The pass cracked across the turf like a lightning strike. Felix caught it clean, body angling without pause, and the dome roared alive again.
Team 7 was moving.
Bram sprinted to overlap, his lungs burning, his boots thudding in rhythm with the chant still rising from Class B's stands. Not loud enough to drown the jeers, not steady enough to silence Class D, but it was there — the first time the crowd had called his name and not mocked it.
He didn't dare look back at the mirrored figure — his father, his ghost, whatever it was. The moment he spared for the past would be stolen from the present.
The ball zipped between Felix and Jory. Jory almost fumbled, panic flaring in his wide eyes, but Felix barked, "Settle!" and slammed his palm against Jory's back as he moved. It steadied him. The pass continued.
Daren thundered into a pocket of space, a blunt spearhead daring the shadows to block him. Callen grimaced, favoring his shoulder, but still dragged his mark wide, gritting through every step.
For the first time, their formation didn't look like chaos. It looked like a team.
And Bram — Bram was part of it.
Replay Vision flickered faintly, its lines no longer shattered static but thin threads of light tugging at his periphery. Success rates still hovered low, a brutal 12%, 15%, sometimes 20% — but not zero. And that was enough.
The mirrored team adjusted with ruthless precision. Their jaws didn't clench, their eyes didn't narrow. They simply moved — perfect copies, perfect rhythm. And yet Bram felt something different now: a margin. The smallest crack, but a crack nonetheless.
The crowd didn't know what he saw. They only saw a boy who had finally stopped freezing.
Felix's voice rose sharp over the din: "Inside channel! Bram—take it!"
The ball streaked toward him again.
This time, there was no pause.
Bram's boot kissed leather, redirecting the ball with the calm certainty of someone who'd already decided: I move forward. I move now.
The dome shuddered with noise.
The ball rolled loose, wobbling across the synthetic turf as if mocking every heartbeat in the dome.
Felix was the first to snap back. "Regroup! Push up!" His shout cut through the chaos like a captain dragging his crew out of stormwater.
Daren's boots thundered as he muscled his way to shield the ball from a pressing shadow. Jory scrambled to close off a lane, arms windmilling for balance, while Callen muttered curses under his breath, forcing his injured shoulder to hold up his end.
And Bram—For the first time since the Gauntlet began, his body didn't lock. His father's shadow was still there, steady, patient, an echo with weight heavier than any crowd. But the fear that had frozen him before was gone.
The system's calm chime threaded through his mind:
[ Advisory: Mental Block Resolved. ][ Focus Directive: Continue Play. ]
The words weren't encouragement—they were command. He inhaled, grounding himself, and sprinted.
The ball skidded dangerously close to the mirrored Felix. One more step and it would be gone.
Not this time.
Bram slid in clean, boot hooking under the ball, popping it up and away before the shadow could trap it. Gasps from the stands rippled—the boy who froze minutes ago now cut through like a blade.
"Good!" Felix barked, swinging wide to take the pass.
But Bram didn't pass immediately. Replay Vision flickered alive, glowing threads carving options across the field. For the first time, not every line ended in failure.
[ Forecast Potential: 37% Success. ][ Forecast Potential: 42% Success. ]
Not perfect. Not safe. But possible.
He flicked his ankle, threading the ball low between two shadows into Daren's run.
The crowd roared as the big forward caught it with his chest, bellowing in triumph before barreling forward. "Let's GO!"
The mirrored Daren clashed with him instantly, a collision of force against force. But this time, real Daren didn't stumble—he held, teeth clenched, buying seconds.
Jory scrambled to overlap, Felix darted into space, and Callen dragged his weary body into position.
Team 7, for the first time in the match, looked like a team.
From the stands, Class B erupted: "Finally!" "That's more like it!" "Team 7! Team 7!"
Even Class A leaned forward, sharp-eyed, curiosity replacing smugness.
Bram didn't hear them. His lungs burned, his legs screamed, but all he felt was the rhythm of play thudding through his veins. The fear of legacy had loosened its grip—now there was only the game.
