Morning sunlight spilled gently through the curtains of Dorm Block B, tracing golden lines across the floor. The rain from last night had stopped completely, leaving the air fresh and cool, with a faint glimmer still lingering on the academy lawns.
Bram sat by the window lacing his boots — the same old pair, still slightly worn at the edges. The Replay Vision's faint hum pulsed quietly beneath his thoughts, calmer now. It had synced more smoothly since his midnight session. The headache was gone, replaced by something else — focus.
The dorm was already alive. Daren's voice echoed from the hallway, half laughter, half bravado.
"I swear, today I'm scoring two. One for the team, one for the scouts!"
Percy leaned against the doorframe, smirking. "Scouts? You? The only scout watching you is Mhed, and that's because you keep missing easy passes."
Laughter rippled through the room. Even Bram smiled faintly, standing and slinging his training jacket over his shoulder.
They walked together toward the training dome, boots clicking softly on the marble floors. The hum of voices grew louder with each step — other teams gathering, students chattering about the weekend's matches, and rumors about Gareth's official signing spreading like wildfire.
"Still feels weird," Percy muttered beside Bram. "Your brother, gone to Solaris Prime… that's like a dream."
Bram nodded slightly. "Yeah… it is." His tone was calm, but something flickered beneath his words — determination mixed with quiet longing.
The moment they entered the preparation room, the atmosphere changed. B7's squad was already gearing up — jerseys hung on racks, the academy emblem glinting faintly under the lights. Feine stood before the whiteboard, his usual calm expression replaced with a rare spark of seriousness.
"Listen up." He tapped the board."B8 may not be A-class, but they're aggressive. Fast transitions, heavy pressing. They won't sit back."
He turned his gaze toward Bram. "Ashcroft, you'll anchor the midfield again. Keep the rhythm tight. Your control in the last match was solid — keep it that way."
Bram gave a short nod. "Understood."
Deron's gaze lingered for a moment — not suspicious, just cautious. He had seen that strange sharpness in Bram's eyes during games. The boy read situations like he'd lived them twice.
"Alright, you all know the plan," Deron continued. "We hold the middle, press their flanks, use Daren and Percy for quick exchanges. Let Bram dictate the pace. When the opening comes — take it."
The locker room buzzed with energy. Gloves tightened, boots thudded, heartbeats quickened.
Daren slapped Bram's shoulder as they walked out.
"Hey, genius. You ready to make the impossible pass again?"
Bram smirked faintly. "Only if you're ready to finish it."
The corridor opened up to the roar of the crowd — not as loud as when A-class played, but vibrant enough to fill the stadium air with heat. Students lined the stands, waving team scarves and shouting names.
Across the pitch, B8's team was already warming up — sharp, fast, brimming with confidence. Their captain, a tall midfielder with cropped silver hair, met Bram's gaze briefly and smiled like a predator sizing up its equal.
"B7! Formation ready!" called Feine
They took their positions. Mhed between the posts. Callen, Jory, and Felix locking down the defense. Percy just ahead. Bram in central focus — the eye of the storm. And Daren up front, stretching, impatient, ready to strike.
The whistle hovered near the referee's lips. Bram's breath slowed. His senses sharpened.
A faint glimmer of Replay Vision flickered at the edge of his perception — faint ghostlines showing player movement a second ahead, dim but visible. He didn't push it. Just observed.
The opening… wait for it…
Fweeeet!
The match began.
The sharp blast of the whistle split the air, and in an instant, boots struck turf and bodies surged into motion.
B8 didn't hesitate — their captain, the silver-haired midfielder, immediately sent the ball back to his defender and pushed forward, dragging the rest of his teammates high into B7's half. It was a full press right from the start.
The ball came back to their center-back, who switched it diagonally toward the left flank. The winger trapped it with a deft touch and accelerated. Felix, B7's left-back, moved in to meet him, lowering his stance.
A feint — a flick — and the winger slipped past. The crowd let out a murmur. Felix turned sharply and chased, but the winger's pace was electric. A quick pass inwards followed — a low drive toward the edge of the box.
Bram had already seen it. He'd noticed the winger glance sideways a heartbeat before the pass — a tell of direction. His body was already leaning the right way before the ball even came.
He darted in, intercepting just as the B8 midfielder lunged to receive. The impact jolted through his foot — the ball popped loose, rolling toward Percy.
"Percy!" Bram's voice cut through the rush.
