Marrow's voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
"Not bad at all, kid."
He didn't say good.
Didn't say impressive.
But from Coach Darius Marrow—a man whose silence had shattered entire generations of elite Academy hopefuls—those three words were fire forged in ice.
Bram stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping off his brow and pooling on the steel grating beneath him. His left knee throbbed where Theron's studs had raked across it during that last desperate lunge. His Cerebrox band blinked weakly:
Power: 14%, Stamina Depleted, Composure Threshold Breached (Temporary Impairment Detected)
He should have collapsed already.
But he didn't.
Because something deeper than muscle or bone held him upright now—something raw and unshaped, but alive:
He wasn't trash after all.
Even if only for five minutes… even if just once…
…he'd stared into the eyes of a monster—
—and hadn't looked away.
---
ZONE Y AFTERMATH – THE COST OF SURVIVAL
The duel logs uploaded automatically to central database servers embedded deep beneath Arathia Palace grounds—where ancient AI known only as "The Architect" began crunching data from over two hundred male first-years' performances across Zones X and Y so far.
In real time, holographic projections updated on every screen within Academy walls—including cafeterias where students dropped their trays mid-bite to stare in awe:
Top Performers – Preliminary Male List (After Zone Y Completion):
Lucian Ashcroft – Efficiency Rank S+
Theron Valek – Aggression Index MAX Activated x3
Kaelen Virell (Duke's Bloodline) – Zero Mistakes Across All Drills
Then came an unexpected name buried near the middle—but still glowing green instead of red:
BRAM ASHCROFT | Status: Active | Score Rank: C-Tier Borderline
Not high enough for A.
Too chaotic for B.
And yet—not expelled either.
Still breathing. Still fighting.
Hanging on by one cracked fingernail gripping fate's edge…
A soft chuckle echoed behind him as someone stepped forward—another boy wiping blood from split lip after losing brutal match against Gareth earlier. He clapped Bram roughly on shoulder.
"To make it this far… you've got more spine than most nobles I know," he muttered. "But don't celebrate yet."
"Why not?" Bram croaked through dry throat.
"Because Zone Z is coming." The boy leaned closer, eyes shadowed with exhaustion—and fear. "They call it the Maze, but really? It's designed to break people who survived everything else."
---
Before nightfall—the boys were marched toward Gamma Sector—a place no new student ever entered willingly without orders stamped with Headmaster's seal in black wax ink embedded directly onto ID wristbands at moment of clearance activation upon successful survival rating post-Zone Y completion (Survival Rate So Far: Only 78% remained).
And what met them?
No field this time—
Only a labyrinth carved into living rock under artificial twilight sky powered by plasma domes simulating eclipsed sun cycles timed precisely with hormonal output peaks measured via subdermal sensors implanted during medical check-up upon entry week one (Yes, they'd been tracking them since Day One).
Walls stood thirty feet high made of pulsating black stone that absorbed sound—not reflective glass or steel—but material resembling fossilized organic tissue lined with bioluminescent veins throbbing slowly like sleeping hearts buried deep underground...
This was no mere training facility—
It was said to be built atop ruins left behind by original Legends architects before they vanished without trace fifty years ago amid rumors they'd created footballers so dangerous even monarchs feared war would erupt among nations scrambling to recruit them—one player capable of winning battles alone armed only with ball and instinctive genius amplified beyond human limits via unknown neural enhancement tech later lost when base imploded mysteriously overnight leaving nothing but scorched earth circle visible from space satellites orbiting Earth long before modern AI rise...
Legend—or truth?
Who knew?
All that mattered now was simple rule announced via whispering voices echoing throughout maze tunnels seemingly speaking directly inside skulls rather than ears:
"You enter alone."
"You complete solo."
"Fail three trials inside... exit marked D-Class forever."
There were no maps given.
No lights provided except dim glow pulsing within vein-walls growing stronger near danger zones where automated defense drones shaped like hounds prowled silently along corridors hunting stragglers moving too slow—or giving up mentally. The maze lay like a maze of shadows inside shadows. Every sound became distorted, echoing strangely across stone corridors. Bram felt like someone was constantly watching from somewhere unseen.
It was just his imagination, right?
Right?
But as the first hour passed—then the second—then the third—the feeling never quite went away. Bram pressed forward through the winding corridors of the Red Core Maze—each step heavier than the last.
His breath came in short, ragged bursts.
Sweat drenched his uniform, now stiff with dried salt and grime.
The bioluminescent veins in the walls pulsed slower here—as if sensing weakness, feeding off fatigue like living things.
And then it started again:
"You think you belong?"
A whisper—soft, feminine almost—but sharp as glass. Not from behind. Not ahead.
From inside his head.
"C-Class trash doesn't rise to glory."
"You're slowing down… heart rate spiking… pupils dilated beyond optimal focus threshold…"
Bram staggered against a wall—the voice wasn't external AI taunts like Zone X…
This was different.
Deeper.
Like someone—or something—was reading his very biology and mocking him with cold precision…
Then—
[System Re-engaged]
"Pssst~ That's not just any maze echo."
"That's Adaptive Neural Deterrent Field – Type VII. Basically: mind games powered by old Legends tech buried under this rockpile. They scan your thoughts via micro-pulse resonance… then fire back your fears in perfect mimicry."
"Good news? You're still sane-ish."
"Bad news?
As if on cue—
A low growl rumbled through stone beneath his feet.
From around a distant bend—a red glow emerged slowly… pacing… silent except for metallic claws clicking against fossilized floor tiles like clockwork death counting seconds toward expiration.
Drone 07 — Designation: Reaper Model (Aggressive Mode Active) — Equipped with neural-stun prods and motion-dampening shock bursts capable of triggering temporary paralysis upon close contact (used only during extreme mental collapse.)
It saw him.
The drone didn't charge immediately—it circled, waiting for signs of panic…
But Bram?
He remembered Marrow's words earlier during orientation:
"In war—and football—the strongest aren't always fastest or strongest…"
"They're the ones who don't freeze when everything says they should fall."
So he didn't run...
He stood tall—even as legs trembled—and whispered one word straight into darkness where red eyes glowed back at him:
"Try me."
And moved—not away…
—but forward,
charging directly at Drone- 07,
not to fight it head-on (he knew better),
but to trigger its most fatal flaw programmed into all drone.
Proximity Feedback Loop — If tricked into firing stun burst within enclosed tunnel segment marked Resonance Chamber Type ... self-target possible due to frequency bounce-back effect known internally as "Echo Kill Protocol"
There were no manuals teaching this.
Only rumors passed between expelled upperclassmen after midnight whispers near ruins beyond school walls...
But Bram had read them all.
Studied every forbidden archive leak uploaded anonymously five years ago under name "L Ghost."
Now?
He would test truth against legend—
---
(To be continued → Zone Z Final Trial Approaches)
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