The morning breeze carried the faint chill of autumn through the academy grounds. The air smelled of wet grass and sun-warmed iron — the scent of matches, of tension, of everything that had brought Class B-7 this far.
four matches had passed since their draw against A-2. And now, only two remained.
Bram stood at the edge of the practice field, eyes half-lidded, watching his teammates warm up. The sound of boots striking the ball echoed across the turf. Percy laughed somewhere near midfield, chasing Daren's chipped pass. Kael Tills stretched silently, his focus sharp as ever. Mhed, the goalkeeper, leaned against the post, gloves dangling loose, watching the others with a small grin.
Everything looked normal — but Bram could feel it. The atmosphere was different.
It wasn't just another game. It was the last step before the mountain.
Their next opponent, Class D-16, wasn't particularly strong on paper, but everyone knew what was at stake. One misstep here, and their climb would end. One victory, and they'd walk into the final match against A-1.
Bram exhaled slowly, stretching his neck. His body felt heavier than usual — the fatigue had been building. The more he used Replay Vision, the more it took from him. But even now, that faint hum pulsed somewhere deep behind his eyes.
[Synchronization: 29%][Vision: +1]
His limit was close, but he wasn't going to stop.
"Hey," Percy called, jogging over, hair sticking to his forehead. "You're zoning out again."
Bram blinked and smiled faintly. "Just thinking."
Percy squinted. "You've been 'just thinking' before every match lately. Don't tell me you're nervous?"
"Not nervous," Bram said quietly, adjusting his wristband. "Just focused."
Daren jogged over, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Focused, huh? You mean brooding."
Bram glanced at him, unimpressed. "You call everything brooding."
"Because it usually is," Daren shot back. "Anyway, let's finish this one quick. I'm not letting A-1 steal the spotlight next week."
His grin widened, but there was something sincere under it — a shared fire. Everyone felt it.
They had fought, bled, and climbed together. This wasn't just about points anymore. It was about proving they belonged among the elite.
When Feine approached, the noise on the field quieted instantly. His tone was calm, but the weight in his voice made everyone straighten.
"D-16 may not be A-1," he began, "but they've improved. They've got speed on the flanks.
Don't underestimate them."
His eyes swept the team, pausing briefly on Bram. "You've all come far. But remember—momentum is fragile. You drop it here, you won't get it back in time."
Bram nodded slightly, and so did the others.
Feine's voice lowered, softer but firmer. "Play smart. Play together. And for god's sake, don't lose focus."
He turned, whistled once, and the scrimmage began.
The training session felt sharper than usual — every pass, every press, every tackle carried an edge. Felix's defensive timing had become razor precise. Callen had stopped overcommitting and started reading the field like Bram. Percy's midfield play had matured — less flashy, more calculated. Even Daren, whose confidence sometimes tipped toward arrogance, was finding balance between instinct and teamwork.
It was the kind of cohesion you only get after fighting side by side through chaos.
Halfway through training, a sudden voice broke the rhythm.
"B-7's sharper than last month," someone murmured from behind the stands.
Bram turned his head slightly.
Two figures stood there, silhouettes against the fading sun — one tall, wearing the insignia of Class A-1, arms folded across his chest. The other, shorter, leaned on the railing beside him.
Lucian Ashcroft. And beside him, Theron Valek.
Lucian's calm gaze met Bram's from across the field — no expression, no smile, just quiet acknowledgment.
It lasted only a second. Then Lucian turned and walked away.
Theron stayed a heartbeat longer, smirking faintly before following.
Bram's pulse quickened, but he didn't show it. He returned to the drill, his passes cleaner, sharper. Percy noticed the sudden change and grinned. "Someone's fired up."
Bram didn't answer, but his next shot struck the net with brutal precision.
That evening, the sky burned orange over the academy as the team packed up. They'd trained past sunset, but no one complained.
While the others talked and laughed, Bram sat alone on the edge of the bleachers, water bottle in hand, eyes on the empty pitch.
He could still feel Lucian's gaze — calm, commanding, distant. They hadn't spoken in years. Not since the day Bram had been left behind.
"You're not ready to follow me."
Those words still echoed in his mind, buried under every victory he'd fought for since.
The faint hum of the System pulsed again behind his eyes, like a heartbeat whispering through static.
[I hope the host is ready to face A1]
Bram closed his eyes and smiled faintly.
"I'm ready now," he muttered.
And in that quiet moment, the wind carried across the field — the sound of distant cheers, faint echoes of the coming storm.
The air inside the east dome was heavy with noise. D-16's supporters chanted from the upper stands — loud, restless, defiant.
B-7's corner of the arena was also chanting, their voices carried deeper, steadier.
This wasn't a rivalry match. It felt like one.
