The stadium wasn't as colossal as the Gauntlet Dome, but it pulsed with a different kind of energy. The stands were packed with first-years, flags draped over railings, voices crashing like waves.
Bram exhaled slowly, boots planted on the turf. The referee — stern-faced, whistle gleaming — checked both squads. His assistants took their places at the lines, VAR cameras hovering from crystal towers above the field, already tracking every blade of grass.
"Play smart," Bram told Felix under his breath." Play to win," Felix shot back with a grin.
The whistle cut the air.
Kickoff.
1st Minute Class C-10 took the ball first. Their striker, broad-shouldered and quick, laid it back to midfield. Instantly, they pushed wide, flooding the wings.
"Watch the overlap!" Bram shouted, already sliding left.
C-10's winger cut inside, testing Jory. Jory lunged, mistimed. The crowd groaned. The winger slipped past — but Daren body-checked him hard. The referee's whistle hovered at his lips… then stayed silent. Play on.
In the 3rd Minute Pressure mounted. Class C played with sharp, direct passes, hungry for an early strike. A chipped ball arced into the box.
Felix rose, chest firm, and cleared with authority. "Out!"
The rebound rolled to Bram. A heartbeat. Two. His instincts surged. He feinted left, slipped right, and broke into space.
[ +1 Dribbling EXP ] the System chimed cheekily. [ Replay Boy finally moves forward, not backward! ]
Bram ignored it. He carried the ball across midfield before sliding it diagonally to Callen, who was already sprinting up the right flank.
The crowd roared at the counter.
Callen cut inside, shaking his marker. He squared for Daren — heavy touch. The chance fizzled as C-10 swarmed.
"Settle down!" Bram barked, gesturing with his arms. His teammates nodded, adrenaline still buzzing.
in the 7th Minute A foul. Class C's midfielder clipped Jory's heels. The referee raised his hand: free kick, Class B. The stands erupted in a mix of cheers and jeers.
Felix jogged upfield. "We test them early?" Bram nodded. "Load the box."
The ball curled in — a dangerous delivery. Felix rose high, clashing with two defenders. His header skimmed just wide.
"Ooooh!" the stands cried.
— Goal kick.
10th Minute The rhythm settled. Both sides traded possession, tackles flying, the referee letting them play hard. Every clash drew gasps, but no whistles yet.
Bram kept scanning. This isn't the Gauntlet. This is football.
The System chuckled.[ Look at you, Captain Serious. Don't forget — football's supposed to be fun. Now, go steal the spotlight. ]
Bram rolled his eyes, but a faint smile ghosted his lips as the ball rolled back to him.
11th Minute The ball zipped across Class C's midfield. Their captain, a lean boy with a sharp jaw, dictated tempo with crisp one-touches.
Bram shadowed him, step for step. Every time he pivoted, Bram's shadow was there. Not diving in, not reckless — just patient. Waiting.
The crowd murmured. Even the announcer in the faculty box noted, "Ashcroft playing the long game. He's not pressing, he's shepherding."
Class C switched flanks. Their winger burst down the left — Callen's side. Callen backpedaled, teeth grit.
"Force him out!" Bram yelled.
The winger feinted inside, then drove for the byline. Cross whipped in — dangerous.
Felix again. Towering leap, forehead smashing the ball clear. "Mine!" he barked.
The ball dropped to Bram's feet. He cushioned it, pivoted, and in one smooth motion slid a through-ball upfield to Dashes, one of their selected player.
Gasps. Beautiful release.
Dashes sprinted, eyes locked on goal — but his shot went wild, slicing high.
The referee gestured: goal kick.
Tension simmered. Tackles snapped harder now.
Class C's midfielder lunged late on Jory. Whistle. The referee strode in, hand raised. Yellow card.
The stadium booed and cheered in equal measure. VAR blinked red briefly, reviewing. Confirmation: studs down, reckless but not dangerous. Yellow stands.
Bram pulled Jory back before he could argue. "Let it go. Focus."
18th Minute Momentum tilted. Class B strung passes together, Bram orchestrating. He shifted the ball left, then back right, making Class C chase.
Feine called out, "Patience!" Jory, calmer now, slotted into space.
Then it came — the opening.
Callen darted down the wing, received a diagonal from Bram, and whipped in a low cross. Daren lunged… blocked.
Groans from the crowd. But for the first time, Class C looked rattled.
21st Minute Class C countered fast. Their striker spun past Jory, legs pumping like pistons.
He drove into the box — only Felix stood between him and glory.
The striker dropped his shoulder, cutting inside. Felix didn't bite. Shoulder met chest. Boom.
The striker hit the turf. The referee's whistle stayed frozen. VAR lights flashed, reviewing the contact.
The stadium held its breath. Replay shimmered on the big screen. Clean. Felix had braced perfectly, using strength not foul.
Play resumed. Cheers thundered from Class B's side. Felix's smirk said it all.
Class B pushed again. The ball rotated — Bram at the center. His vision sharpened. He spotted Callen peeling off his marker.
Perfect timing. Pass slid through like silk.
Callen surged into the box. One-on-one. Shot — saved! The keeper sprawled, palms stinging.
Rebound spilled loose. Daren charged. Defender blocked. Chaos erupted.
Whistle. Offside on Callen's run. linesman confirmed in seconds. Groans rippled.
