The final whistle still trembled in the air when the dome's light shifted. The plasma sky dimmed to a muted silver, shadows stretching long across the synthetic turf. Silence spread like ripples — first in the stands, then down to the pitch.
Then, with a hiss of static, the System ignited above them.
[ Gauntlet Results – Boys' Division ]
Names, team numbers, and ranks poured across a colossal holographic screen. Each line was a verdict, every placement a blade or a crown.
Class A Section
Predictably, the nobles and prodigies of Class A claimed dominance. Their lead squad appeared Rank 1, the data glowing with perfect precision: undefeated, zero goals conceded.
"They didn't even sweat," one boy smirked, adjusting his pristine collar."Anything less than first would've been a disgrace," another murmured, to murmurs of agreement.
A second squad from their class soon appeared Rank 2, and a third still inside the top 3. It was overwhelming proof of their talent ceiling.
"Three squads in the top three," one lordling said, lips curved sharp. "As expected from Class A."
Their voices carried like banners — victory was their birthright.
Class C Section
The cheers here were ragged, unpolished, but filled with fire. Gasps erupted when one of their squads landed Rank 4, just behind Class A.
"fourth?!""We beat class B—no, we beat everyone!"
Their benches shook as students stomped, fists hammered against railings. The underdogs had clawed higher than anyone dreamed possible.
"Did you see ? Did you see the midfield link?!""Class C isn't fodder anymore!"
Their rivals sneered, but the shock couldn't be erased. For the first time, Class C had proven they could bite.
Class D Section
Their results were the harshest. One squad had been wiped early, crashing to Rank 12, dead last. The jeers rained heavy.
"Figures," someone from Class B muttered, rolling eyes. "Bottom feeders."
Yet it wasn't all failure. Against all odds, another D-Class squad clawed their way up to Rank 8, ahead of more polished opponents. Their celebration was raw, feral, born from survival.
"EIGHTH PLACE!" a boy screamed, voice breaking. "We're not trash!"
It wasn't glory. But for Class D, it was rebellion.
Class B Section
The benches here were tense, shoulders tight, every face tilted toward the scrolling list. Class B carried the most weight — students with potential, but constantly judged against what they might never reach.
At first, disappointment. A squad landed Rank 7. Another stumbled to Rank 9.
Groans filled the air. "Still mid-table…" "Still nothing to brag about."
But then—
Team 7 – Rank 5.
The dome erupted.
"FIFTH?!""WE CLIMBED TO FIFTH?!"
The Class B section went wild. Students who had buried their faces during Bram's stumbles now leapt to their feet, roaring his name, Felix's sharp commands, Daren's beastly charges.
"They said we'd crack!" one boy shouted, voice breaking. "But we lasted longer than almost everyone!"
It wasn't first. It wasn't perfect. But for Class B — long trapped in the shadow between brilliance and mediocrity — it was vindication.
Faculty Box
The professors judged quietly.
Professor Harkan tapped his quill. "Fourth. Not elegant. But resilient. They adapted under stress. That cannot be drilled into players; it must be forged."
Coach Marrow's arms folded. "Messy or not… they didn't die."
Silva adjusted his glasses. "Barely. But survival in the Gauntlet is itself a mark of strength."
The Headmaster gave no verdict. His eyes simply lingered on the highlighted team 7, the faint curl of intrigue flickering in the corner of his mouth.
Girls' Division Results
The screen flickered. A new set of names scrolled, glowing with equal weight.
Class A's lead squad seized Rank 1, flawless like their male counterparts. Their precision and control looked more like a clinic than a contest.
But murmurs rose when a Class B girls' squad appeared Rank 3. Their unity, counter-attacks, and grit had stunned even the nobles.
"Third? From Class B?" whispers spread…
Eyes turned toward their Ace, her braid tied sharp behind her head, her fist lifted high. She wasn't a even a noble. Just a name few had bothered to learn before — until today. Now, it echoed everywhere.
Bram stood with Team 7, chest still heaving. The golden glow of their rank burned in his eyes.
