The mirrored father advanced. And the clash deepened once more.
Boots scraped turf, shadows circled, and the roar of the stands pressed down like a storm. Yet within the chaos, Bram's mind began to settle. Not silence—not yet—but a rhythm. The beating of his heart no longer drowned him; instead, it echoed with the pace of the match.
Step. Breathe. Touch. Pass.
The mirrored father's stride was measured, calculated, each step cutting distance like a knife. The weight of his gaze still pressed like iron on Bram's chest, but it no longer froze him. He moved.
Replay Vision flickered, not in chaotic bursts but in brief, sharp flashes. For once, it didn't overwhelm him. A line curved left. Another splintered right. Most still ended in interception, but here and there—thin, fragile threads glowed like veins of light.
[ Forecast Potential: 18% Success ]
A small number, but higher than before.
Bram's lips parted, breath sharp. Then that's enough.
The mirrored father cut forward, forcing Bram to retreat. A shadow defender darted in, trying to trap the lane. Callen cursed, waving for the ball. Jory flailed to the right, desperate to lose his reflection. Daren roared, shouldering through two bodies at once.
"Move it, Ashcroft!" Callen snapped, but his tone wasn't just scorn—it was strained, uneasy. Even he felt the tightening noose.
Bram didn't pass. Not yet. His foot rolled the ball backward, drawing the mirrored father an inch closer. His lungs tightened at the sight of the man's face—still calm, still unreadable—but instead of collapsing under it, Bram forced his weight forward.
He feinted left.
The mirrored father stepped.
Replay Vision pulsed. A tiny opening flashed.
Bram stabbed the ball with the outside of his boot, slipping it between the narrowest of gaps. The turf burned under his stride as he sprinted after it.
Gasps rippled through the stands. A noble from Class A sat forward. "That—he threaded that on purpose."
Another scoffed, though uneasily. "Fluke. Had to be."
But Felix's eyes sharpened. He'd caught it.
The mirrored Felix lunged to intercept. Real Felix twisted his body low, catching the pass by inches and breaking into space. "Finally!"
Cheers erupted from the Class B section, loud enough to drown the jeers.
"Go Bram!"
"Class B's still alive!"
Daren surged beside him, bellowing for the ball. Jory flailed but actually managed to shake his shadow. Callen clicked his tongue, then shoved forward anyway, demanding the option.
Felix darted left. The mirrored father pivoted smoothly, reading the shift.
Replay Vision blurred again. This time, Bram didn't let it freeze him. He shouted hoarsely, "Back! Reset!"
Felix snapped the ball back. Bram caught it on the half-turn, spinning his body sharply to keep distance from the shadow pressing in. His boots scraped turf, the weight of a tackle grazing his shoulder. He shoved through, chest burning, but kept control.
[ Stamina -4 ]
The system's whisper scrolled in the corner of his sight. He ignored it.
He had no room. No time. The mirrored father pressed again.
But Bram lifted his head—and saw Daren.
The big forward had just slammed through his double, arms wide, chest pumping, a furious grin tearing across his face. "Feed me!"
Replay Vision flickered—lines branching from Bram's boot to Daren's stride. For once, one glowed brighter than the others.
[ Forecast Potential: 32% Success. ]
The crowd roared as Bram drew back his leg.
The mirrored father's eyes narrowed.
Bram struck.
The ball cut like a blade, low and fast, spinning against the turf. Shadows lunged to cut it—but missed by inches. Daren stomped forward, meeting it with a booming first touch that sent echoes cracking through the dome.
"YES!" he bellowed.
Gasps, cheers, and even some scattered boos burst from the stands.
Felix's grin was brief but sharp. Callen's scowl softened for the first time. Jory pumped his fist wildly.
The mirrored father, however, did not flinch. His stride slowed, his eyes lingering on Bram—not with disappointment now, but with the faintest, unreadable tilt of acknowledgment.
Bram's chest heaved. His lungs screamed. But his legs no longer felt like stone. For the first time, the rhythm of the gauntlet pulsed with him, not against him.
And the clash wasn't over. It had just begun to turn.
The momentum tilted.
