It looked like his father.
Not the strict, noble figure carved into family portraits. Not the memory of a man laughing over a dinner table.
But the one from Bram's last life.
The one who had stood across from him in silence, eyes filled with an unreadable weight, every word sharpened like a blade.
The mirrored Bram was gone. In its place, he stood.
His father. His stance perfect, his foot on the ball, his gaze piercing through the corridor like a spear.
Bram's chest went tight. His lungs stuttered. His knees almost buckled.
No one else seemed to notice. Callen was still cursing his shoulder, Felix barking orders, Daren crashing forward again. Jory tried to wave Bram back into formation.
But Bram couldn't move. His father's image—no, the mirror—moved first. A flick of the ankle. A pass sharp as lightning. His mirrored teammates caught it instantly, slicing through the gauntlet with a grace that left Team 7 scrambling.
"Bram!" Felix's voice cut like a whip. "Snap out of it!"
The words barely landed.
Bram's pulse roared in his ears. His system pulsed:
[ Warning: Mental Interference Detected. ][ Source: Reflection Memory Trigger. ][ Stabilize concentration, or collapse is inevitable. ]
His father's lips curved into a faint smile.Cold.
"Always late, Bram," the reflection murmured.
No one else heard it. Only him.
Daren thundered into mirrored Daren again, but the copy absorbed the impact, pivoting with impossible balance. "Damn it!" he roared, sweat spraying from his brow. "It's like he knows every move I make!"
Felix cursed under his breath, intercepting another pass only to find mirrored Felix already waiting, dispossessing him with mechanical calm.
"Of course he does!" Jory yelped, nearly tripping as his copy ghosted past. "They are us!"
"They're better," Callen spat, still clutching his shoulder, his pride burning brighter than the pain. "And Ashcroft here is just standing around like a lost kid!"
Bram's fists clenched. His throat burned. He wanted to shout back, to explain, but what would he say? That he was staring at the ghost of his father? That the trial wasn't just testing skill—it was dragging his very soul through the mud?
No one would understand.
And still… the reflection moved. His father's form dribbled forward, controlled, measured, unstoppable. Every step was heavy with the weight of memory.
Replay Vision flickered to life automatically, lines scattering across Bram's sight. But the moment he tried to follow them, the vision blurred, distorted, split. Each possible line showed failure.
[ Forecast Potential: 0% Success. ]
The System had never shown him zero before.
The mirrored father shifted, rolling the ball across his instep. The faintest flicker of disappointment crossed his face.
"Too slow," he said.
The pass snapped forward like a whip.
Straight at Bram.
For a heartbeat, he froze. His body refused to obey. He could see it all—the perfect angle, the unstoppable weight, the certainty that he wouldn't stop it.
Then—
"MOVE!"
Felix slammed into him, shoulder-first, breaking the paralysis. His teammate's boot connected with the ball at the last second, deflecting it away. The mirrored father's expression didn't change. Not anger. Not joy. Just that faint, cold disappointment.
Felix hissed in his ear. "Whatever demons you're fighting, Ashcroft—fight them later. Right now, we're drowning."
Bram staggered, breathing ragged. He nodded, though the tremor in his hands wouldn't stop.
The crowd outside roared at the close save. Some shouted encouragement. Others jeered. From above, seniors leaned forward in their seats, analyzing every faltering step. Coach Marrow's expression didn't shift. His scarred face was carved from stone.
Elira—his sister—sat higher in the stands, leaning on the rail. Her eyes narrowed.
Team 7 regrouped. The mirrored team pressed harder, sharper, hungrier.
Felix called plays, trying to anchor them. Daren thundered recklessly. Jory scrambled, chaotic but loyal. Callen sneered, half-collapsing under his own pride.
And Bram… he staggered between flashes of memory and the cutting edge of the trial.
Every movement of his father's reflection dragged him back to nights spent chasing his dreams and encouragement from his father. To words that always cut. To the quiet, suffocating weight of a man who had expected perfection—who had died before Bram could ever give it.
Now that ghost stood across from him, smirking as if nothing had changed.
And the ball was rolling toward Bram again.
The ball kissed Bram's boot and stopped dead.
For an instant, the roar of the stadium dimmed, the chatter of students dulled, and only one figure moved clearly in his sight—across the gauntlet, where the mirrored AI opponent stood. Its shoulders squared, its weight shifted, its arms twitched in tiny patterns Bram knew by heart. That stance. That rhythm.
His father a former football player who's career was cut short due to injury.