Felix allowed himself the faintest smirk.Daren roared, thumping his chest.Jory dropped to his knees, relief flooding him.Even Callen muttered, "Could've been first if some people didn't freeze…" But the bite in his words was hollow.
Bram barely heard them. His gaze stayed on the giant screen.
Rank 5.
Not the top. Not perfection. But proof.
Proof that Class B could fight. Proof that Bram Ashcroft would not be remembered as the boy who froze.
Survival. And survival meant the next step forward.
The dome dissolved like mist, plasma walls folding into themselves until only the Academy's towering spires framed the sky. The field that had been a warzone seconds ago now felt oddly calm — just turf, cleats, and sweat-stained jerseys.
But the calm didn't last.
The noise from the stands carried into the walkways and courtyards. Students clustered in packs, voices low and sharp, gossip turning into knives.
Class A Courtyard
"Fourth place?" A boy in silk gloves scoffed. "Class B clings to scraps, and they think themselves wolves."
But others were less dismissive. One girl's gaze lingered where Team 7 had stood. "Felix held them together. Daren was a wall. Even the Ashcroft boy… he froze before, but not at the end."
Her companion frowned. "You mean Ashcroft?" "No. I mean the one who didn't break."
Even in victory, Class A spoke of Bram — not as equal, but as a curiosity.
Class B Walkways
Their section boiled like a storm. For the first time in years, pride rippled through them.
"We're not mid-tier anymore!" "Team 7 carried us. They fought and didn't crumble!"
A boy shoved another, grinning wild. "Fourth place! Do you hear yourself?
But whispers of resentment lingered. "It was luck. If not for Felix, they'd have fallen." "Or Daren's brute strength."
Not everyone cheered Bram's name. Some whispered it like a threat, their own ambitions pricked by his rise.
Class C Halls
Their pride was different. Rank 4 had shaken the Academy to its core.
"We proved it. We belong above them." "Not B. Not D. We're fourth only to A!"
But some of them looked toward Bram too, narrow-eyed.
Class D Shadows
For Class D, the gauntlet had left scars deeper than bruises. Their lowest rank was humiliation, yet one squad's climb to eighth place was enough to spark fire.
"They call us trash, but eighth isn't trash.""Still… B's ahead, C's ahead… and even in our best, we're still chasing."
A silence followed. Even their victories felt like someone else's leftovers.
Girls' Division Courtyard
Their tournament had ended hours earlier, yet all eyes kept drifting back to the boys' results.
Class B's girls in third.
The Ace of the B girls' squad crossed her arms, sharp smile cutting her face. "Good. Let them keep watching. Next time, we won't just place. We'll take."
Her teammates nodded, fire burning in their eyes.
But not every gaze was warm. From across the courtyard, Class A girls whispered among themselves, silver-lined uniforms glinting.
"Upstarts. They'll learn soon enough the difference between noise and power."
Third-Year Balcony
The veterans were quieter, but their words weighed heavier.
"Ashcroft," one muttered." Which one?" another asked, smirking.
"Elira, of course. But now… the boy too."
The seniors didn't laugh. They leaned closer, eyes calculating. "If he can survive shadows this early, then he's worth marking."
For some, the name Bram Ashcroft was no longer forgettable. It was a target.
Faculty Wing
Professors dispersed slowly, their robes whispering against polished stone.
"Fourth place is not brilliance," Silva said flatly. "But it is not failure either." Professor Harkan smiled faintly. "It is proof of spine."
Coach Marrow only grunted. "Spine breaks easy if you lean too hard on it."
The Headmaster, silent until now, looked out the high windows toward the dispersing students. His eyes narrowed, unreadable.
"The Academy has shifted today," he said finally. "Some have risen. Others have been warned. That is all."
Bram
Among the crowd, Bram walked with his teammates, the noise washing around him. He caught flashes — students pointing, whispers carrying his name, eyes that judged or admired.
He didn't slow. His head stayed forward, though his mind burned.
