The morning sun rose like a molten coin over the Royal Academy of Arathia, spilling golden light across Training Grounds Alpha, Beta, and Gamma, now transformed into something far more sinister than training fields.
Overnight, automated drones had restructured the pitches into segmented arenas of pain.
No longer were these open spaces for warm-ups or drills.
These were battlefields, and today was the Class Placement Trial, a single day that would decide who belonged among future legends… and who would be cast out before they even began.
By dawn's break, every first-year boy stood in formation along the outer rim of Arena Prime, a circular pitch enclosed by towering transparent walls that pulsed with glowing runes. Above it hovered a colossal holographic scoreboard split into four vertical bars: A, B, C, D —each flickering with cold energy like dormant lightning. Beneath them: thousands of blank name slots waiting to be filled… or erased.
A hush fell as Headmaster Veylan Arcrest appeared on an elevated dais forged from obsidian stone. Behind him stood seven elite instructors clad in black coats lined with silver piping, the Selection Committee, and beside them loomed Coach Darius Marrow, his scarred face lit by anticipation.
"Yesterday," Veylan's voice thundered across the grounds through sonic amplifiers embedded in stone pillars, "you were students."
"Today, you are candidates."
He raised one hand toward the sky, and above Arena Prime burst open a massive projection screen showing footage from past trials:
Clips flashed—one boy collapsing mid-dribble as data streams scrolled beside him labeling "Mental Fatigue Level 9." Another tackled violently by three opponents at once while red warnings blinked overhead: [Excessive aggression detected – No penalty]. A third screamed after failing ten straight passes under pressure sensors designed to measure nerve stability. Then came scenes from last year's Class A final trial—a lone player surviving alone against nine defenders for twenty minutes straight until victory triggered confetti cannons shaped like footballs raining down gold dust over his head.
"The Placement Trial is not about teamwork," Veylan declared flatly. "It is not about passing glory around until someone feels good."
"This is survival."
"In this world," he continued slowly, "nobility isn't inherited through bloodlines alone, it's earned on this pitch." His eyes swept across their faces, one lingering just slightly too long on Bram Ashcroft before moving forward, "You will enter alone. You will play only for yourself."
"You must prove you belong—not because your name carries weight... but because your foot can crush dreams."
Then came the twist:
"On this stage… there are no friends."
"There are no brothers."
"And there is only one rule:"
"Elimination Through Failure."
THE TRIAL STRUCTURE (Male Division)
Duration: Five grueling hours
Format:
All first-year boys compete simultaneously within interconnected zones.
Players assigned randomized ID bands tracking performance via Cerebrox Sync-Bands.
Every five minutes, stats update live on public display boards located throughout campus—including dormitories and cafeterias.
Zones:
Zone X (Crossfire Gauntlet): Individual ball control under constant psychological disruption — flashing lights simulate crowd hostility; speakers blast insults tailored to personal insecurities using AI-parsed background data (family status → "Weak-blood bastard!", skill level → "Ashcroft shame!")
Zone Y (One-on-One Colosseum): Continuous duel circuits — winner stays; loser drops points based on margin of defeat
Zone Z (Red Core Endurance Maze): A labyrinthine track combining sprinting intervals with rapid decision-making drills while being hunted by drone-defenders programmed to physically obstruct movement
Each zone contributed weighted scores determining final class rank—but failure anywhere could cost everything.
And most dangerous?
At any time during active gameplay...
Randomized Elimination Challenges may trigger without warning—if failed within time limit = automatic placement in D-class & expulsion announcement mid-trial via public broadcast tower sound systems heard kingdom-wide
Silence stretched long after Veylan finished speaking.
Then—the whistle blew.
Not soft or ceremonial, but sharp enough to rattle teeth deep inside skulls—and all at once—
Chaos erupted
---
As players scattered toward starting gates marked with individual codes matching their wristbands' frequency keys,
Bram swallowed hard beneath his breathless calm facade, he looked down at his glowing Cerebrox band—
[System Notification Activated]
NEW MISSION UNLOCKED!
