It's been weeks after all the skill exhibitions, tactical drills, and inter-class scrimmages. It carried into the Academy's grand ceremony hall, where the results shimmered once more across crystal panels set high above the crowd. Every class had gathered—students packed in neat rows, robes rustling, voices hushed but buzzing.
Bram stood among Class B, his jersey washed and replaced with formal robes. His chest rose and fell slowly. Fifth. The number still echoed in his head.
"Class A again, no surprise," someone muttered when their two top teams flashed Rank 1 and 2. Nobles smirked, their eyes sweeping across the hall as though daring anyone to challenge their dominance.
"Class C pulling Rank 4 is insane," another whispered. "Never seen that happen."
Class B's screen scrolled. Team 7—his team—Rank 5. Even now, a low cheer surged again, less wild than in the dome but still proud.
Some curled lips into disdain. "Ashcroft blood reduced to scraping into fifth. A pity." Others gritted their teeth quietly. "Even stumbling, his name still forces him onto the stage."
Bram felt their stares but didn't answer them—not with words, not even with a glance. Around him, Daren grinned like a wolf, Felix wore his measured half-smile, Callen crossed his arms with mock irritation, and Jory looked as if he'd float away any second.
The voices around them—jeers, cheers, praise, complaints—wove into a single current. It pushed forward without crushing, a presence that could be ignored if one chose to.
Bram chose to.
Inside, the hum stirred again.
[ Ding~! Did you hear them, Bram? Half the hall's whispering your name. ]
The playful lilt danced in his skull, sharp enough to almost make him smile.
"…You always show up in moments like these," he thought back.
[ Of course! What's a system for, if not to make dramatic entrances? ] The voice giggled, then softened. [ Still, fifth place. That matters more than their little noble frowns. ]
Bram's fingers flexed at his side. "…Fifth isn't first."
[ Mhm, true. But fifth isn't eleventh either. Or out in the first round. You survived where many fell. You grew. And between you and me—growth is far more entertaining than perfection. ]
Bram lowered his eyes. The lights above painted gold streaks across the polished floor. Somewhere in him, something unclenched.
He had made mistakes. He had faltered. But the whispers of scorn and pride alike couldn't erase the truth. He had survived, and he had grown.
That was enough. For now.
The crystal panels above dimmed one by one, the last names flickering into silence. A final chime rang through the hall, and the Academy's overseer, a robed professor with silver trim, lifted his hand.
"The Gauntlet concludes. Rankings are set, and lessons are learned. Carry them into your training. Leave the excuses behind."
The hall rustled with bows, mutters, suppressed sighs. players adjusted their collars with pride, "well those who did well or ranked high." and whispers continued to thread through the air.
Bram gave no reply. He sat still, hands folded, listening.
The system's hum tickled again.[ You're popular, Bram~. ]"…For now," he thought.[ For now is good enough. Tomorrow we'll worry about tomorrow. ]
The voice faded, leaving him with silence that was heavier than the cheers.
Far from the Academy, past the city walls and beyond the rolling fields, a tall manor stood. Its banners were crimson and black, a single crest carved above the gate: the Ashcroft sigil, wings spread across a burning sun.
Inside, in a chamber lit by a single lamp, Lord Ashcroft read.
The parchment bore the official seal of the Academy. It detailed the Gauntlet: the collapse of weaker teams, the rise of unexpected challengers, the narrow survival of Class B's Team 7. The final ranking, Bram Ashcroft's name and his brothers, highlighted.
Lord Ashcroft's eyes moved steadily across the page. He read of Bram's incident, his play , his eventual stand. He read of the cheers, the murmurs, the ranking.
He did not frown.He did not smile.He did not speak.
When the last word ended, he folded the report neatly, set it upon his desk, and reached for the next document without pause. His quill scratched the page as if nothing had changed.
But in the stillness of the room, the silence that followed was more cutting than any judgment.
The dome had long since emptied, but whispers of the Gauntlet still haunted the academy corridors. Bram caught them in passing — fragments drifting like smoke.
When night came and the dorm halls fell quiet, the familiar ping chimed in his head.
[ Ding~! ][ Congratulations, Ashcroft Jr., you survived the tutorial of tutorials! ]
Bram sighed. "Tutorial? That nearly killed me."
[ Exactly! And you didn't die. Progress! ]The System's voice carried its usual playful lilt, like a teasing older sibling. [ Now, onto the real deal. ]
Before he could ask, a new notice unfolded in silver light.
[ Announcement: Academy League – Year 1 Division ]
[ Format: Class vs Class. Round-robin structure. ]
[ Duration: One semester. ]
[ Evaluation: Performance determines rankings, rewards, and promotion eligibility. ]
Bram's eyes widened. "So soon?"
[ Football waits for no one! ] the System chimed.
[ Think of the Gauntlet as your entrance exam. This League? Your midterms. Except instead of grades, you get bruises and glory. ]
The Ceremony Hall
Two days later, every first-year gathered beneath the vaulted ceilings of the Ceremony Hall. Marble pillars lined the chamber, glowing faintly with etched runes that shimmered whenever the Headmaster's voice carried.
