The chamber was still. Too still.
Bram's own ragged breath echoed off the obsidian walls, yet even that sound felt borrowed—like the Maze itself was holding its breath, waiting for something he couldn't see.
And then he did see it.
The figure that stepped out of the black doorway was no drone, no illusion cooked up by Academy AI. It was him.
Or rather, someone who looked almost like him.
Taller. Gaunter. Shoulders slouched as though carrying years of invisible weight. His eyes were hollow, like burnt-out lamps, yet sharp with a rage Bram had never seen in his own reflection. The tattered football kit he wore was soaked with ash and rain, stitched by memory rather than cloth.
Bram staggered back a step, throat tight. "Who—what are you?"
The figure smiled without humor. The smile of someone who'd buried dreams in mud."I'm Bram Nolan," it said softly. "The boy who died before you were allowed to start over as Ashcroft."
The name hit Bram like a free-kick to the ribs. Nolan. His first life. The ghost of every failure he'd tried to bury.
"No." Bram shook his head hard, fists curling. "You're not real. This is the Maze playing tricks."
The other Bram tilted his head. "If I'm not real, then why do you remember the cold asphalt? The ambulance siren that never came? The ball rolling away into the gutter while you bled out?"
Bram froze. His chest clenched so hard he almost collapsed. He hadn't told anyone about that. Not even the System.
The phantom stepped closer, flickering like a broken hologram. "You think you've escaped me? You think new shoes, new crest, new name can change what you are? You were a failure once. And failure leaves stains that no second chance can wash off."
Something snapped inside Bram. "SHUT UP!"
His voice cracked against the chamber walls. His hands shook—not just from fatigue now, but from fury.
"I'm not you anymore. I won't be you anymore."
The ghost chuckled. "Then prove it."
And just like that—the Maze shifted.
The chamber stretched outward, obsidian floor transforming into a narrow pitch marked by glowing veins of light. Two goals shimmered into existence, one behind Bram, one behind the phantom.
The phantom placed a cracked ball at its feet. "One-on-one. No refs. No crowd. Just me… and the coward who thought he could forget me."
The whistle wasn't blown—it screamed, a high shriek from the Maze itself.
Bram barely had time to blink before Nolan charged. He wasn't fast—he was frantic. Every stride was ugly, desperate, but full of raw hate. The ball clung to his feet like tar as he closed distance.
Bram braced, sliding into a tackle—
—but the phantom didn't flinch. It wanted the collision. The moment Bram's shin met the ball, he felt the burn of phantom pain lashing through his leg, like breaking his own bone.
He gasped, stumbling. "Hurts, doesn't it?" Nolan hissed. "That's the cost of failure."
The phantom shot toward his net. Bram forced his aching legs to chase.
[System Override Triggered]Warning: Unknown anomaly detected. Adjusting protocols…
And then—[System Evolution Activated]
The glowing interface violently flooding his vision with golden text:
Ball Breaker Pro Max → FOOTBALLER'S CORE v1.1 New Functions Unlocked: - Replay Vision (Analyze opponent patterns in real-time) - Growth Pathway Analysis (Forecast potential strengths) - Rank Progression Sync (Class-based Questline Activated)
Bram blinked—and the world slowed.
For the first time, he could see Nolan's next move, a stuttering shift onto his weaker left side. Replay Vision fed the memory of three seconds earlier back into his eyes, showing the phantom's limp favoring his right.
Bram cut in, not with desperation, but with intent. His foot snapped out, dispossessing the ghost clean.
For a moment—just a heartbeat—he saw the phantom's mask crack.
"You… learned?" Nolan whispered, eyes wide.
Bram steadied his breathing, clutching the ball to his feet. His body screamed in protest, but his voice was steady: "I didn't get a second chance just to run from you. I'll carry you, Nolan. I'll carry the failure, the regret… and still move forward."
He sprinted forward, each touch sharper than the last. The phantom lunged, but Bram feinted—a sudden inside cut followed by a stutter-step. The kind he'd practiced alone in alleys, the kind no coach had ever taught him.
He shot.
The ball ripped through the obsidian goal, shattering it into fragments of light.
The phantom staggered, fading like smoke. Its last words barely reached Bram's ears:
"…If you fall again, I'll be waiting…"
And then it was gone.
The Maze walls rumbled.
[Zone Z Completed]Result: Passed
Outside the Maze
When Bram stumbled out of the collapsing labyrinth, daylight stabbed his eyes. He wasn't sure how much time had passed—but the cheers, gasps, and whispers told him enough.
The trials were over.
And the results were already being posted.
High above Arena Prime, the colossal scoreboard came alive, names flickering into their final placements. Gasps erupted as familiar names hit the top:
Gareth Ashcroft – Class A
Theron Valek – Class A
Kaelen Virell – Class A
And then, buried lower but unmistakable:
Bram Ashcroft – Class B
Not C. Not failure. Class B.
Reactions Ripple Out
The stands buzzed. Some scoffed—"Ashcroft pity points." Others stared in disbelief—"That guy survived Zone Z?" A few muttered grudging respect.
But what mattered most were the faces watching elsewhere.
In the Staff Dais: Headmaster Veylan Arcrest leaned forward, unreadable. His silver eyes flickered with a brief spark of interest. "Class B…" he murmured. One of the instructors beside him frowned. "With respect, Headmaster, his numbers don't justify it."Veylan only smiled thinly. "Numbers aren't everything."
In the Coach's Box: Coach Marrow grunted approval. "Hmph. Didn't think the kid would crawl that far. Guess he's not all bark."
Far Away in a Manor House: Lord Ashcroft—the father Bram barely remembered—received the report from a courier drone. His golden-eyed son Gareth had taken Class A, as expected. But the second name on the parchment froze him mid-sip of wine."…Bram?" He muttered it as though the word itself were an error. The glass cracked in his hand.
Bram stared at his glowing name on the scoreboard, heart hammering. He wanted to laugh, to scream, to collapse all at once.
He barely had time to process before a shadow fell over him.
A tall boy stepped out from the Class B ranks, sharp-eyed, smirking with predatory amusement. His aura screamed danger even more than Theron's.
"So," the boy said, voice low and edged, "you're the Ashcroft that crawled his way up from trash. Class B, huh? Cute. Don't get too comfortable. I'll make sure you don't last the year."
Bram clenched his fists. Exhausted. Terrified. Thrilled.
Class B, huh? Fine.
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