Morning hit like a hammer.
Bram woke to the BZZZT-BZZZT of his Cerebrox band buzzing against his wrist, flashing neon-red letters:
[Wake-Up Call – Class B Students][Roll-Call in 20 Minutes]
His eyelids barely lifted. Then—
"Oi, who stole my toothbrush?!" a boy bellowed across the dorm.
Another voice, muffled through foam pillow: "Not me… check under Garrick's bed. He eats in his sleep."
"Shut up!" Garrick's muffled protest came, followed by the sound of a toothbrush snapping in half.
Bram groaned, rolling off his thin mattress. His body still ached from Zone Z, muscles stiff as cold iron, but he forced himself upright. Across the room, three boys fought over the only mirror, one flexing shirtless, another trying to gel his hair into impossible spikes, while the third attempted to shave with trembling hands.
Meanwhile, the showers hissed in the back corner—freezing cold water, if Bram's memory was right.
He decided against testing his luck.
"Band says assembly in twenty," Bram muttered to himself, pulling on the fresh academy uniform laid out by drones during the night. White with black trims, Class B patch stitched over the chest—cleaner than he felt inside.
When he glanced down, the Band display had shifted again:
[Timetable: Week One]
06:30 – Assembly (All Classes)
07:15 – Endurance Practical (Coach Marrow)
09:00 – Football Theory (Coach Halloway)
10:30 – Passing Mechanics Drill (AI-Moderated)
Lunch Break (Points Required for Premium Meals)
Afternoon Slots (Rotational)
Evening Self-Training (Points Access Only)
Bram blinked. "Wait… points for lunch?"
The central assembly hall was less a hall and more a football stadium split into tiered zones. Hundreds of boys and girls filed into their class sections: A to the front, B just behind, C and D up in the back rows.
Above them, the Headmaster's dais floated—literally suspended by anti-grav pillars—shimmering banners of the Academy crest projected behind him: a silver ball encircled by two burning wings.
Headmaster Veylan stood in a long black coat, posture sharp as a blade. When he spoke, his voice carried without strain, deep and cutting:
"Welcome to Year One."
Silence. Not even a cough.
"The Academy is not a school." His gaze swept across the chamber. "It is a crucible. Those who survive emerge legends. Those who fail… leave forgotten."
He raised a hand, and the banners shifted—showing glowing letters:
CLASS RANKS
A – Elite, groomed for international contracts.
B – Capable, but unpolished.
C – Average, temporary.
D – Dead weight.
A ripple moved through the crowd at those last words.
"The class you stand in is not permanent," Veylan continued. "Every challenge, every subject, every trial—points are recorded. Points decide meals, equipment, privileges. Points decide if you rise… or are expelled."
Bram felt a shiver.
On cue, holograms bloomed across the arena, showing examples:
Class A dining hall → sizzling steak, golden potatoes, glowing energy drinks.
Class D → grey gruel slopped into plastic bowls.
Class A gear → shining boots calibrated by AI.
Class D gear → rusted cleats barely stitched together.
Students muttered—some horrified, some smug.
Bram's stomach growled. "Oh, come on," he muttered. "Not even free bread?"
A boy beside him laughed nervously. "Welcome to the Academy, mate."
Veylan gestured again, and the holograms rearranged into timetables.
"You will study both Practical and Theory. Football here is more than running and kicking. You will learn endurance, tactics, biomechanics, even political management. Each coach is master of their field."
Bram only half-listened—his Band synced instantly, flashing the same timetable he'd seen earlier. But now, he understood: every subject was a battle, every class another chance to earn or lose points.
And the rumor about cafeteria food? Very, very real.
First Impressions
After assembly, classes split.
Class A strolled confidently, many nobles laughing, already comparing points. Class C and D shuffled miserably.
Bram, stuck with Class B, trudged toward the Endurance Grounds.
But not before noticing the girls' section peeling off toward their own fields. For theory, they mingled, but practical stayed separate.
He spotted her immediately—the Princess. Long dark hair tied in perfect braid, uniform immaculate, surrounded by whispers like a halo. Girls bowed slightly as she passed, and even boys sneaked glances before looking away.
She didn't look at Bram. Not once. But Bram, for reasons he couldn't explain, stared for a fraction longer than necessary.
Focus, he told himself, dragging his eyes back to his own class. No romance. No distractions. Just survive.
The grounds were brutal—an endless oval track under the blazing artificial sun of Dome 3.
Coach Marrow stood waiting, arms folded, face unreadable. His whistle hung loose, but his presence alone carried more weight than any shout.