The students shifted in restless clusters — Class A polished and composed, Class B buzzing with energy, Class C loud and hopeful, Class D lounging with feigned disinterest.
Then the banners unfurled.
[ Academy League – Year 1 Division Begins ]
A holographic table shimmered into being at the center: four columns marked A, B, C, D. Empty slots waited, ready to be filled with results.
Gasps rippled. Murmurs rose. Even the most arrogant nobles tilted their heads with interest.
Professor Harkan stepped forward, parchment in hand. His voice, sharp as ink, cut through the hall.
"This League is not a game of chance. Every match you play will be recorded, analyzed, and scored. Rankings will be displayed weekly. Your effort — or lack thereof — will be plain for all to see."
He tapped the parchment, and glowing words spiraled upward.
League Format:
Each Class will field four squads.
Round-robin: every squad plays every other squad once.
Victory = 3 points. Draw = 1. Loss = 0.
Top eight squads advance to the Knockout Stage.
Gasps rippled through the hall. Knockouts — a brutal, win-to advance- finale.
"Additionally," Harkan continued, "individual awards will be issued. Not for pride alone, but for recognition of growth. Those who shine brightest will be marked by the Academy and individual players will be ranked."
The words flared:
Man of the Match – awarded after each game.
Best Play – highlight of each round.
Rising Star – recognition of unexpected excellence.
And at the end of the League:
Golden Boot – top scorer.
Playmaker Award – most assists.
Golden Wall – best defensive record.
MVP of the Year – the Academy's chosen first-year.
The hall exploded in chatter.
"Golden Boot's mine," a striker from Class A boasted."Dream on," someone from Class C barked back. "Rising Star's for me. Just watch."
Class B buzzed. They had tasted fifth place in the Gauntlet — not champions, but not ignored.
Felix's smirk was faint, but present. Daren's fists clenched with excitement. Jory nearly bounced on his toes. Even Callen, though rolling his eyes, couldn't hide the spark in them.
Bram's Corner
Bram listened, arms crossed. Awards, trophies, MVPs — they weren't his focus. Survival. Growth. That was what mattered.
Still, as the System purred in his head, he knew it wouldn't let him stand still.
[ Oho~ awards! My favorite part. Shiny titles, bragging rights, a sprinkle of glory. Wouldn't it be fun to see "Replay Boy" up there? ]
"Not my goal," Bram muttered.
[ Not yet, maybe. But remember, hero-in-the-making — your main quest isn't just to play. ]
The text shimmered before him, unseen by others.
[ Year 1 Quest: Enter Class A at the end of the year. ]
[Reward: ??? ]
His jaw tightened. He hadn't forgotten.
[ And guess what? ] the System sang. [ This League? It's your stepping stone. Blow it, and Class A will slam shut like a locked chest. Do well, and the path opens. ]
Bram didn't answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the glowing table.
Class A had two squads seeded as favorites. Class C rode the high of their surprise Gauntlet run. Class D lurked, hungry for scraps.
And Class B — his class — had to claw for respect every step.
Faculty Box: Professor Silva adjusted his glasses. "If Class B maintains momentum, they could reach the Knockouts." Coach Marrow grunted. "Momentum is fragile. One stumble, and they'll eat themselves alive."The Headmaster only leaned forward, eyes narrowing slightly on Bram. "We will see."
The Announcement Ends
The Headmaster rose, his presence silencing even the boldest whispers. His voice, calm but unyielding, filled the chamber.
"The Gauntlet tested your courage. The League will test your discipline. Football is not a sprint. It is endurance, patience, and clarity under fire. We will see which of you can rise. And which of you will break."
The banners flared one last time, sealing the words.
[ Academy League Commences in 7 Days. Prepare. ]
The students surged to their feet, excitement and dread mixing like storm winds. Rivalries sparked, boasts were flung, and promises hissed under breath.
Bram exhaled slowly. Seven days. One week to prepare for the battles ahead.
The System giggled in his ear.[ Ready or not, here comes the real game. ]
The Ceremony Hall emptied in waves, laughter and mutters trailing into the stone corridors. Students carried the League's promise on their tongues — goals, victories, rivalries not yet fought.
By nightfall, silence wrapped the academy. The banners had faded, but their glow lingered in memory. Somewhere, nobles sharpened their pride. Commoners nursed fragile dreams.
Bram lay in his bunk, hands folded behind his head, eyes tracing the ceiling. Seven days. Just a week until it began.
The System hummed softly, like a lullaby.[ Tick-tock, little midfielder. The clock's already running. ]
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. His heart was steady, but his thoughts restless — not of trophies or awards, but of the road the League would open.
The Gauntlet had been survival. The League would be something else. A proving ground.
And Bram knew one truth as sleep crept in: If he faltered now, the path to Class A would vanish.
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