The mirrored counterattack tore forward like lightning.
Felix shouted himself hoarse: "FALL BACK! ALL OF YOU!"
But Jory stumbled again, tripping as his mirrored self surged past. Callen gritted his teeth, forcing his battered shoulder into a sprint. Daren was already charging back, massive strides cutting the turf like plows.
Bram's lungs burned, but his feet refused to slow. He cut across diagonally, intercepting the shadow path before it collapsed on Felix.
The mirrored father was the conductor again. One faint lift of his ankle, and his team flowed like an orchestra, perfect geometry, every angle alive.
Replay Vision lit up like a nightmare. Every prediction ended in collapse. No clean tackles, no easy interceptions.
[ Forecast Potential: 6% ]
Six wasn't enough. Not by logic. But Bram pressed anyway.
He slid sideways, body low, trying to shadow the mirrored father without diving in. His boots whispered across the turf, tracing every twitch, every hint of weight shift.
Felix glanced at him once, the faintest flash in his eyes—acknowledgment.
Callen barked from the side, frustration dripping. "Don't ball-watch, Ashcroft! Hold position!"
"Shut it and cover the wing!" Felix snapped back, sharper than before.
Callen's jaw clenched, but he obeyed.
The mirrored Jory darted for a diagonal run. The mirrored father shifted weight, clearly baiting Bram to bite.
Bram didn't. He pressed one step but didn't lunge. His breath shook, but he forced himself to wait.
And then—mirrored Felix moved, cutting inward.
Now.
Bram feinted left, then darted right. His boot caught the faintest edge of the pass, enough to deflect its speed. The ball skipped instead of sliding smooth.
Felix was there instantly, intercepting clean.
The stands erupted again, gasps and shouts colliding into a roar.
Class B students shouted his name now: "Ashcroft! Ashcroft!"
But Class A stayed reserved, eyes sharp, watching for patterns.
Felix spun with the ball, shielded his body, then snapped: "RUN!"
The counter to the counter was born.
Jory hesitated—but Bram was already sprinting into space.
Felix passed to Callen instead. The noble-born caught it with a flourish, body proud even while panting. He looked up once, sneering at Bram. "About time you—"
But the mirrored Callen was already there, lunging.
Bram didn't wait. He cut inside, shouting: "DROP IT!"
Callen's pride wavered for a half-second. He wanted to ignore the voice. But instinct—the survival instinct of a player pinned under suffocating pressure—overrode him.
He back-heeled the ball blindly.
Bram was there. His boot snapped forward, flicking the ball past mirrored Jory. The lane split open.
Daren thundered into it, bellowing with unrestrained fury. He was too fast, too heavy, too much to stop. The ground shook with each step.
"TAKE IT!" Bram roared.
Daren smashed forward, swinging his boot like a cannon.
The shot cracked against the mirrored goal wall, reverberating like thunder. The entire dome shook.
The ball rebounded out. Not in.
Groans filled the stands, but even among the jeers, there was a thread of awe.
Daren stood, chest heaving, fist clenched. His glare wasn't at Bram, or Felix, or anyone else—only at the mirrored father, who had already shifted calmly into place for the next phase.
Bram's heartbeat thundered. He glanced at Felix, who was already jogging back into position. Their eyes met, and for the first time, Felix didn't look suspicious. He looked… calculating.
"…You saw that pass," Felix muttered, low.
Bram didn't answer. His chest was still heaving, but his eyes never left the mirrored father.
Because he knew—this wasn't over.
The gauntlet was only tightening.
The sound of boots clashing still rang in the dome, a metallic crack that seemed to vibrate in every ribcage. The ball spun free, wobbling between shadows and flesh, a coin tossed by the gods themselves.
From the stands, the moment looked frozen — two silhouettes locked in perfect symmetry, one a boy trembling at the edge of himself, the other an echo carved from code and memory.
The crowd erupted.
"Who won it?""Did he lose it?""No—look! He's still there—he didn't break!"
Whispers, cheers, jeers. The storm of voices split the dome into waves.
Class B Section
Their benches had been restless since the whistle. Every mistake by Bram, every stumble, drew groans, buried faces, muttered curses. Yet now, as they watched the younger Ashcroft slam against something that looked impossible, the energy shifted.
"He didn't back down," one boy muttered, fists clenched white on the railing."Finally," a girl exhaled, her voice trembling with relief.
A chant started small, hesitant, then grew louder:
"Team 7! Team 7!"
