The morning air carried a strange electricity. Not the sharp dread of the Gauntlet, but something brighter, sharper — expectation.
Bram felt it before he even left the dormitory wing. Students weren't walking today. They hurried. They clustered in tight knots, voices overlapping like waves. The marble corridor hummed with whispers.
"Class A's already seeded first, you'll see."
"Please, let us draw Class D first. I'm begging the stars."
By the time he reached the central courtyard, the place was already packed. Hundreds of first-years pressed shoulder to shoulder beneath the looming stone pillars. The fountain's waters glittered, but no one admired it. Their eyes were fixed on the great bronze board at the far end of the square.
Lines of light scrolled across it, slot by slot, as though the system itself was carving destiny into the air.
[ Academy League – Year 1 Division ]
Gasps rippled through the crowd as the names appeared.
Class A Squads
A-1: best in class A.
A-2: aggressive attacking squad, relies on raw talent.
A-3: tactical, defense-first style, less flashy but efficient.
A-4: the "weakest" A squad, but still sharper than most B/C/D.
Class B Squads
B-5: balanced squad, steady midfield, their "reliable" team.
B-6: scrappy, counter-attack specialists, but inconsistent.
B-7: resilience-based, chaotic energy.
B-8: young talents, flashy dribblers, but poor teamwork.
Class C Squads
C-9: the Gauntlet shockers, disciplined teamwork, no single star but scary as a unit.
C-10: physical squad, relies on stamina and pressing.
C-11: technical, one creative midfielder carries their flow.
C-12: raw, emotional players, can swing between brilliance and disaster.
Class D Squads
D-13: tough, bruiser squad. Defense like a wall, offense clumsy.
D-14: sneaky counters, play like they have nothing to lose.
D-15: individual hotheads, no discipline, but dangerous if underestimated.
D-16: bottom-tier, considered the weakest squad, but unpredictable.
League Mechanics
16 teams total.
Round-robin → Top 8 qualify.
Weekly matches, 2–4 per week.
7 Players per team.
Every team will be assigned with a coach in their second year.
After 7 weeks, knockout stage begins.
Individual Awards after every match (Man of the Match, Best Play, Rising Star).
Class A Section: When their fixtures glowed, their students chuckled rather than gasped. "Class D first. Figures," one noble scoffed. "The Academy gifts us a warm-up." "They should've just given us a bye. Waste of our time." They leaned against the rails, already bored.
Class C Section: Class C erupted when their first squad drew against another side. "Perfect! We'll show them the Gauntlet wasn't luck!" Laughter and cheers mixed with nervous edges. Class C smelled blood — but also pressure.
Class D Section: Their corner was chaos. Half the students booed at the sight of their opponents; the other half shouted they'd "shock the world." "Doesn't matter who it is! They'll regret underestimating us!" Most of the crowd rolled their eyes, but Class D's reckless defiance still rang loud.
Class B Section: Bram shouldered through to where his teammates clustered. Daren's jaw was tight, Callen leaned back with his usual bored smirk, Felix's eyes stayed locked on the board, and Jory nearly bounced on his toes.
Then the letters glowed.
The courtyard stirred at once.
"Ooooh, B vs C? That's not an easy start, but it's potential that differentiates Class B from Class C. However, when it comes to their strengths and play, there is no difference. " "C's second squad held their own in the Gauntlet."
Felix exhaled through his nose. "Not Class A, at least. We'll take it."
Daren grunted. "Doesn't matter who it is. We'll smash through."
Callen's lips quirked. "
Bram ignored him. His eyes stayed fixed on the glowing names, the letters pulsing faintly like they were alive.
The System Pops In
[ Ding~! ]
[ Ohoho, what a draw! Class C's third squad. Not too strong, not too weak — juuust spicy enough. ]
Bram's brow twitched. You're enjoying this, aren't you?
[ Of course I am! First matches set the tone, Ashcroft Jr. If you flop here, Class B will sink faster than a stone in a river. But if you shine— ]
The text shimmered in golden swirls only he could see:
[ —then you make a statement. ]
Bram crossed his arms, grounding himself against the rising chatter. "I don't need statements."
[ Hehehe. That's what you think. But everyone else? They're not watching football. They're watching you. ]
The words bit sharper than the playful tone suggested.
From across the courtyard, he caught the eyes of Class C's squad. Their captain, a wiry midfielder with cropped hair and sharp eyes, was already staring straight at him. Not gloating. Not mocking. Measuring.
Behind him, his teammates whispered but their focus was the same — not Class B as a whole. Bram.
Felix noticed too. "They're not looking at me," he muttered. "Not at Daren. Only you."