The dome pulsed with noise as Daren drove forward. His shoulders slammed into his mirrored self, both titans grunting as boots scraped against turf.
For a heartbeat, the balance tilted. Real Daren had momentum, the ball glued under his stride—
Then the mirror pivoted, shoulder dropping, hips twisting with textbook precision. A perfect Ashcroft feint—except it wasn't Ashcroft. It was a reflection of their own forward, playing every move with cruel accuracy.
The ball popped loose again.
"Damn it!" Daren roared, reaching too late.
Shadows swarmed. The mirrored Felix scooped the ball and surged, lines of black jerseys unfolding into a ruthless counter.
"Fall back!" Felix's real voice bellowed, already sprinting.
Jory stumbled into position, legs pumping like pistons. Callen wheezed as he forced his battered body into the lane.
Bram froze—just for a fraction—because the ball hadn't gone to any shadow. It had gone to his father's echo.
The mirror Ashcroft.Cool. Silent. Waiting.
The ball clung to his boots like it belonged there. Every step was precise, efficient, a memory Bram both knew and didn't.
The crowd didn't gasp. They didn't whisper. To them it was just another shadow. Only Bram saw the weight behind the way his father moved—the small drop of the shoulder, the quiet pause before acceleration. Things no code should have carried.
The echo sprinted. Bram sprinted too.
Boots pounded turf. The air between them thinned.
"Mark him, Bram!" Felix's shout snapped across.
He didn't need the order. He was already there, step for step, pressing the lane, feeling the memory of his father's stride beside him. Not a nightmare. Not a paralysis. Just an opponent to beat.
The reflection shifted, hips opening. A cut to the left. Replay Vision flickered.
[ Anticipate: 64% chance left feint, 32% chance direct push. ]
Bram didn't hesitate. He lunged, boot snapping across, intercepting the ball. The echo's eyes—his father's eyes—flicked at him once. Empty, yet heavy.
And Bram didn't break. He stole the ball clean.
The stands exploded.
"He took it off him!" "Finally some steel!" "That's Ashcroft blood right there!"
Even Class D, usually the loudest hecklers, sat stunned for a breath before erupting into disbelieving shouts.
But the play hadn't stopped. Shadows collapsed on him instantly. Felix screamed for the ball, Daren charged to support, Jory waved frantically.
And Bram—his boot still humming from contact with his father's ghost—drove forward.
The ball clung to Bram's boot, the roar of the crowd folding into a tunnel around him. Shadows pressed in from every side— faceless defenders, yet moving with surgical precision.
He cut right, a black jersey slid. He pulled left, another mirrored body blocked. Their formation closed like a noose.
"Bram—here!" Felix's hand cut through the chaos, eyes wild, voice ragged.
For an instant, doubt flickered. The old Bram might have hesitated, second-guessed. The boy who froze would've been swallowed whole.
But the one who had stared into his father's echo—The one the system had told to move on—He didn't hesitate.
A sharp flick of his ankle. The ball zipped into Felix's stride.
Felix didn't break rhythm. One touch, two, then a pass back into space Bram had carved open by dragging shadows with him. The give-and-go.
The system chimed faintly in Bram's skull:
[ Tactical Execution: Link-up Play Recognized. ][ Synergy Growth: +0.7% ]
The ball returned, sliding across turf like destiny.
And Bram ran.
Boots thundered beside him—Daren barreling like a charging beast, Jory staggering forward with stubborn grit, Callen wheezing but pushing one last time. They weren't shadows. They weren't echoes. They were his team.
He felt it now—the difference. The shadows mirrored skills. His father's imprint mirrored legacy. But his teammates gave him something neither could replicate: trust.
The crowd surged louder. Chants split and reformed. "Team 7! Team 7!""Ashcroft! Ashcroft!"
The final defender lunged. Bram touched past with a grace he didn't know he had. Replay Vision flickered, slowed the angles, painted options:— Pass to Daren (68% success).— Cut inside (42% success).— Shoot (31% success).