Bram stood at midfield, rolling his shoulders, eyes fixed on the pitch lines. The grass shimmered under the sunlight filtering through the dome's glass roof. His teammates formed up behind him — Percy to his left, Daren ahead, Felix and Callen in the back, Mhed crouched low near goal.
He blinked once, pushing the faint static from his head aside.
The whistle pierced the air. D-16 started aggressive, their midfield trio closing in fast. The ball zipped between their players in short bursts, testing B-7's shape.
Bram tracked the movement with cold precision — no guessing, just reading.
"Percy, left!" he called.
Percy shifted instantly, cutting off the passing lane. D-16's winger tried to drag it wide — only to meet Felix's firm shoulder and lose balance.
B-7 regained possession.
Bram received the ball under pressure, turned smoothly, and slipped it through two defenders toward Daren. Daren sprinted, but the opposing keeper anticipated, diving early to block the shot.
"Too quick," Daren hissed as he jogged back.
"Patience," Bram said, voice calm.
D-16 adapted fast. They started hitting long balls down the right, exploiting Callen's slower recovery pace. One diagonal pass nearly connected — Mhed had to dive and punch it clear.
The stands erupted. Feine's voice echoed from the sideline: "Tighten the backline!"
Bram's eyes flicked across the field. D-16's shape had changed — a false-nine drop, a forward pulling defenders out. Smart. Dangerous.
He inhaled sharply, focusing — activating Replay Vision for a split second.
The world slowed. Every motion painted trails — angles, velocities, shifting intent.
He saw the trap forming: D-16's midfield pressing high to bait their defense wide before switching play left.
His temples pulsed — and — he moved first.
He cut the passing lane, intercepted, and drove forward with the ball. Percy caught on immediately, running beside him.
"Switch!" Bram said.
Percy took the pass, crossed early — a low ball curling into the box. Daren lunged — tap! — but the keeper blocked again.
"Damn it!" Daren shouted.
Bram exhaled through his nose. "Next one."
20'
The match's rhythm began to crack.
D-16's captain — a tall boy named Kieran Volte — started dictating their tempo, threading passes through tight gaps. He wasn't flashy, but efficient — like a metronome of pressure.
At 22', B-7's line faltered for half a second. Kieran exploited it — chipped a perfect through-ball into the box. Their striker met it with a flying header.
Goal.
1-0 to D-16.
The crowd roared. Bram clenched his jaw — not in anger, but calculation. He looked to Mhed, who nodded back firmly. "We're fine."
Felix gritted his teeth. "We push higher?"
Bram nodded. "We match their press."
The whistle signaled halftime three minutes later — B-7 trailing by one.
Inside the rest area, no one spoke for a moment. The sound of their breathing filled the small locker space.
Feine dropped the holographic tactics board on the table. "They're overloading our left. Callen, shift tighter. Felix, cover space when they draw you out. Bram—"
"I know," Bram interrupted softly. "We flip the rhythm."
Feine's brow rose slightly, but he nodded. "Then do it."
Second Half — 30'
B-7 returned sharper.
From kickoff, Bram held the ball, slowing everything. One touch, two touches, a pause — forcing D-16 to commit. Then suddenly — snap! — the tempo changed.
Percy darted forward, Daren curved around the last defender. Bram feinted a pass right, slipped left instead — a diagonal that split the midfield like a crack of light.
Daren received it and shot — blocked again — but the rebound spilled to Percy.
Goal.
1-1.
The roar from B-7's corner shook the stands. Percy grinned, pointing toward Bram. "That one's yours!"
Bram smiled faintly, wiping sweat from his face. The ache in his temples returned, but lighter now — bearable.
45'
The final minutes were chaos.
D-16 refused to fall. They pushed harder, trading tackles and long shots. B-7 countered with discipline — Felix intercepting everything, Mhed diving to save a curling shot in the 55th minute that could've ended it.
Bram's body screamed with exhaustion, but his mind stayed clear. Replay Vision flickered at the edge of his perception — tempting.
No. Not yet.
He forced himself to rely on instinct — pure reading, unassisted. Every breath felt like fire, but every decision counted.
58'. D-16 launched one final surge.
Their midfielder broke through center, two defenders out of position. Bram sprinted back — legs heavy, lungs burning — and slid in from behind, clean, taking the ball without a foul.
The crowd gasped.
He stood, steadied himself, and launched a through-ball straight upfield. Percy caught it, ran the clock, and when the whistle blew — the score still stood 1-1.
The players collapsed where they stood. It wasn't victory — but it was enough.
Another point. Another climb.
And one match left.
Bram wiped his forehead, gaze drifting toward the far exit of the dome — where, in the crowd's blur, he thought he saw Lucian's silhouette again, watching silently before turning away.