For the first time since the gauntlet began, Team 7 pressed forward with something sharper than desperation. The pass to Daren hadn't been clean—it wobbled, it fought against his first touch—but it had been alive. Real.
The crowd responded instantly. Cheers surged from Class B's corner, clapping in rhythm with his sprint. Even some Class C students, usually content to jeer, leaned forward, grinning despite themselves.
"Finally!"
"B-Class showing teeth!"
But the other side was silent. Class A's nobles, their uniforms crisp and neat, watched with narrowed eyes. Some smirked faintly, as though amused at a child's tantrum. Others leaned back, arms crossed. Only a few—the sharpest, the hungriest—watched with intent. Measuring. Calculating.
Elira's lips parted slightly. The faintest exhale slipped out—half relief, half warning.
Daren thundered forward, shoulders churning. His mirrored double clung to his side, body pressing, waiting for the slightest misstep.
"Off me, you bastard!" Daren roared, muscling through, his boots gouging the turf. His raw force carried him another stride, another inch closer.
Felix burst into space behind him, snapping, "Square! Square!"
Callen barked louder. "No—wide! I'm free!"
Jory tripped, flailed, then righted himself—arms waving. "Anywhere's fine!"
The options split like forks in a river. Replay Vision flickered, struggling to keep up with the chaos. Lines branched, collided, broke.
Bram's throat tightened. He sprinted to support, lungs stabbing fire into his ribs. His father's mirror shadowed him, unhurried, calm, as though even Bram's small success was already factored into the script.
Daren drew back his leg. His double mirrored him, step for step.
The shot never came.
The mirrored father intercepted—sliding in with surgical precision, his boot flicking the ball free before Daren's strike could land.
Gasps ripped from the stands.
"Damn it!" Daren's roar cracked like thunder. He stumbled forward, rage twisting his face, but the ball was already gone.
The mirrored team countered instantly. Their passes snapped like lightning, one-two-three, across the turf. No hesitation. No fumble. No wasted motion.
The gauntlet shifted from hopeful chaos to cold, merciless control.
Felix gritted his teeth, racing to cut off the lane. "Track back! TRACK!"
Callen sprinted, jaw tight, pride warring with panic. Jory wheezed, half-tripping again but forcing his legs to pump. Even Daren, chest heaving, threw himself back into the fray.
But Bram—he couldn't take his eyes off the mirrored father.
Every touch. Every pivot. Every calm adjustment. It wasn't random. It wasn't AI. It was rhythm. The same rhythm Bram had trained under. The same cadence he had once failed to match.
Step. Touch. Pass. Glide.
His father's ghost was conducting a dance, and the mirrored team moved like instruments tuned to perfection.
Bram's stomach turned. His chest felt hollow, yet strangely light.
I know this song.
Replay Vision pulsed again. For the first time, it didn't blur—it aligned. The glowing lines still ended in interceptions, but now he saw why. Not chaos. Not inevitability. A pattern.
The mirrored Felix cut diagonally. Mirrored Jory ghosted wide. The father's double paused—only for a fraction of a beat, but long enough for the tempo to reset.
Bram's boots dug into turf. His lungs screamed, but his mind whispered: Step early, not late.
He moved.
Felix's voice snapped behind him. "Ashcroft, don't—!"
Too late. Bram slid into the passing lane before the mirrored Felix could receive. His boot connected with the ball, clean and sharp. The impact jolted up his leg, nearly toppling him—but he stayed up.
The ball ricocheted sideways.
Felix caught it in stride.
The crowd exploded.
"HE READ IT!"
"Finally—Ashcroft's awake!"
Class B students leapt to their feet, fists pumping. Even some Class D stragglers whistled, though they quickly hid it under laughter.
High above, Professor Silva's pen scratched furiously. "There. Recognition. He's synchronizing."
Marrow's scar twitched as his jaw clenched. "One interception doesn't win a gauntlet."
But the Headmaster, silent still, leaned a fraction forward in his seat. His gaze stayed locked on Bram.
Bram staggered upright, chest heaving. His father's double stood a few feet away, no flicker of frustration crossing his calm face. But the eyes—they sharpened, just slightly.
