The twitch of Bram's boot was small—barely more than a spasm—but to Callen it was salvation.
"Finally!" he barked, storming back into space, hand slashing through the air.
The ball rolled forward, almost timid, caught between hesitation and intent. A shadow defender lunged, black limbs reaching like smoke, but Bram's hurried motion nudged it just wide.
Not clean. Not convincing. But movement.
Daren was first to respond. He bulldozed his way across the pitch, carving space with his shoulders. "Mine!" he bellowed, legs pumping. His boot thundered against the ball, sending it spinning toward Felix.
The captain's trap was clean, crisp, the kind that sounded like confidence. He snapped his head up. "Form up! NOW!"
Jory flailed into position, stumbling but catching balance at the last instant. Callen gritted his teeth and surged forward, pain shadowing his face with every step but pride pushing him on. Daren clashed shoulders with a mirrored defender, the collision cracking like stone against stone.
And Bram… Bram trailed half a step behind, his lungs dragging for air, his eyes torn between the field before him and the reflection beyond it.
His father's mirror watched. Not chasing. Not pressing. Just waiting.
The mirrored team reacted in perfect synchronicity. Mirrored Felix cut the passing lane before the real Felix even shaped his boot. Mirrored Daren absorbed the collision without breaking stride, pivoting with impossible balance. Mirrored Jory glided like water through space his real counterpart had just stumbled into.
"Damn it!" Felix hissed, swiveling his hips to protect the ball. "Shadow Callen on me—support!"
Callen shoved forward. "I've got it—"
He didn't. His mirrored double stripped him bare, dispossessing with a ruthless efficiency that brought a hiss from the stands.
The ball was already swinging wide, the mirrored team stitching passes with terrifying calm.
"Back! Back!" Felix snapped, retreating.
Daren barreled into mirrored Daren again, studs tearing at turf. Sweat streamed down his temple, his jaw clenched. "I'll break you this time!"
He didn't. His double swayed, rolled his shoulder, and let Daren's fury carry him past.
The mirrored father stepped forward, receiving the ball on his instep as though born for it. No wasted motion. No stumble. Just control that silenced even the jeering Class D boys.
Bram's throat closed. His stomach lurched. Every cell in his body screamed that he was watching more than a phantom.
He couldn't stop it.
A shot came.
The mirrored father leaned back, ankle snapping, boot cutting under the ball with surgical precision. It arced high, curling toward the shimmering gate at the end of the corridor.
The crowd surged to its feet, a wave of sound swelling.
"Not again!"
Felix's roar was raw as he launched himself sideways. His boot clipped the ball mid-arc, redirecting it, barely scraping it off course.
The strike clanged against the barrier instead of the gate. The dome shuddered. Sparks hissed.
A save. A reprieve.
But not relief.
Felix staggered to his feet, chest heaving, veins standing against his skin. He pointed straight at Bram, voice like a whip. "You want to freeze? Fine. But if you don't move, you're dead weight. And I don't carry dead weight."
Bram flinched. Heat burned behind his eyes. He wanted to shout back, to explain—but his voice died in his throat.
From the stands, the whispers rolled heavier.
"He froze again.""Class B can't even pass a ball.""Is this what Ashcroft blood amounts to?"
Class A nobles shook their heads. Some smirked. Some frowned. But every eye sharpened.
Up in the silver-trimmed balcony, Elira gripped the rail harder. "Bram…" she breathed, the single word tight, strangled.
Her squadmate leaned back lazily. "You'd think he'd show some spark by now. I almost pity him."
She didn't answer. Her jaw clenched, eyes locked on the boy below who looked like he was carrying chains invisible to anyone else.
The whistle shrieked again. Not the end—only the signal that the gauntlet had entered its final stage.
Shadows moved faster. Gates shifted quicker. The mirrored team glowed sharper, their motions slick with lethal polish.
"Last push!" Felix barked. "Don't fold now!"
Daren spat on the ground. "I'm not folding—I'll break their damn line."
Callen sneered. "You've been saying that all match."
"Shut it, both of you!" Felix snapped. "Focus!"
The ball spun loose. Shadow defenders pressed high. Jory stumbled in their wake, arms windmilling. "Uh—uh—guys?!"
Chaos. But within chaos, an opening.
Bram saw it.
Not with Replay Vision. That system still flickered, glitched, whispered numbers too low to matter. No. This was instinct—raw, unrefined, but his.
He darted. His boots scraped turf. His shoulder brushed Jory's, steadying him without thought. His foot stretched, hooked the ball away from a shadow's reach.
Gasps rose. Cheers followed.
Bram didn't stop. He pivoted, cutting across the lane, dragging the ball with him. His chest burned. His father's eyes drilled into him from across the field, but he didn't stop.
For the first time, he didn't stop.
"Felix!" he barked, voice sharp, cracked.
He blinked—then responded instantly, stepping into space. The pass snapped sharp into his stride.
Felix's grin was wolfish. "That's better."
Daren charged like a beast unchained, throwing his weight against mirrored walls. Callen found a pocket of space, teeth gritted, shoulder still burning but feet refusing to quit. Jory, somehow, managed to stay upright long enough to distract his double.
Felix controlled the flow, but Bram—Bram was moving again. Not smooth. Not flawless. But alive.
The crowd shifted, the jeers thinning, replaced by murmurs, then shouts. Class B students leapt to their feet, roaring his name. Even Class C's heckles dulled.
Above, the professors leaned closer.
"See it?" Silva muttered, adjusting his spectacles. "The hesitation is breaking."
Marrow grunted. "Too slow."
Harkan's pen scratched across parchment. "Not too slow. Too human. Which is precisely why this test works."
The Headmaster said nothing, but the faintest smile ghosted his lips.
The mirrored father slid back into place. Waiting. Testing.
Bram's chest pounded as he squared against him. Sweat blurred his eyes, but his gaze stayed steady.
Not gone. Not broken. Not yet.
"Come on," he whispered. "I'm not folding."
Their boots met again—ball snapping between them, energy cracking like thunder.
And the clash, far from ending, only deepened.
**
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