Right, Bram thought, shaking a hint of nervousness off. First thing's first.
Quest Activated: Trial Tier Completion
Reward: ???
Objective 1: Reach the end of the first Zone.
"Piece of cake," Bram whispered, even as Zone X unleashed wave upon wave of flashing lights and AI-adaptive insults—now tailored to his deepest insecurities. He felt his chest tighten, a cold whisper echoing in his head.
Bram blinked at the System's words. A mission? So it wasn't just a passive observer after all.
No shortcuts, huh? Bram thought wryly. Then he set his jaw, staring into the first arena.
"Let's do this."
Bram stepped into the opening gates, the weight of his own hopes and doubts pressing on his chest. From the first step into Zone X, he felt a wave of psychic pressure—like a thousand whispered insults echoing right in his mind.
He gritted his teeth, the System's words replaying in his mind:
"Show us what you're born for, Bram."
Ignore the noise, Bram thought, breaking into a sprint. The Zone's walls flashed around him, a dizzying array of light and color. But even on the move, the insults persisted...
"Bram Ashcroft!" a voice boomed from unseen speakers. "Weakling ash-born!"
Bram gritted his teeth. His pace wasn't even top-end, yet the comments stung like whips.
"Bram muttered under his breath, fingers curling into fists. "Not again. Not this time."
The AI-generated taunts kept firing, relentless, surgical:
"Bram Ashcroft: Zero influence. Even his own father didn't watch him train."
"Ashcroft's forgotten son, what a joke to think you belong here!"
"You weren't even wanted in your first life… do you really think this one will change that?"
Each barb struck like a needle to the heart.
His steps faltered.
A flicker of panic sparked behind his ribs—the old fear, the ghost of Bram Nolan, who had died unnoticed on rain-slicked asphalt with dreams still clenched in his fists.
But then—
[System Interrupt Triggered]
The voice was sharp and sassy—glitchy like a corrupted pop anthem—but it cut through the mental storm like thunder cracking open sky.
It was him. System.
Mini-Quest Update: Mental Fortress Breach – Survive Zone X Without Collapse
Time Remaining: 4 min / 5 min (Extended due to psychological resistance bonus)
Passive Boost Active: +10% Composure (Temporary)
A soft blue aura shimmered around Bram's eyes for half a second—barely visible, and just like that… the voices dulled. Not gone, but distant now, echoing underwater instead of screaming inside his skull.
He gasped—and pushed forward.
---
ZONE X – CROSSFIRE GAVEL
This wasn't just about dribbling under pressure—it was about maintaining focus while every emotional weakness was weaponized against him by AI-powered neural disruptors installed beneath the pitch surface and ceiling rings above.
Dozens of boys staggered through similar trials—one collapsed entirely after seeing holograms of their parents shaking their heads in disgust; another broke down crying when false reports claimed he'd already been expelled; some turned violent out of humiliation and were immediately flagged for conduct violation penalties (-20 points).
But Bram?
He stayed upright—not because he felt strong…
…but because something deeper roared back at every lie whispered into his ears:
I may not be special, he thought as sweat stung his eyes, but I've loved football longer than any rule ever taught me how to play.
One hand low on hip.
Breath ragged.
Legs burning from sprint intervals between ball traps.
He dodged red laser grids simulating tackles while completing timed touch patterns inside shifting tiles, all while keeping possession with only outside-of-the-boot control (a trick taught during late-night Premier League rewinds in past life).
Then—
[Success!] Zone X Completed, Entry Ticket Generated for Zone Y
And overhead, at last, a name blinked onto one corner of Arena Prime's central leaderboard:
BRAM ASHCROFT, STATUS ACTIVE SCORE PROVISIONAL
Not high up.
Nowhere near top ten.
But active. Still fighting.
Across the field—from where Lucien Ashcroft effortlessly sliced through dual drones using precision heel-flicks—one golden eyebrow twitched downward at seeing it happen first from this brother? From Bram, shame-of-the-house?