Not disappointment. Not yet approval. Something between.
And Bram, trembling, lifted his chin.
I won't fold again.
Felix didn't waste the stolen possession. His body shifted, hips rolling as he darted upfield, the ball glued to his boots. His mirrored counterpart snapped back instantly, pressing shoulder-to-shoulder.
"Support! Now!" Felix barked.
Callen surged wide, signaling with a sharp hand slash. Jory tried to mirror but stumbled, half-tangled in his own stride. Daren roared ahead, muscling through a shadow clinging to his arm like a hook.
And Bram—still reeling from the interception—forced his legs to sprint again. His lungs begged to give out, but his heartbeat thundered with a new tempo, pounding in time with the rhythm he'd recognized.
Step early. Move before the beat.
Felix feinted left, cut right. The mirrored Felix followed perfectly, but Bram anticipated the next note. He darted into the seam, opening a narrow passing lane.
Felix's eyes flicked—only a sliver of recognition, but enough. The ball zipped across.
Bram's first touch was heavy. His heart jumped. But instead of panicking, he angled his body with the stumble, letting the ball roll naturally toward his left. He didn't fight the mistake—he used it.
The crowd gasped, then roared louder.
"Did he mean to—?"
"Doesn't matter! It worked!"
The mirrored father closed in. His shadow was faster this time, no wasted steps. His presence pressed against Bram like gravity. Every instinct screamed to retreat, to pass safe, to give up.
But Bram stayed. His heel dug into the turf. He let the ball roll across his body, then cut sharply with the outside of his boot. The ball skipped forward, squeezing between mirrored Callen and mirrored Jory.
Daren thundered through, scooping it up with a roar.
"THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!"
The stands erupted.
Class B students howled, stomping their feet in rhythm. Even the skeptical nobles in Class A's seats leaned forward, lips pressed tight.
Professor Silva slammed his notebook shut, eyes blazing. "Finally, he's stopped thinking like prey."
Marrow grunted, arms crossing. "And started thinking like him." His gaze flicked toward the mirrored father.
On the field, Bram didn't smile. His chest was fire, his legs quaking, but something steadier filled his veins. The rhythm wasn't his father's anymore—it was his own heartbeat, syncing with the game.
The mirrored father adjusted. His calm was unchanged, but his movements sharpened. Every step was faster, tighter, as though acknowledging Bram's intrusion.
And then the gauntlet punished them.
Daren, eager and reckless, wound up for a shot. His mirrored double lunged. Their boots clashed, the ball ricocheting straight back—right into the mirrored Felix's stride.
"Sh—!" Felix hissed, pivoting too late.
The mirrored team snapped back into their symphony. One pass. Two. Three. Fluid. Merciless. The field tilted again.
"BACK!" Callen shouted, his voice cracking.
Jory gasped, legs wobbling as he tried to chase. Daren cursed so loud the whole dome heard it. Felix grit his teeth, already sprinting, sweat flying from his hair.
And Bram—Bram felt the tempo shift again. Faster now. The mirrored father didn't even glance at him, but Bram knew: the gauntlet was escalating.
Replay Vision lit up his sight, dozens of glowing lines flashing. Nearly all ended in goals against them. But here and there, faint flickers remained—tiny gaps.
[ Forecast Potential: 7% ]
Not even ten.
He sprinted.
The mirrored father slid into his path, calm, commanding, like an immovable wall. For a heartbeat, Bram saw not the double, but his father himself—steady gaze, quiet authority, always two steps ahead.
And Bram whispered under his breath, so low no one heard: "Not this time."
He lunged early—one beat before the mirrored father expected. His boot clipped the ball mid-pass. Not clean. Not strong. But enough to deflect its course.
Felix pounced, snapping it up before the shadow could react.
"MOVE!"
The dome thundered with noise. Class B screamed themselves hoarse. Even the upper stands stirred now, no longer passive. The clash was no longer one-sided—it was alive, swinging with every possession.
Bram stumbled to his knees, chest heaving. His father's double turned, gaze lowering onto him again. Calm. Always calm. But the eyes flickered—not scorn, not approval. A faint, quiet challenge.