It wasn't just about surviving anymore. Not just about freezing or not freezing.
The dome had changed something. His team's fourth place was proof — proof that Class B had teeth, proof that he was not the boy who broke.
But as the voices followed him down the corridor, Bram knew something else too.
The Academy had noticed him.
And from now on, eyes would not look away.
The Gauntlet was over, but its echo never truly left the Academy's halls.
The dome was dismantled, plasma walls vanishing as though they had never been. Training fields returned to their ordinary shine, but every blade of grass seemed to whisper of shadows and survival.
The dome's light dimmed to dusk, the roaring crowd finally thinning into echoes. Students filed out in clusters — laughing, shouting, cursing, or walking silent in defeat.
Bram lingered near the pitch, gaze fixed on the fading holograms above. His heartbeat slowed, but a faint hum stirred again in the back of his mind.
[ Progress logged. ][ Step recorded. ]
He frowned. Step? Toward what?
The System's voice replied, not sharp this time, but low, almost like a whisper carried by wind.
[ The Academy measures matches. I measure growth. ]
Then it fell silent, leaving Bram alone with only those words.
He tightened his grip on his jersey. Growth. That meant more trials. More shadows. More questions.
When he finally turned to follow his teammates, his jaw was set.
Fifth place wasn't the end. It was the start of something larger — though what path the System was dragging him toward, he could not yet see.
Academy Grounds
New matches filled the schedule. Not trials like the Gauntlet, but skill exhibitions, tactical drills, and inter-class scrimmages.
Class A continued to dominate, their players sharp as steel. They dismantled C and D squads in practice games, their passes like threads weaving a tapestry of inevitability. Nobles in the stands applauded politely — perfection was expected, not praised.
Class C clung to their newfound reputation, grinding victories against D, snapping at B whenever schedules crossed. Their squad's second-place finish had hardened into pride, and every game they played carried a message: we are not fodder anymore.
Class D struggled. The Gauntlet had bruised more than egos. Some players trained harder, desperation in their eyes. Others slouched further, convinced their ceiling had already been written. The gap between them and the rest widened with every session.
Class B, though… was different.
Their fifth place had become a spark.
Where once they were ignored, now their matches drew crowds. Not the whole school, but enough that whispers trailed every step. Some came to mock, to predict their fall. Others came out of curiosity, wondering if it had been luck or proof of something more.
And slowly, steadily, the whispers began to turn.
Team 7
In those weeks, Team 7 trained in the shadow of their result. Felix drilled them mercilessly, Daren pushed weights until iron bent, Jory threw himself into agility work, Callen sharpened his touch until sparks might as well have flown off the ball.
And Bram…
Bram listened. To his teammates' laughter. To their bickering. To the System's quiet hum in the back of his mind.
[ Growth continues. ][ Observation: resilience solidified. ]
He still questioned. About reincarnation. About shadows. About the fragment of his father the Gauntlet had forced upon him. But the System gave him no answers — only veiled lines that pressed him forward.
The Academy wanted results. The world wanted winners.
So he ran, he trained, and when he stumbled, he rose again.
Results Across the Weeks
The notice boards in the Academy plaza became battlegrounds of pride.
Class A: flawless in every fixture. Their name was carved at the top like stone, immovable.
Class C: clawing, biting, staying stubbornly near the top tier. Their fourth place hadn't been an accident, and they intended to prove it.
Class D: erratic. Sometimes spirited, sometimes crushed. They lingered at the bottom.
Class B: rising. Not perfect, not polished, but sharper with each outing. Their squads shifted between mid-table and the upper half, but the shadow of Team 7's fifth place loomed over every result.
Each update drew students around the board, muttering, comparing, pointing fingers. Names grew heavier, reputations hardening with every scroll.
And every time "Team 7" appeared in gold, Bram felt the eyes. Admiration. Envy. Challenge.
It was no longer about surviving the Gauntlet.
It was about enduring the weeks after — when survival meant proving it hadn't been luck.
**
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