aimed for the corner. The SS-1 keeper dived — too late.
Goal!
1–1.
The match exploded again.
Gareth clapped twice, calling his teammates into formation. No panic, no argument. Just focus.
At the 23rd minute, Gareth began dictating again. He started walking slower — baiting the press — then, with a sudden burst, turned and dribbled between two defenders. A perfect fake. He looked up — saw the gap.
A slicing through-ball rolled perfectly to the striker's feet. Touch — shot — goal.
2–1.
This time Gareth smiled, glancing toward the scouts' section.
Halftime passed quickly. When they returned, A-1 had shifted formation — more aggressive now, trying to isolate Gareth.
They failed.
At 38', he intercepted again. At 42', he broke through the line. At 47', he sent a pass so precise it curved around a defender's heel and rolled between two others to reach his winger.
And at 50', it happened.
Gareth received a pass deep in midfield, two players closing in. He didn't pass. He advanced, calm, eyes bright. A flick with the outside of his boot — ball up. A twist of his body — volley.
The ball flew — dipping, curling — slamming into the top corner.3–1.
The dome shook with noise. Students screamed his name. Even the instructors were smiling.
On the sidelines, Bram stood without realizing it, staring at the field in stunned silence.
Full-time.3–1.
SS-1 victorious.
As the whistle blew, Gareth raised his hands to the roaring stands. His teammates crowded him, lifting him high.
From the far bench, the scouts stood, nodding quietly before leaving.
Bram's fists clenched unconsciously. The fire in his chest flared again.
Soon.
The crowd roared one last time as Gareth Ashcroft raised his hand toward the stands. The stadium lights caught his figure — tall, composed, radiant beneath the shimmer of the academy's evening glow. His teammates from the senior class wrapped their arms around him, shouting their victory chant, their energy filling the air like fire and thunder.
From the student section, Bram stood still. His teammates — Percy, Daren, Felix, and the rest of B-7 — were on their feet, shouting, whistling, cheering like every other soul in the dome. But Bram's eyes were fixed on only one person.
Gareth.
He didn't smile. Didn't wave. Just stood there quietly as his older brother walked across the field, surrounded by teammates and coaches, basking in glory that felt impossibly far away. The contrast between them — one celebrated as the academy's brightest jewel, the other still climbing — pressed down on Bram like invisible weight.
"Man, he's insane…" Percy muttered beside him, voice half awe, half disbelief. "That last goal — did you see how he pulled that off with one touch?"
"Three defenders, and he still curved it in," Daren added, shaking his head. "No wonder Solaris Prime scouted him."
The name alone drew murmurs from everyone nearby. The rumor wasn't rumor anymore — it was truth. Arathia's top-tier powerhouse club had officially signed Gareth Ashcroft. He'd be leaving after the semester ended.
Felix leaned back with a smirk. "Guess talent runs in the family."
Bram didn't reply. He just kept his eyes on the field as the senior players exited through the tunnel. Gareth turned once — not to wave, not to call out — but his gaze brushed briefly across the stands. For the faintest second, Bram felt their eyes meet. Then the older boy looked away, following the others inside.
A strange, hollow ache swelled in his chest, something else — he couldn't name it.
The crowd began to thin, voices fading to background chatter. "Come on," Daren said, slapping Bram's shoulder. "We should get going before the cafeteria closes."
"Yeah," Bram answered distantly, watching the tunnel one more time before turning away.
They made their way down the corridors, the air outside cool and tinged with the scent of rain. The academy felt quieter now — the kind of quiet that comes after noise too big to follow.
As they reached the lower steps near the exit, someone called softly from behind.
"Bram."
He turned.
Elira stood there, still in her SS-Division uniform, her hair tied loosely behind her. The glow from the crystal lamps cast silver streaks across her face. She must have been at the match too.
"You watched it?" she asked, her tone calm, not teasing or proud — just simple.
He nodded. "Yeah."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Elira smiled faintly. "You've improved a lot."
Bram blinked, caught off guard. "You've been watching my matches?"