And Bram, kneeling in the turf, managed the smallest nod.
Keep testing me. I'll keep moving.
The ball didn't rest for a second. The mirrored team surged again, their rhythm relentless, faster than any coach-driven drill. It wasn't just skill—it was inevitability, like a storm rolling down a mountainside.
Felix barked orders, his lungs ragged. "Press in pairs! Don't let them—"
"Too fast!" Jory squeaked, tripping on his backpedal as the mirrored Jory ghosted past.
"Cover him!" Callen snapped, darting inside. His shirt clung to his body, sweat streaming down his jaw.
But the shadows weren't just pressing; they were suffocating. The mirrored Felix pivoted, swinging a diagonal ball across the turf. It skidded cleanly toward the mirrored father, who waited like an executioner, unhurried, letting the tempo bend around him.
Every student watching went still. The crowd's noise dimmed, as though instinctively holding their breath.
Bram felt his chest tighten again. His knees trembled—not from fear, but from the ache that screamed through every joint. His body begged him to collapse, but the rhythm still pulsed in his ears.
He sprinted.
The mirrored father received the ball with one touch, flawless. His boot rolled it forward, setting up for a strike. The real defenders were too far—Felix tangled, Daren half-sprawled, Callen dragged wide.
"Not again…" Bram muttered.
Replay Vision exploded with glowing arcs, every one of them ending in the same image: the ball smashing into the net.
Every one—except one.
A faint flicker. A seam.
[ Forecast Potential: 3% ]
Three. Less than seven. Less than anything that mattered.
But Bram lunged anyway.
He threw himself forward, arms spread for balance, cleats tearing the turf. His leg whipped out—not on time, not in rhythm. Off rhythm. A desperate stab that would make Silva scream in training.
His boot clipped the strike. Just enough. The ball caromed awkwardly, spinning high instead of true.
The stands erupted—not in neat cheers but raw chaos. Screams, jeers, laughter. A Class D student shouted, "Lucky deflection!" but his voice was swallowed by the roar.
Felix was already there, head snapping the ball forward before it could drop. Callen caught it, controlling with a roll across his laces.
"GO!" he bellowed, breaking wide.
Daren thundered beside him, veins bulging across his arms. Jory stumbled to catch up, but this time he didn't fall—his stride steadied, legs pumping in wild desperation.
Bram staggered back to his feet, chest searing. His vision swam, but the rhythm hadn't left. He followed.
The mirrored team snapped into defense, collapsing like a tide. Mirrored Felix cut across Callen. Mirrored Jory pressed the real Jory. And at the center—waiting—was the mirrored father.
He didn't move yet. He didn't have to. His presence carved the field, anchoring the defense like a king in the heart of the board.
Felix surged with the ball, Callen cutting sharp. The lane flickered open.
Now.
Bram sprinted to overlap, opening his body, screaming: "HERE!"
Felix didn't hesitate. The pass came fast, heavy. Too heavy. It burned across the turf, threatening to slip past.
Bram threw his body sideways, sliding, cleats sparking against the synthetic grass. His boot caught the ball, redirecting it back into space. It wasn't pretty—but it was alive.
The ball rolled straight into Jory's path.
Jory froze. His eyes bulged, his body stiff. A deer in headlights.
"SHOOT!" Callen roared.
Jory swung his leg.
The ball skidded wide, spinning off-target. The stands groaned, boos rising from the upper decks.
Jory's face crumpled. "I—"
But before despair could swallow him, Daren crashed forward. He threw his whole frame into the rebound, blasting the ball back toward goal.
The mirrored father moved.
Not a dive. Not a slide. Just a step, perfect and efficient. His boot absorbed the strike, stopping it dead like the shot had never existed.
Gasps cut the crowd.
The mirrored father flicked the ball once, smoothly sending it to his teammates. The counter was already born.
Bram's stomach knotted. Every thread of progress unraveled in an instant. And yet—his legs moved again, pulling him into the chase.
Because even if they stumbled, even if the odds bled away, the rhythm hadn't left.
The gauntlet would go on.
And Bram wasn't finished.
**
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