Not flesh and blood, but a replica woven from memory and code. Still, the weight of recognition struck him like a fist, his legs rooted to the turf.
"Pass it, Bram!" Callen's voice cracked like a whip, frustration laced with panic. "Don't just stand there!"
Daren shoved into position ahead, broad shoulders blocking an incoming shadow-defender. "We're open! Move it!" His growl echoed, part command, part plea.They were running out of time.
Felix said nothing, but his eyes tracked Bram carefully—curious, suspicious, as though he saw something deeper than hesitation.
And Jory, nervous laugh bubbling up in the wrong moment, muttered: "Well… maybe he's, uh, calculating?"
"No," Callen spat, running back to offer an option. "He's freezing."
From the stands, whispers sparked like wildfire.
"Is he choking already?""Thought Ashcroft blood ran hot.""Class B can't even start right."
A boy in Class D whistled mockingly. "Oi! Pass the ghost a pillow, he wants a nap!"
But Class A's section was quieter, sharper. Nobles leaned forward, eyes narrowing, their trays of honey-bread forgotten. One murmured, "Look at his eyes… he's not seeing us."
Another added coolly, "Or maybe he is—but he's seeing someone else entirely."
High above, third-years lounged in a reserved balcony, their uniforms marked with silver trim. Elira Ashcroft leaned forward, braid brushing her shoulder, lips pressed thin.
"…Bram," she whispered, too low for anyone to hear.
Her squadmate chuckled. "Your little brother's a statue."
She didn't laugh. Her hand clenched around the railing, knuckles whitening.
Coach Marrow's eyes narrowed, scar bending as his jaw tightened. "He's hesitating," he muttered.
Beside him, Silva adjusted his spectacles. "Not hesitation. Recognition. Look at his micro-movements. Pupils dilated, breath locked, weight shifted backwards.
Professor Harkan scribbled something in his notes, voice calm as stone. "Then the Academy has already done its job. The gauntlet is not just physical—As a football player, training your mental game is just as important as physical training — and it directly impacts your results on the pitch."
Marrow scowled. "Whether it's a penalty shootout or a packed stadium, staying calm can make the difference between winning and losing.
Build Confidence
A strong mindset helps you believe in your abilities, even after making mistakes or facing tough opponents.
Stay Consistent
Physical performance can dip, but a strong mental foundation keeps you consistent throughout the season."
The Headmaster, seated behind them, said nothing. His gaze was fixed, piercing, as though Bram's collapse or survival would answer a question only he was asking.
Bram
The system's hum swelled in his skull.
[ Alert: Neural Sync Disruption. ][ Warning: Subject Heart Rate Spiking. ][ Advisory: Execute Basic Pass Immediately. ]
But the words blurred, stuttering, as if the system itself faltered against the phantom it had conjured.
Bram's breath caught. His father's voice rose unbidden, echoing inside his skull:
"Pass with purpose, or don't touch the ball at all."
His knees weakened. He remembered—midnight drills, the sting of winter air, a heavy hand correcting his stance. He remembered failing, over and over, until those same words ground into his bones.
And now, that figure stood across from him, waiting.
"BRAM!" Callen bellowed, running back, hand outstretched.
The shadow-defenders closed in, their movements sharp and predatory. Daren shoved one aside, but another slipped through the gap. Felix darted into space, silent, patient. Jory flailed, nearly tripping over his own boots.
Chaos rippled through Team 7—and all of it traced back to the boy standing still with the ball at his feet.
In the stands, boos began to rise. A chant even started: "Pass it! Pass it! Pass it!"
Bram's chest heaved. Sweat rolled down his temple though barely thirty seconds had passed.
Across the partition, the girls' gauntlet had already begun. Their passes darted crisply through moving gates, fluid and quick.
But a murmur spread even there. "Look—Class B's Ashcroft hasn't moved."
A girl snorted. "Figures. All name, no play."
Seraphina's eyes lingered for a fraction longer than the others, unreadable. Then she turned back, commanding her team with a sharp call.
Back to Bram
His pulse thundered in his ears. The ball at his feet felt like lead, like a weight chained to his soul. His father's mirrored form shifted—one step forward, balanced, patient, as though daring Bram to relive every failure.
The system glitched again:
[ Questline Objective: Deliver 3 successful—ERROR. ][ Correction: Survival Priority Activated. ][ Hidden Challenge: Shadow of Origin. ]
Bram whispered hoarsely, almost to himself: "Why… now?"
His boot twitched, the slightest motion—yet enough to jolt Callen's hope. "Finally!" Callen lunged to receive—
**
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