The second phase's timer fluttered to life as soon as the referee's whistle blew—two minutes and thirty seconds.
Theron's smirk twitched—and this time as he advanced, there was no feigned languidness to his stride. This time, he ran directly at the ball… and at him.
Bram gritted his teeth as he shifted weight onto his forward leg and braced to receive the barrage. This time… he would not back down.The ball zipped toward Theron's foot—referee drone launched it mid-air, simulating a restart from goal.
And Theron did not control it gently.
He slammed a first-touch volley straight into the turf—so hard the impact sent vibrations through the glass platform and lit up red warning grids along the edges: [Excessive Force Detected – Crowd Engagement Boost Active]
A roar erupted from above as spectators in the viewing arcades stood up, eyes wide with bloodlust for destruction.
Because this wasn't football anymore.
This was trial by fire, where dominance mattered more than goals—and fear was punished with expulsion before you even knew your own name could be erased from history books by one bad five-minute stretch.
---
Bram lunged forward—not to block, not to tackle—but to press high, shoulder angled low like Coach Marrow demonstrated during orientation drills. It wasn't textbook. It wasn't safe. But if there was one thing he remembered about Valek after last year's viral highlight reels?
"He hates players who don't flinch."
The thought flashed across his mind like lightning—and then—
CRACK!
Bram collided shoulder-first into Theron's ribcage just as he tried pivoting away with tight close control dribbling—no finesse lost, but balance slightly disrupted for half a second…
…half a second is all Bram needed.
Fingers of instinct took over—he swiped at the ball using an outside-of-the-sole cutback trick most only used in alleyway street games back in district slums…
And somehow—
STOLEN!
The ball rolled free toward Bram's side!
Gasps echoed across Zone Y sectors—even upperclassmen leaning forward now:
"Did he just…?"
"He actually pressured Valek and won possession?!"
Even Lucian Ashcroft narrowed his eyes slightly on observation deck six—not impressed yet… but no longer dismissing either.
But Bram didn't celebrate. Not even inside.
Because deep down—he knew Valek hadn't been serious before…
Now?
Now he would be angry.
And anger makes monsters faster than any system upgrade ever could.
---
Theron didn't chase immediately.
He stood still, for three long heartbeats, with head tilted down and strands of black hair shadowing his face under arena lights pulsing red-blue-red-blue like sirens beneath skin-level, stress monitors tracking combat adrenaline spikes via sweat vapor analysis micro-sensors floating invisibly above each duel zone...
Then—
He laughed once—a single huff of breath that sounded more animal than human—
And charged again—but this time not straight ahead…
This time: diagonal-cut reverse, run mimicking ghost movements seen only in Legend archives reserved for elite tactical AI simulations banned across most academies due to psychological trauma rates among test subjects (67% breakdown within ten minutes).
Bram spun fast—but too late!
Theron already feinted past him with such deceptive body sway it looked like video lag—one moment here, next gone—then BAM again another rocket shot nearly tore through netting so violently containment field overloaded briefly:
[Emergency Shield Activated - Delay Reset: +10 sec]
Ball rebounded wildly—and chaos exploded into full motion!
Back and forth they went:
- Bram attempted quick burst counterattacks using zigzag cuts inspired by old Neymar highlights rewound endlessly during hospital recovery nights, before his rebirth.
- Theron responded with brutal stomping tackles disguised as "near-foul plays" — every hit legal under Academy combat rules because "mental resilience is forged through pain."
Blood dripped faintly from Bram's forearm where studs had scraped bone-deep; sweat blurred vision; breathing ragged beneath chest compression warnings flashing quietly on Cerebrox band:
Fatigue Level Rising – Composure Below Threshold
Suggestion: Activate Emergency Focus Stim – Cost = -3 Class Rank Points
Should he spend points now?
Or save them until later stages?
Too many calculations—
Until suddenly…
With exactly twelve seconds left,
Bram saw it—a flicker in Valek's step after explosive turn off right foot:
Slight limp. Left knee favoring external rotation ever-so-slightly when changing direction rapidly—an injury hidden behind classified medical clearance files labeled "Resolved Pre-Academy Entry."
A weakness...
...but revealing itself only under sustained duress, to someone watching closely enough not to blink at patterns invisible without System-assisted slow-motion replay analysis embedded directly behind ocular nerves via neural sync linkups active since entry Form X clearance authorization signed two days prior upon enrollment confirmation accepted manually by Veylan himself...
Wait—that last part felt odd even thinking about it...
Had Veylan reviewed his file personally? Why?
No time now!
Final whistle approaching fast!!
Using what little energy remained—and trusting blind instinct over logic—he faked inside charge then executed sudden stop-start stutter-step move taught during forgotten Bram charged hard to Theron's bad knee, feinting high then dropping low as if collapsing under momentum—but only to drive shoulder hard into Valek's left thigh.
With a guttural roar of pain, knees buckled from unexpected assault—and suddenly, roles reversed:
Now, Bram controlled the tempo.
And he wanted one thing.
Victory.
With all he had left. Bram pressed full offense now, stealing ball at every possible moment, even risking reckless tackles to send warning to Valek:
This time? He cannot win.
Even as final whistle sounded—Bram still pushed forward:
"No mercy. You'll have to kill me, not take the win..."
And as Valek stumbled trying to stand—Bram struck in final seconds:
"I'm not done yet!!"
---
Afterwards, even as Bram staggered off platform, he heard Valek whisper something."...you… you little bastard…"
It sounded almost admiring. And was the only sound Bram heard, because the rest drowned in roaring applause, cheers, and a single booming voice echoing across Zone Y:
"BRAM!! BRAM!! YOU BEAUTIFUL BEAST…!"As Bram stumbled backstage, he could barely hear Gareth Ashcroft shouting from stands:
"You did that?! How did you pull it off?"
The System seemed oddly quiet—but still there like earlier whispering.
[Good.]
Then—a tap on his shoulder.
He turned, finding Coach Marrow standing close by. Coach Marrow gave a single sharp nod, lips curved in satisfaction. "Not bad at all, kid."
**
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