Percy caught on fast. He trapped the ball with his instep and quickly shifted it back to Bram. Two B8 players converged immediately, pressing from both sides.
They're trying to pin me early, Bram thought.
He let the ball roll across his body, dropping his shoulder at the exact moment one opponent lunged. The faint flicker of Replay Vision whispered at the edge of his senses — the shadow of the opponent's leg sweeping in before it actually did.
Bram pivoted, the motion smooth and perfectly timed. The defender missed, stumbling past as Bram slipped between the gap and sent a firm pass forward to Daren.
Daren, already sprinting along the line, received it but had no space to turn. The B8 center-back marked him tight, their boots scraping. He tried to pivot out — the defender's arm pressed into his shoulder.
"Back!" Daren grunted.
Bram had anticipated it — he was already running into the open lane between Percy and Callen. The pass came fast; he didn't stop it, only redirected it with a first-time touch to Percy, who switched wide to Felix on the left.
Felix advanced cautiously, looking for an opening. B8's line stayed compact, disciplined. They'd studied B7's rhythm — no early breaks, no risky spacing.
Felix passed back to Bram. Bram looked up — three white jerseys in front of him. No clear lane.
He tapped it sideways to Percy again, then moved diagonally, receiving it once more. His eyes scanned the formation, quick and focused. The faint ache behind his temple pulsed — small, but noticeable. He ignored it.
He could see it — not clearly, not fully, but enough. B8's front press was slightly unbalanced, their right-back pushing too high. A gap flickered open and closed near the middle third.
There it is.
He stepped into the ball and fired a low ground pass that sliced through the midline — a calculated risk. The ball curved just ahead of Daren's stride.
Daren burst forward, brushing past his marker. The B8 defender lunged for a tackle, but the ball slipped through the narrow gap, bouncing once before Daren caught it with his right boot.
Cheers erupted.
But the silver-haired captain read the danger — he slid across the field in seconds, cutting in to intercept. The two collided shoulder to shoulder. The ball popped up and spun away.
Callen cleared it before B8 could counter, but the attack fizzled.
The first five minutes were done — a fast, tense start. Both teams feeling out the other, neither willing to yield.
Bram exhaled slowly, adjusting his breathing. His pulse was steady, but his mind buzzed. The vision flashes were faint but more stable now — brief shadows before a movement, hints of future motion in fragments.
He could tell when a pass would come, how a player leaned before cutting direction. It wasn't prediction — it was pattern.
Still, his head felt heavier each time he pushed the limit. Not yet, he reminded himself. Use it only when needed.
The ball returned to play from a throw-in. B8's tempo rose again — fast passes, tighter spacing. Their captain orchestrated everything, sharp and composed, always two steps ahead of his teammates.
B7 defended deep, staying compact. Percy and Bram rotated constantly, closing gaps, keeping the ball out of the central lane.
Then came a dangerous moment — a chipped ball over Callen's line.B8's striker broke free, sprinting straight toward goal.
"Mhed!" Bram shouted.
The keeper rushed out just as the striker went for a volley. The sound of leather striking leather cracked sharply — the ball flew high, spinning toward the top corner.
Mhed jumped — fingertips brushing the ball — and it struck the crossbar. The crowd gasped as it rebounded back into play.
Before B8 could react, Felix cleared it wide. Daren was already sprinting down the wing, signaling for a pass.
Bram received it and turned quickly — fatigue still manageable. His eyes tracked Daren, but the B8 defense had recovered fast. He decided otherwise.
One tap back to Percy. Percy lobbed it cross-field to Felix. Felix met it mid-run, chesting it down before sending a low diagonal toward the edge of the box.
Percy arrived at full pace — a first touch, then a powerful strike. The ball flew — a straight, tight line.
But the B8 keeper was sharp — diving left, fingertips pushing it out.
The stands erupted again — the tension already thick in the air.
Bram jogged back to position, heart thudding. The whistle for a corner came soon after. Percy jogged to take it.
Bram stood near the edge of the box, eyes fixed on the moving players — ghostlike flickers of prediction trailing faintly behind their real bodies.
Timing… momentum… movement pattern…
The ball curled in.
Daren jumped — missed. Felix tried a header — deflected. The ball bounced near Bram.
He lunged, meeting it with his instep — a quick half-volley. It flew low toward the near post.
It missed by inches, brushing the net's outer side.
Bram let out a slow breath and stepped back, sweat already forming along his temple. He wasn't frustrated — just calculating.