Gareth smirked coldly before whispering into wrist mic:
"Let's see how long he lasts when someone breaks him."
---
ZONE Y – ONE-ON-ONE COLOSSEUM
Ten circular micro-pitches lined up side by side—glass-domes suspended over electrified platforms so clear they looked painted over fire pits below. Inside each stood two players facing off in pure duels—with audience balconies circling them where upper-year students leaned forward eagerly watching future talent crack under isolation stress testing protocols used only during placement trials since Legendary-era reformations nearly fifty years ago.
Here—you couldn't hide behind numbers or systems anymore:
It was player vs player,
mind vs instinct,
ego vs survival reflexes...
Randomized pairing announcements blared across arena speakers:
"Match 38: Callen Ward (Common Lineage - D4 District) vs Lucien Ashcroft" (Crowd gasps)
"Match 62: Theron Valek – A noble boy from one of the top families... BRAM ASHCROFT"
Silence fell briefly on sector seven as many turned heads toward Bram, who froze mid-step stepping off Platform Five after clearing Zone X faster than expected given baseline metrics predicted failure within three minutes due to lackluster agility score (Agility: 50 / Strength Threshold Required for Colosseum Entry Phase A 78+).
Yet here he stood—with luck? Or something…?
The System didn't answer—but Bram felt it humming beneath his skin, like a second heartbeat syncing with the stadium's pulse.
Theron Valek.
Even Bram knew that name.
Former Eastern Academy Ace. age thirteen.
Kicked out of the Eastern Royals Academy for brawling with three coaches after being benched during finals, "because I don't play nice," he'd said in his viral expulsion interview, grinning like a wolf mid-interview flameout.
Rumored to have once broken an opponent's ankle during practice and then asked if he could borrow their cleats afterward.
And now? He stood across Zone Y's Match Platform Six, a jagged oval ring encased in sound-dampening glass, with arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, looking more bored than dangerous… until he turned his head and locked eyes with Bram.
A slow smirk crawled across Theron's face—one that said: You're not even meat. You're the napkin I wipe my boots on.
[System Alert]
Opponent Analysis: Theron "The Guillotine" Valek — Survival Instinct Rank | Aggression Index: MAX | Weakness: Unknown (Data Encrypted)
"Ooooh~ This one smells like chaos. Don't die before it gets fun!" –
Bram swallowed dryly as they stepped onto the pitch—no handshakes, no rules explained aloud; everyone here knew them by instinct:
One ball.
No teammates.
Win by dispossessing or scoring within five minutes.
Loser drops points based on dominance margin recorded via motion-tracking nanofilms laced into uniforms.
Winner stays until challenged again—back-to-back duels stack endurance penalties unless replenished via hydration drones between rounds (which cost ranking points to activate).
Whistle blew.
And instantly—Theron charged, not toward Bram—but directly at where the ball would be passed from referee drone launcher… intercepting it mid-air with a brutal knee trap before pivoting in under two seconds flat and sprinting full tilt toward Bram's goal line.
No warm-up.
No testing pace.
Just violence wrapped in football boots.
Bram barely reacted in time—diving sideways to block shot trajectory—
BOOM!
Ball rocketed past him so fast air pressure stung his cheek—and exploded against netting behind goalpost with such force sparks flew from containment field sensors ringing platform edges!
Only six seconds had passed since kick-off—and already Bram was down mentally if not on scoreboard yet…
But deep inside him?
Something stirred—not fear…
...but recognition:
This wasn't just about skill anymore.
It was about survival of self—the boy who died unseen fighting for rebirth as someone worth remembering...
So when referee signaled restart—he didn't look up at Theron smirking again…
He looked down—at his glowing Cerebrox band…
…and whispered:
"I'm still here."
Then took position—for what came next wouldn't be pretty…
But it would be his fight.
(To be continued Zone Y – Duel Phase Two begins)
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