Daren snorted. "Good. Let 'em. They'll regret it."
Bram stayed quiet.
Around the Courtyard
Chatter thickened as the other fixtures finished scrolling. Rivalries were already sparking like tinder catching flame.
Class A laughed too loudly, promising domination. Class D shouted defiance, claiming upsets. Class C burned with quiet intensity, hungry to prove Gauntlet wasn't luck.
And Class B? For the first time, they didn't shrink. Their benches hummed with pride. "Fifth in the Gauntlet, and now we'll climb higher." "With Ashcroft, Felix, and Daren? We've got a shot." "Don't jinx it—!"
But the pride was there, fragile but real.
The bronze board sealed the fixtures with a resonant clang. The letters locked in place, glowing steady now.
[ Matchday 1 begins in 3 days. ]
The crowd slowly scattered, still buzzing with noise, threats, and laughter.
Bram remained for a moment longer, his gaze fixed on his own name. Team 7. Class B. Facing Class C.
He exhaled slowly, clenching his fists, then turned to follow his squad.
The System's voice trailed after him, playful and sing-song.
[ Three days, Ashcroft Jr.~ Three days till the whistle. Don't keep me bored. ]
The training fields spread wide across the academy's eastern wing, four squares of green etched with faint runes that shimmered whenever the ball touched them. Enhancements — built to mimic real-match intensity, to sharpen reactions and test stamina.
Class B's squads had been granted the field second rotation that morning. By the time Bram jogged across the turf with his teammates, Class A was wrapping up their drills.
It wasn't just training. It was theater.
They moved like a single body — crisp passes snapping faster than eyes could follow, runs cut razor-sharp, no wasted motion. Their captain barked once, and the entire squad pivoted seamlessly into a press that looked suffocating even from the sidelines.
The watching crowd of mixed-class students murmured in awe.
"That's Class A for you." "Three passes and they're already at goal." "Different species…"
Lucien, Bram's brother also in year one smirked as his shot blasted into the net, then turned deliberately toward the Class B benches. His eyes slid past Felix, past Daren, and locked briefly on Bram — sharp and mocking.
The message needed no words: This is what real Ashcrofts should look like.
Bram's chest tightened but he didn't flinch. He just tied his laces tighter.
Class B Takes the Field
"Move it, lads," Feine, their assigned coach from class B in his second year. snapped, sharp as ever. He clapped his hands, gathering their squad. "We don't care about A's circus. We've got C breathing down our necks in three days. Focus."
Daren thumped his chest. "We'll smash them, easy."
"Not if you overcommit like last time," Callen muttered, rolling his eyes. "Try using your head for once."
Jory, jittery as ever, bounced from foot to foot. "We're gonna shock them. I can feel it. This is our year, right? Right?"
Feine ignored the noise and pointed to Bram. "Ashcroft, start us. Tempo drills. Show me you can keep the ball moving."
Bram nodded, stepping forward. The ball hissed against the carved turf as it rolled to his boot. He tapped it once, twice, then slid it out — sharp pass to Callen, who returned it, then redirected to Jory.
Replay Vision flickered faintly in his sight, ghost-lines of possible passes. The new Tier 1 upgrade wasn't stable yet, but it buzzed sharper, longer than before. His body moved smoother with it, chaining short passes until the rhythm pulsed.
Felix smirked faintly. "Better. Keep it sharp."
The System's Chatter
[ Ding~! ][ Ooooh, look at you go! Passing sharper, feet lighter. Almost like you're turning into a real midfielder. ]
Bram breathed through his nose. Almost?
[ Hehehe, don't pout. You're not there yet. But hey — Tier 1 Replay Vision isn't just about flashy lines. Feel that extra second? That's breathing room. That's what saves you when everyone else panics. ]
"…Doesn't stop me from losing the ball."
[ Oh, it will. In time. Or maybe you'll just break your ankles trying to follow too many lines at once. Who knows~ ]
Bram shook his head slightly, refocusing on the drill.
Across the fence, Class C's squad was already gathering for their own session. Their captain — the wiry midfielder Bram had locked eyes with earlier — leaned against the rail, watching intently.
His teammates whispered, but their captain said nothing. Just watched. Measuring.
Feine noticed and narrowed his eyes. "Good. Let them stare. We'll give them something to choke on."
As the drill picked up speed, Bram's boots striking sharper, his chest filled with a strange fire. He wasn't chasing applause. He wasn't even chasing awards.
But three days from now, when the whistle blew, it wouldn't be Class A, Class C, or Class D that decided who he was.
It would be the ball.
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