Fifteen minutes in. They press hard, but they leave space behind. Keep the rhythm. Wait for the crack.
The wind inside the dome shifted as the match rolled into its fifteenth minute. The tempo sharpened; every pass carried more bite.
B8 had found their rhythm again.
Their captain, Forga, dictated the play from midfield. He didn't shout much—he simply moved, and the rest followed like pieces drawn by gravity. Short touches. One-twos. Diagonal switches. Every pass hummed with purpose.
B7 chased shadows.
Percy lunged for an interception, missed by a hair. Callen shouted from the back line, "Hold shape! Don't bite!" But their opponents were already sliding the ball across the width, forcing B7 to keep running.
Bram's lungs burned slightly. His forehead throbbed with the faint pulse of strain—the cost of the flashes of Replay Vision he'd allowed himself.
For every blur of prediction he used, he bought half a second of advantage at the price of another ache behind his temples.
Still, he used it.
He saw Forga's body twist just before the pass came, and darted forward, intercepting cleanly. The crowd roared as he drove the ball ahead and cut through the center.
Daren made a run. Felix overlapped. Percy sprinted down the right.
It was perfect motion—until Forga appeared again.
The B8 captain slid in from the blind side, stealing the ball mid-stride. Bram stumbled, catching his balance just as Forga flicked the ball away and started a counter.
Two touches later, B8 were back at the edge of the box.
"Track him!" Bram yelled, pointing left—but Jory was half a second late.
The winger curved inside, beating Callen with a step-over. A sharp pass across the face of goal followed.
Mhed dove, fingers brushing air—too slow.
The ball slammed into the bottom corner.1 – 0.
For a moment, the world dimmed.
The stands erupted in noise; white and green banners fluttered. B8's bench jumped to their feet, roaring approval.
Bram stayed still. His right hand rested on his knee, breath heavy, pulse hammering behind his eyes.
He replayed the sequence in his head—saw the fraction of a second he hesitated, the moment he'd ignored the flash of motion on his left. He could have stopped it.
"Bram!" Percy's voice cut through the noise, firm but steady. "Shake it off. Still time."
Bram nodded once, straightened, and jogged back to the center. Still time indeed—fifteen minutes before halftime.
From the restart, B7 moved differently. Slower, but sharper. They no longer chased everything; they read the lanes.
Bram stopped using his vision for prediction, relying purely on instinct and experience. The headache eased, and the flow began to return.
He drifted deeper, playing short passes with Percy and Felix to steady the rhythm. B8 pressed, but not as tightly—they'd started conserving energy, protecting their lead.
Then came a chance.
Percy intercepted a pass near the halfway line and immediately switched it to Bram. Bram turned, saw Daren cutting diagonally, and lifted a through-ball over the back line.
Daren got there first, muscling past the defender, but his shot flew just over the bar.
The sigh from the crowd was collective—hope mixed with tension.
28th minute.
Bram winced slightly. Sweat rolled down his jaw, stinging his eyes. His mind felt heavy, but his heartbeat was calm again. The replay flashes had faded completely now—just him and the game.
He looked toward the far end where Forga stood, still dictating calmly, his expression unreadable.
He's good, Bram admitted inwardly. But not untouchable.
The whistle blew soon after for halftime.
Inside the locker room, the air was thick with the scent of sweat and turf. No one spoke for the first minute.
Mhed sat with his gloves off, staring at the floor. Felix leaned back against the wall, breathing slow. Percy sat beside Bram, wiping his face with a towel.
Feine stood in front of them, arms crossed, eyes cold but not angry."You're not outmatched," he said finally. "You're out-paced. Stop reacting and start forcing them to react. Use your shape. Make them chase for once."
He looked at Bram. "You feel it too, don't you? The rhythm. It's there—trust it."
Bram raised his head slightly, meeting Feine's gaze. "Yeah."
"Then use it. Second half—different story."
Feine turned and left the players to breathe.
Bram leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His towel slipped from his neck.
The faint hum of energy in his head was gone. Only fatigue remained—a dull heaviness that wasn't unpleasant. He could think clearly again.
Percy nudged him with a grin. "Don't overthink it. We'll take them apart this half."
Bram smirked faintly. "We'd better."
From outside, the muffled cheer of the crowd swelled again. Thirty minutes left to turn it around.
He stood, rolled his shoulders, and walked toward the tunnel with the others.