"Sometimes," she said. "They're hard to miss when your class keeps climbing the rankings."
There was quiet again — soft, but comfortable. The distant noise of students laughing drifted through the hallway.
"He'll be leaving soon," Elira said, referring to Gareth. "You should see that as an opening, not a shadow."
Bram looked away, eyes narrowing slightly. "An opening, huh?"
"Yes." She took a small step closer, her voice steady. "Because when someone leaves, it means there's room for another to rise."
The words hung in the air — simple, yet heavy with meaning. Then she turned, walking toward the upper halls.
"Goodnight, Bram maybe i will also be leaving soon."
He watched her go, her figure fading into the dim light of the corridor.
For a long moment, he stood there — the image of Gareth's final goal still looping in his mind, the cheers, the chants, the blinding light.
Then quietly, to himself, he murmured,"…Then I'll rise too."
Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far away — faint, but deep, as if the world itself had heard his vow.
The dormitory halls were mostly dark by the time Bram returned. Rain had begun to fall, tapping gently against the glass windows, soft and rhythmic — almost like a whisper. Most students were already asleep, their laughter and chatter replaced by the muffled hum of distant thunder.
He stepped inside his room, closing the door quietly behind him. The faint glow of the crystal lamp filled the space — his bed unmade, boots by the wall, and his academy uniform still half folded on the desk.
For a moment, Bram just stood there.
His eyes drifted to the small mirror above his desk — and to the reflection that stared back. Sweat had dried on his temples; his hair was a little messy; but his gaze... sharper than it had been weeks ago.
The image of Gareth's final goal replayed again in his mind — the effortless control, the power, the calm execution. Everything his brother did looked so easy, so inevitable.
He clenched his fists.
"Opening, not a shadow," she said.
Elira's voice echoed softly in his thoughts.
He sat down on the floor, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes. For a moment, there was only silence — then the faint hum of the system pulsed to life inside his head, subtle and cold like a ripple through his consciousness.
A translucent screen shimmered into view before him — only he could see it.
[ System Log – Replay Vision Synchronization Active ] Synchronization Rate: 26% Current Vision +2Warning: "Prolonged use without recovery increases neural fatigue." Fatigue Level: 14% (Minor Headache)
Bram exhaled quietly through his nose. The dull throb behind his eyes told him the warning wasn't exaggerated. Ever since the match against A2, he'd been pushing his Replay Vision harder — trying to mimic, trying to read, trying to catch up.
The ability had become more responsive — clearer. He could now anticipate patterns seconds before they unfolded, sense positioning from the faintest cues of body motion… but it came at a cost.
"I can't keep burning out before the next match."
He reached for the towel beside him and wiped his face, then stood, stretching his limbs slowly.
Outside, lightning flashed briefly, lighting up the wet training pitch through the window. It called to him — the empty field under the rain, the sound of droplets against turf, the solitude that made it perfect for focus.
He hesitated for only a moment, then grabbed his cloak and quietly stepped out.
The pitch was empty. The rain was steady now, thin and cold, glistening under the moonlight. Bram dropped the ball to the wet grass and began to move — slow at first, then faster, weaving between the ghost of opponents only he could see.
Each pass, each turn, each shift of weight was deliberate — a shadow of what he'd seen Gareth perform just hours ago. But this was his version. Rougher, rawer, still forming.
He stumbled once. Slipped once. Then steadied.
The Replay Vision flickered faintly before his eyes — half ghostly, half real — and a soft pulse of pain stabbed behind his temples. Still, he didn't stop.
When the fatigue grew too heavy, he rested his hands on his knees, breathing hard, the rain dripping from his hair.
"Not yet…" he whispered. "Not until I can stand on the same field."
He straightened, scooped up the ball, and glanced toward the academy towers — their crystal lights glowing faintly through the misty rain.
"seven matches left," he murmured. "Let's see how far I can go."
As he walked off the field, the rain finally began to ease — fading to a drizzle, like the world itself holding its breath for what was coming next.