He ignored the percentages.
One breath. One memory. His father's stride. His own.
He swung.
The ball curved off his boot, not perfect, but alive. It spun past the mirrored keeper's desperate dive, kissing the inside of the post before snapping into the net.
Silence. For a fraction of a heartbeat, the dome was stunned.
Then the eruption hit like thunder.
"GOAL!"
The dome shook. Benches exploded. The sound rolled over him in crashing waves, but Bram didn't throw his arms wide, didn't scream. He just exhaled, shoulders sinking as if he had finally set something down.
The whistle cut sharp.
Full time.
The Gauntlet ended.
The dome's glow dimmed. The final whistle still echoed in his bones, crowd noise fading into something distant, muffled, almost unreal. He had barely caught his breath when the familiar hum rattled through his skull.
[ Match Complete. ][ Gauntlet Performance Logged. ][ Evaluating growth trajectory… ]
Lines of light unfolded before his eyes, cutting through exhaustion. The crowd, his teammates, even the mirrored shadows — all blurred into background haze as the interface took center stage.
[ Player Status: Bram Ashcroft ]
Age: 12
Position: Midfielder (Undeclared Specialty)
Overall Potential: ??? (Locked)
Stamina: 54 (+4)
Agility: 53 (+3)
Strength: 46 (+1)
Passing: 68 (+4)
Dribbling: 52 (+2)
Shooting: 42 (+2)
Vision: 55 (+5)
Composure: 48 (+8)
Determination: 75 (+5)
Bram's lips parted. He blinked, throat dry. …Those numbers—
But before his thoughts could form, the System spoke, cool and steady.
[ Rewards for Gauntlet Completion: ]— Stat Growth Applied.
— Hidden Trait Activated: Survivor's Will.
— Skill Upgrade: Replay Vision → Replay Vision (Tier 1).
— New Ability Unlocked: Shadow Link (Fragment).
— Bonus Reward: Mental Fortitude +5.
Bram's chest tightened. "Shadow… Link?" His voice came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
[ Query detected. ][ Explanation granted: ]
Replay Vision (Tier 1): Predictive lines remain unstable but have increased accuracy under stress. Success probability forecasts now range 10–40%. Duration extended by +2 seconds.
Survivor's Will (Trait): After enduring critical pressure without collapse, resilience has increased. Willpower resists external interference, both physical and mental. (+10% resistance to panic, illusions, and mind-based disruption.)
Shadow Link (Fragment): Connection established with recorded reflection data. Current function: minor synchronization with shadow opponents. Gain +1% stat mirroring during duels with equivalent profiles. Further fragments required to unlock full skill.
Bram frowned. Sweat still rolled down his neck, but his mind burned sharper than his lungs. "So… I didn't just see my father because of memory. You… pulled him into this?"
[ Correction: Reflections are self-generated. The Gauntlet extracts your deepest imprints. ][ Your father's image is not a construct of this System. It is yours or maybe not.]
Bram's pulse stumbled. He stared at the glowing text until it blurred. "Then why give me this 'Shadow Link'? I don't want his shadow—I…" His words cut off.
The System's reply was colder, final.
[ Accept or reject. Growth is determined by use. ][ Progression cannot be undone. ]
Bram clenched his fists. His nails bit his palms, grounding him. He didn't know if he wanted this fragment of his past. He didn't know if it was gift or curse. But one thing was certain—turning away wasn't an option.
"…Fine." His voice steadied. "Show me the path, then."
For the first time, the interface dimmed without answer, leaving only a final line of text lingering before fading into the haze of the dome:
[ Growth acknowledged. Continue forward. ]
The glow vanished. The crowd's roar rushed back. Teammates' footsteps echoed near. Coach Marrow's scarred voice barked across the pitch. The real world snapped back into place.
But Bram stood taller now, chest heaving, his mind sharper. His stats had risen, his skills evolved.
And as he jogged toward his teammates, he couldn't help but think:
If this is only the beginning… how far will it take me?
**
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