But it wasn't for the whole squad. Every voice tilted toward Bram.
Class D Section
Mockery flowed thicker.
"Clash of the statues!" a lanky boy cackled. "Who'll crack first?""Bet my lunch Bram folds in ten seconds," another shouted, coins already flashing between fingers as wagers were made.
Yet even there, not all mouths jeered. A quiet group at the edge leaned forward, sharp-eyed. "No," one of them said softly. "He's adapting. Look—his stance changed. He's bracing now."
The others ignored him. They didn't see the difference, not yet.
Class A Balcony
Silk uniforms gleamed under the dome's light. Nobles sat with folded arms, composed and sharp, but their eyes tracked every twitch of Bram's body.
"He froze before. Why not now?" one lord's son asked, curiosity tinged with suspicion."Fear bends or it hardens," his friend answered coolly. "The gauntlet shows which it will be."
For the first time since the match began, they weren't leaning back in smug disinterest. They leaned forward, intrigued.
The Girls' Division
Their gauntlet had slowed to its midpoint, defenders pacing while the ball rotated calmly between their formation. Yet their eyes strayed, one after the other, across the partition.
"Still him," a striker muttered. "Even when it's chaos, eyes drag there.""You think it's the Ashcroft name?" another asked."No." The reply came sharp, certain. "It's because he hasn't broken yet."
The Third-Year Balcony
Silver trim glinted, marking the veterans of the Academy. They had lived the Gauntlet before, carried its scars and lessons. Now they judged.
"Too heavy for a first-year," one said with a smirk." Too heavy for most second-years too," another corrected. "That reflection… it's not just any AI. Look closer."
Their eyes narrowed. Recognition dawned.
"That's no random opponent. That's an imprint."
Brows furrowed, conversations cut short. "Whose?"
But none answered aloud. Their eyes slid toward Elira.
Elira Ashcroft
She shook her head, braid flicking against her shoulder. her eyes didn't leave Bram for an instant.
Faculty Box
Coaches and professors watched with expressions that weighed more than cheers.
Coach Marrow grunted. "He's still standing." His tone carried no praise, just flat fact."Barely," Silva countered, adjusting his glasses. "You see the tremor in his plant leg? The delayed reaction in his left eye? He's a breath away from collapsing."
"Yet he hasn't collapsed," Professor Harkan noted, quill scratching across parchment. "That difference alone makes him worth observing."
Finally, the Headmaster stirred, voice a low rumble that silenced them all:"The Gauntlet does not place illusions without purpose."
The others waited. The Headmaster's gaze stayed locked on Bram, piercing, as if watching more than flesh.
"If it shows him that figure," he continued, "then it has judged him ready to confront it — or unworthy to pass."
Silence followed, heavy as stone.
Outside the Dome
Not every eye inside belonged to students or staff. Beyond the shimmering barrier, citizens of the city crowded on raised platforms, watching through translucent panels. Traders, mercenaries, apprentices on break.
Their cheers were less refined, their language harsher, but their eyes saw the same thing: a boy battling a ghost in front of thousands.
"Hell of a test for a kid," a smith muttered, arms folded thick with soot. "He's Ashcroft blood," a baker's apprentice shot back. Maybe the boy's got the same fire." "Or maybe he's just about to snap."
The debate crackled there too, raw and unfiltered.
Back to the Pitch
The ball had not yet landed. Every eye that drifted away snapped back as the sphere wobbled between father and son.
Bram's body quivered, sweat streaking down his temple. His reflection loomed, calm and composed, not pressing — waiting.
Felix shouted something. Daren's roar cut across it. Jory stumbled wide, waving frantically.
But in this instant, the noise dulled. What mattered was this: if Bram faltered here, the game broke. If he held, even for a second longer, the story shifted.
The crowd did not know it, but a line had already been drawn.
From this point, Bram Ashcroft would be judged differently — not as a boy who froze, but as one who either bent or broke against the weight of legacy.
And every section of the stadium, from nobles to merchants, from teachers to his own sister, leaned in to see which it would be.
The ball wobbled in the air like a coin spinning on its edge, refusing to fall, refusing to choose. Every second it hung there stretched long enough to cut into bone.
Bram's boots still tingled from the clash. His body vibrated as if the turf itself hummed beneath him. Across the pitch, his reflection stood — calm, still, composed. No, not just a reflection. His father's stance. His father's rhythm. Every tilt of the shoulders, every shift of balance, every little thing carried the weight of a man who should have lived and died in another world.
