Morning sunlight spilled across the Falcon Wing dormitory windows, cutting pale golden lines over Bram's face. He stirred awake, blinking against the brightness, chest still heavy with aches from yesterday's training.
He sat up slowly, groaning as his calves cramped. "Ow, ow, ow—system, did you upgrade me into an old man instead of a footballer?"
The System pulsed faintly inside him.[ Correction: You are experiencing delayed-onset muscle soreness. Translation: Pain equals progress. ]
"Easy for you to say. You don't have legs."
He shuffled toward the small bathroom attached to his dorm, bare feet slapping against the cold tiles. Steam hissed as he twisted the faucet. The mirror was foggy, reflecting his messy hair sticking in all directions. He brushed his teeth, splashed water on his face, and muttered, "Day three and I'm already falling apart…"
Yet when he looked up again, water dripping from his chin, there was something sharper in his eyes than yesterday.
Determination.
By the time he made it to the cafeteria, Falcon Wing was buzzing. Long tables stretched across the hall, plates clattering, students laughing, bragging, or complaining about last night's drills. The smell of eggs, bread, and thick broth drifted in the air, with a separate stall for fruit juices.
Bram balanced a tray with plain porridge and half an apple. He glanced sideways: nobles from Class A were already eating better, their trays stacked with grilled fish, honey bread, and imported juice cartons.
A boy from Class C walked past him, waving a slice of bread like a sword. "Better win some points today, or we'll be stuck with gruel forever!"
"Shut it, Ewan," someone groaned. "I nearly threw up yesterday, and they still expect us to fight for more food."
"Not fight," Ewan corrected dramatically, "compete."
That word rippled across the cafeteria like a spark. Everyone knew what it meant. Today wasn't going to be normal lessons.
Coach Darius Marrow entered with his usual thunderous presence. His navy coat snapped behind him, boots echoing on polished stone floor. The chatter of first-years died instantly.
Marrow surveyed the room, scar glinting under morning light. "Eat well? Slept well? Good. Forget it."
A ripple of nervous laughter.
He slammed a clipboard on the podium. "Today begins your first formal trial. You've tasted orientation. You've sweated through warm-ups. Now the Academy will measure you properly."
Bram felt his chest tighten. His spoonful of porridge churned in his stomach.
Marrow raised a hand. On the holo-board behind him, glowing letters appeared:
PASSING DRILL GAUNTLET
Students leaned forward, murmurs spreading like wildfire.
"Passing? That's it?" one boy scoffed. A boy shot him a glare. "Say that again when you're choking in the middle of the maze."
Marrow's lips twitched into what might have been a cruel smile. "For amateurs, passing is simple. For professionals, passing is survival. Today you will learn the difference."
He tapped the holo-board. Schematics unfolded — a sprawling obstacle course filled with rotating walls, dummies, moving gates, and AI defenders shaped like humanoid shadows.
The rules flickered across the board:
Teams of 5 will be formed at random.
Each team must navigate the gauntlet by passing the ball from one end to the other.
Dribbling is restricted to 3 touches per possession.
Dropped balls or intercepted passes = point deductions.
Speed, accuracy, and creativity all score differently.
"The gauntlet tests more than skill," Marrow continued. "It punishes selfishness. It rewards vision. A true midfielder dictates flow here, not a striker's ego."
Bram swallowed hard. Midfielder… this was his test.
Marrow leaned forward, scar catching the light. "Perform well, and your class rank rises. Perform poorly, and you'll sink so deep you won't smell sunlight until graduation—if you survive that long."
Silence. No one even shifted in their seat.
Then he added, casually: "Oh, and the girls' division will run the gauntlet in parallel. You'll see their results on public screens. Motivation, or humiliation, depending on your pride."
A ripple of excitement shot through the boys. Some grinned, some groaned.
Bram's stomach twisted again. His mind flashed to the rumors: Princess Seraphina was in Class A. She'd be competing too.
Curiously yes. He wanted to see how someone like her played.
Marrow finally clapped his hands. "Report to the training stadium after lunch. Bring your kits. And pray you don't draw teammates who can't tell left foot from right."
Lunch Break: Cafeteria, Again
The hall was louder than morning. Everyone speculated about random teams, possible AI challenges, and whether nobility mattered here.
Bram sat at the end of a bench, quietly sipping soup, when a familiar voice teased, "Still eating like a rabbit?"
He turned. His big sister, Elira Ashcroft, stood over him — tall, confident, hair tied in a braid. She was in her third year, one of the Academy's star defenders. Unlike his brothers,
"Elira…" Bram said, surprised. "You're allowed here?"
She smirked. "I came to watch the chaos. First-years always provide entertainment. Just don't embarrass me, little brother."
Bram managed a crooked smile. "No promises."
She ruffled his hair — before leaving with her squad.
For the first time all morning, Bram felt a flicker of warmth.
The Training Stadium Alpha was transformed. Where normally there was grass and drones, now there stretched the Gauntlet: a nightmare course of moving walls, laser gates, and patrolling AI defenders.
Students filled the stands, buzzing like bees. The scoreboard above shimmered with team slots waiting to be filled.
Bram stepped onto the field with the others, his heart hammering. The System whispered faintly:
[ Questline Updated: Survive Passing Drill Gauntlet ][ Bonus Objective: Deliver 3 successful assists. Reward: Vision +2 ]
He clenched his fists. This wasn't just survival. This was growth.
"Let the draw begin!" Marrow's voice boomed.
Holo-orbs floated up, shuffling names. One by one, glowing letters sorted into groups.
Bram waited, nerves thrumming—
Until his name slotted into a glowing square.
TEAM 7
Bram Ashcroft
Callen Ward
Jory Tanners
Felix Dane
Daren Holt
He didn't know whether to groan or cheer. Callen was skilled but cocky. Jory was a joker. Felix was quiet, Daren built like a tank.
This would be chaos.
And chaos… was about to begin.
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