"Line up," he barked.
Class B scrambled, Bram ending up somewhere in the middle.
Marrow's eyes swept over them like radar. "You all think you survived Zone Z. That it makes you tough. Wrong. Zone Z tested desperation. This—" he pointed to the track—"tests discipline."
He blew the whistle.
The run began.
Within three minutes, two boys were coughing. By five, Garrick had tripped over his own shoelaces. Bram's lungs burned like fire, but he clenched his jaw. Marrow's eyes flicked to him once—then away.
When they finished, Marrow spoke only two words: "Not enough."
And blew again.
Groans erupted, but no one dared stop.
If Marrow was iron, Coach Halloway was silk—but the kind of silk that strangled. A tall, thin man with spectacles glinting under holo-screens, his lecture hall smelled faintly of ink and old parchment despite every wall buzzing with neon stats.
"Football is a language," he began. "Every pass a word. Every formation, a paragraph. Learn to read—or remain illiterate."
He flicked his fingers, and suddenly Bram's Band projected diagrams across the desk: triangles, angles, passing lanes.
"Class A, analyze this play from last year's international final," Halloway ordered. "Class B… copy the diagram."
Groans from around Bram. Copy work? Already?
Still, Bram scribbled digitally across his Band. His handwriting was crooked, but his eyes sharpened as he remembered street games, alley tricks, broken asphalt under his feet…
Triangles weren't theory. They were survival.
Halloway's eyes swept the room, pausing briefly on Bram before moving on.
By lunch, every student's stomach was a battlefield.
The cafeteria split into four lines—one for each class. Holographic menus hovered above.
Class A menu: Steak. Fruit parfait. Energy gels. Even imported coffee. Class D menu: Gruel. Gruel. More gruel.
Class B? Halfway in-between. A slice of bread, thin soup, maybe an egg if you had points.
Bram tapped his Band at the scanner.
[Balance: 0 Points]
"Uh-oh."
The Band buzzed: [Default Meal Dispensed]
A plate slid onto the tray: grey mush with what looked like peas—or maybe rocks.
Bram sighed, sat at an empty table, and poked the mush.
Across the hall, nobles laughed, clinking glasses of sparkling fruit drink. In Class D's corner, one boy literally cried into his bowl.
Then someone plopped a tray beside him.
"First day and you already look like you've lost."
Bram glanced up—and blinked. His sister.
Not one of his mocking brothers. His big sister, Lira Ashcroft—now a third-year, her silver uniform stripes marking senior rank.
"Lira?"
She smirked. "What, surprised to see me? Thought I'd let you sink without a word?"
Bram felt a lump in his throat. She was the only sibling who hadn't laughed when he failed street trials years ago.
"Eat," she said, shoving a piece of real bread onto his tray. "And don't waste points on desserts. Save them for gear."
He wanted to thank her—but Marrow's voice boomed suddenly from a comm-drone:
"Class B! Report to training ground. AI Keeper Challenge demonstration."
The challenge was simple: score on an AI-controlled goalkeeper. Easy—until you saw the thing.
A mechanical giant stood in goal, arms like pistons, glowing eyes tracking every twitch of the ball.
"Each attempt: +10 points if you score. -5 if you fail," the AI announced flatly.
One by one, Class B stepped up.
The first noble boy strutted forward, lined up his shot—only for the Keeper to dive with impossible speed, snatching the ball midair.
"Attempt failed. -5 points."
The boy's jaw dropped.
Another tried a curve shot—blocked. -5.
Laughter trickled through the stands.
When Bram's turn came, he swallowed hard. His Band vibrated with warning: [Balance: -0.1 Points (Dorm Fee Deducted)]
Negative already. Brilliant.
He set the ball down.
The AI Keeper loomed.
He drew a breath, focused—not on the machine, but on the echo of alleys back home, narrow goals, scrappy dives. He tapped the ball lightly with the outside of his foot, then struck hard inside curve—
The Keeper lunged left. The ball curved right.
Net rippled.
[Goal Scored – +10 Points Awarded]
Cheers erupted—some mocking, some impressed. Garrick yelled: "Oi, Class B's got a shooter!"
Bram's Band blinked green: [Balance: 9.9 Points]
Not much. But enough to taste.
That night, in the dorm, Bram collapsed into bed.
Then a shadow fell across his bed.
He looked up to see Gareth Ashcroft—his own brother, Class A's pride—smirking down at him.
"Enjoy your little ten points, Bram," Gareth said softly. "Let's see if Class B even lasts a week."
Bram clenched his fists under the blanket.
The game had just begun.
**
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