No one else saw that.
To the crowd, it was just Ashcroft against his copy. To Bram, it was a question dressed in flesh: Why him? Why now?
The system pulsed faintly.[ Focus. Move on. ][ Inquiry postponed. ]
He exhaled slowly, a faint smile tugging the edge of his lip. Noted. If the answers wouldn't come now, then fine. He'd survive this and demand them later.
The ball dipped.
Class B Stands
"Come on, Bram, control it!"
Half the section leaned over the rails, fists beating against metal bars. The chant had grown — not just for Team 7, not just for Felix's command, but for Bram himself.
One boy, the same who muttered earlier, shouted until his throat broke: "He's not freezing anymore! Look at him!"
A girl clutched the railing, eyes wide. "He looks—different. Like he… accepted something."
Her friend laughed nervously. "Accepted what? He just got lucky."
But when the ball began to dip toward Bram again, every one of them held their breath.
Class D Stands
The mockery kept coming, loud and sharp:
"Trip again, Ashcroft! Do us proud!""Bet he slips before he kicks!"
Coins clinked as the wagers multiplied.
But that one quiet boy from before — the one who saw the stance change — leaned forward so far his nose nearly touched the glass. His lips barely moved.
"No," he whispered. "He's steady now. You can't see it, but… he's different."
No one answered him. Their eyes were blinded by the easy joke, too shallow to notice the fracture in the tide.
Class A Balcony
A ripple of interest moved through the silk-clad elites. Their posture remained perfect, their voices calm, but their eyes betrayed them.
"That hesitation earlier is gone," one murmured."Mm. Curious. To shed fear mid-match… unusual."
Another lordling leaned on the rail, studying Bram's breathing, the way his chest rose and fell. "He reminds me of someone. But I can't place who."
They didn't know the truth. None of them could.
The Girls' Division
Their ball passed slowly from boot to boot, defenders giving token resistance, but their attention drifted across the partition again.
"He should have folded already," one striker muttered, her jaw clenched. "But he hasn't."
Another tilted her head. "What keeps him standing? It's not talent alone."
The reply came from a midfielder, calm but certain: "It's will. The kind you can't measure."
And for the briefest heartbeat, Seraphina's gaze flicked across again. Not in admiration — in calculation. Then it slid back, sharp as ever.
Third-Year Balcony
Veterans spoke low, their voices heavy with memory.
"Not random," one muttered, eyes narrowing. "That imprint… it's too clean."Another nodded grimly. "It's a person. Someone real. The system doesn't build ghosts like that without a template."
The air among them tightened. A few eyes flicked toward Elira, but no one dared voice the name on their tongues.
Elira Ashcroft
Her grip hurt. Metal dug into her palms as she leaned forward, braid swaying like a tether about to snap.
Every pass, every movement — she recognized them. They weren't Bram's. They weren't random. They belonged to someone she'd watched years ago, someone she'd once called…
Faculty Box
The coaches spoke in clipped tones.
"His composure ticked up," Silva noted, glasses flashing. "Earlier his left leg shook. Now it's planted. He's grounded."
Marrow folded his arms. "Grounded? Or cornered?"
Professor Harkan scratched across parchment. "Both. Which makes the outcome more telling."
Then the Headmaster's low voice cut across them all:
"The Gauntlet reveals what words cannot. The question is simple: will he survive himself?"
No one answered. They only watched.
Outside the Dome
Traders leaned on railings, apprentices craned their necks.
"That boy… he's holding against it," the smith muttered again, voice hushed now."Not for long," the baker's apprentice shot back, but even he leaned forward, eyes wide.
They all wanted to see the coin fall.
Back to the Pitch
The ball finally dropped.
It struck turf with a muted thud, bounced once — and Bram was already moving.
No freeze. No hesitation. His body lunged forward, chest angled low, boot sliding under the sphere to pull it tight. The ball obeyed.
His lungs burned, but his mind was sharp. Not today. Not anymore.
The reflection moved too — his father's rhythm echoing across the turf. Calm. Efficient. Waiting.
Bram's chest tightened, but this time not from fear. From resolve.
He knew the questions could wait. His reincarnation, the shadow, his father — all of it filed away. The system had told him: move on.
So he did.
Boot met ball. A short, sharp pass toward Felix. A call burst from his throat before anyone else could speak:
"Switch it wide—NOW!"
The play restarted. The silence broke.
**
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