Their boots collided.
The sound wasn't just leather on turf — it cracked like thunder through the plasma dome, sharp enough to jolt the roaring stands into momentary silence. The ball spun upward, wobbling midair as though undecided which master it would serve.
Bram's foot pressed hard. The reflection's boot pressed harder. Neither gave.
Every muscle in Bram's leg screamed, tendons burning as though they would snap. His studs ground deep into synthetic turf. His lungs rasped. Sweat streaked his vision.
The mirrored father didn't waver. His balance remained perfect, his face carved into calm. His eyes carried neither rage nor pity. Only quiet judgment.
Have you grown?
The question wasn't spoken, but Bram heard it. Heard it as clearly as when his father's voice had once cut through freezing winter air.
His boot slipped first. The ball skittered sideways, ricocheting toward the mirrored man. One pivot, one flick — and possession shifted cleanly into his stride.
"Track him!" Felix's voice sliced through the haze.
Bram staggered upright just in time to see the mirrored father glide forward. Each touch of the ball was a metronome — precise, steady, inevitable. Around him, shadows fanned like wings.
Daren roared, throwing his body like a boulder. His shoulder slammed into mirrored Daren's chest. The dome rang with the impact.
For a second, the crowd gasped — could brute force break through?
But mirrored Daren absorbed it, twisted his hips, and let the momentum carry real Daren stumbling past. Like water slipping around stone.
"DAMN IT!" Daren spat, chest heaving.
The shadow pressed on.
From the stands, voices cascaded like waves.
"Class B is finished!""They can't match the tempo!""Ashcroft blood? What a joke!"
Class D laughed the loudest, jeers pitched cruel and high. Class B shouted back, though their voices shook more with desperation than belief.
Among Class A, nobles smirked quietly. A blond boy with a jeweled brooch leaned to his companion. "See? Titles mean nothing if the heir collapses."
The companion chuckled. "Ashcroft's only strength is in his name."
But not all mocked. Elira's fingers dug crescents into the railing, knuckles pale. Her gaze never left Bram.
Professors whispered too.
"Notice the AI's calculation," Silva murmured. "Every hesitation, exploited. Every pause punished."
Marrow's scarred jaw flexed. "Exploiting weakness is easy. Let's see if the boy finds strength."
The Headmaster said nothing, but his gaze was cold and exact, as though carving Bram open with silence.
Felix slid in, cleats screeching. His tackle nicked mirrored Felix's stride, knocking the ball loose. He popped upright, snapping, "Bram! RUN!"
The word struck like a whip.
Bram lunged forward, boots pounding turf. His chest burned with each breath. The ball skipped low across the field — too sharp, almost too fast. He flung his body, catching it with the outside of his foot.
The ball wobbled but stayed.
A shadow lunged instantly. Bram pivoted, dragging the ball behind his heel. Clumsy. Late. But enough.
The crowd gasped.
"Did he—?""He beat one!"
Callen stormed into position, teeth bared. "Pass, damn you!"
Bram flicked the ball across. Not clean — it skidded short. But Felix read it, sweeping it up and pushing forward.
Momentum. For the first time, they had momentum.
Team 7 surged like a storm about to break.
Daren crashed forward again, veins bulging in his neck. "MOVE IT!"
Jory flailed his arms as he stumbled into the box, voice squeaking, "I'm open! I'm—waaah!" He tripped mid-sprint, somehow staying upright.
The stands erupted in laughter.
"Is that kid drunk?""Lucky clown!"
But his chaos drew attention. A shadow peeled toward him, leaving a sliver of space.
Felix curved a pass. "Trap it!"
Jory flailed his shin into the ball. By miracle or madness, it stuck.
He squealed. "I—got it? I GOT IT!"
Mirrored Jory lunged, but Bram darted in, intercepting just before the tackle. His boot slapped the ball, redirecting into the center lane.
Open.
The gate shimmered at the far end. For one breath, victory seemed possible.
Then his father's shadow cut across.
They launched together. Boots collided again — thunder snapping through the dome. The ball spun up, whirling midair.
Bram's forehead met it first. Pain cracked across his skull, but the ball ricocheted forward.
Felix caught it in stride, eyes alight. "There it is!"
The stands erupted. Class B leapt, voices rising like fire. Even some Class C cheered at the audacity.
For the first time, Team 7 looked alive.
But the mirrored team adjusted instantly.
Mirrored Felix slashed across Felix's line. Mirrored Callen pressed so tightly that real Callen's grimace twisted into rage. Mirrored Daren crushed forward with balance so perfect Daren's brute force turned useless.
And always — his father's reflection loomed.
Not chasing. Not lunging. Simply waiting.
Bram touched the ball again. The mirror was there. Anticipating. Smothering.
It was suffocating.
But Bram didn't freeze.
He stumbled. Misstepped. Nearly lost the ball.
But he didn't freeze.
Replay Vision flickered. Ghost-lines jittered in his sight.
[ Forecast Potential: 18% ]
Not zero.
Bram's chest heaved. His throat burned. His heartbeat hammered against his ribs like a drum.
Not enough for you… but enough for me.
"Inside!" he shouted. His voice cracked, but Felix responded instantly, firing the ball back to him.
The mirrored father lunged.
Bram rolled his ankle at the last moment. Instead of clashing boots, he let the deflection slide the ball sideways into space.
Gasps spread.
Callen staggered onto it, eyes wide. "You—"
"SHOOT!" Bram roared.
Callen swung. His boot cracked thunder. The ball tore through the air toward the gate.
The stands rose as one.
Then mirrored Callen blocked, chest-first. The rebound boomed. The reflection spun, countering in the same motion.
Groans cascaded from the stands.
Momentum — gone.
The mirrored father collected cleanly. His calm never cracked. Not a bead of sweat on his brow.
Bram staggered into position, chest tearing with every breath. His eyes locked on the shadow once more.
The question still lingered. Have you grown?
Bram's jaw clenched. His voice rasped, barely audible: "Not enough for you… but enough for me."
The mirrored father advanced.
And the clash deepened once more.
**
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