The game had turned into a storm. End to end, wave to wave.
Bram breathed hard but steady. He wasn't drowning this time. He was swimming.
The System piped up, smug.[ Oho~ look at you, midfield maestro. Did you feel that last pass? That's called vision, baby. ]"…shut up," Bram muttered in his conscious, but the grin tugging his mouth betrayed him.
A corner for Class C. Their captain whipped it near post. A header flashed — just wide.
Hearts skipped. The stadium buzzed louder, both sides knowing the first goal could shatter balance.
The referee blew for a brief pause, water break. Players jogged toward their benches.
Class B huddled. Feine's voice boomed. "We're holding. Next chance, we bury it. Stay sharp. "Bram nodded, sweat dripping down his temple. His eyes stayed fixed on the pitch.
He could feel it. The storm was building.
Water break over. The referee whistled, and the storm resumed.
Class C pressed high, forcing mistakes. Their captain snapped orders, voice slicing through the noise. "Tight! Don't give him space!"
Every time Bram touched the ball, two men swarmed. He turned sharply, dragging his studs over the turf, slipping the ball back to Felix before the trap closed. Safe, but smothering.
Then in the 34th Minute A loose ball fell near midfield. Jory lunged, too slow. Class C's winger pounced, streaking into open grass.
The stands erupted — dangerous!
Callen sprinted to cover. The winger cut inside, curling a shot toward the far corner.
Keeper dove — fingertips. The ball clanged off the post and spun out. Gasps exploded through the dome.
Class B exhaled as one. Jory buried his face in his hands. "My fault…"Bram clapped his shoulder. "Then fix it. Next time, you win it."
Class B clawed momentum back. Pass, pass, pass — Bram dictating rhythm. He slowed when they needed breath, accelerated when Class C blinked.
Then it came — the break.
Bram received a return ball at the edge of the center circle. His vision flickered. Replay Vision activated. Lines of possibility spiderwebbed ahead.
One burned brighter.
He feinted left, slid a disguised ball straight through the gap. It split Class C's midfield clean.
Gasps. Callen exploded forward onto it, cutting down the right. He whipped in a cross.
Daren rose — higher than both defenders — and thundered a header down.
Saved! The keeper parried, ball bouncing loose.
Chaos. Feet swung, bodies tangled.
The pace shredded lungs. Players staggered, sweat streaking their faces. But neither side relented.
Then Class C snapped back. A clever one-two cut past Jory again. Their striker drove into the box. Percy, also in B7 lunged — mistimed. The striker tumbled.
Whistle. The referee pointed straight to the spot. Penalty.
The dome erupted, half in cheers, half in outrage. VAR review lit crimson. Replay rolled. Contact was there — but light. The striker sold it.
Decision upheld. Penalty stands.
Class B's bench howled. Feine slammed the turf with his fist. "He dove!"
Bram's jaw locked. He stepped in front of Felix. "Enough. Eyes forward."
The striker placed the ball. Keeper on the line, bouncing nervously.
Whistle. Run-up. Strike—
Saved! Mhed The keeper flung low left, gloves smothering. The ball ricocheted out.
The dome shook with noise. Class B's section roared like thunder.
Felix roared too, pointing at the keeper. "That's our wall!"
Energy surged from the save. Class B countered instantly. Bram darted forward with the ball, weaving through pressure.
Replay Vision flickered again. For a heartbeat, he saw it — a thin line threading between defenders.
He slotted the ball. Daren burst through.
The striker barreled into the box. One-on-one. He didn't hesitate this time. Shot low. For a brief moment the stadium was quiet, all waiting, then.
Goooal.
Net rippled. The stadium exploded. Class B 1 – 0 Class C 10
Daren sprinted to the corner, fists pumping. Felix crushed Bram in a bear hug, nearly lifting him off the ground. Jory collapsed to his knees in relief.
The referee signaled kickoff. Two minutes to halftime.
30th Minute + Added Time Class C pushed desperately, but their passes tangled under pressure. Their captain cursed, barking louder, but Class B stood firm.
The whistle blew.
Halftime. Class B 1 – 0 Class C 10
The dome hummed with noise — disbelief, cheers, rage, awe. Class B walked off, shoulders high, while Class C simmered, glaring daggers.
Bram's chest heaved, sweat soaking his jersey. But beneath exhaustion, one thought cut sharp and clear:
We're not fodder.
The System's voice purred, smug and playful.[ Ding~! Congratulations, Ashcroft Jr. First League goal involvement. Assist credit pending, but hey — who's counting? ]
"…you are." Bram muttered, unable to stop the grin tugging at his lips.
On the glowing scoreboard: Class B 7 – 1 | Class C 10 – 0
Relief rippled through the squad, but none of them dared smile. A single goal was fragile. In the League, margins meant nothing — momentum could turn with one mistake.
"Bench. Now!" Their assigned student-coach's voice carried across the pitch, clipped and sharp. A Year 2, lean and hawk-eyed, with the presence of someone who had seen this before.
The boys jogged off, jerseys clinging, lungs burning. They sank to the bench where their coach stood, arms crossed. His name — Feine Rennard — was whispered in Class B as one of the sharper tacticians among the Year 2s. Not a noble, not a star, but clever, unflinching, and hungry to prove he deserved a shot at coaching higher squads one day.
"This is what halftime is for," Feine began, pacing before them. "Reflection. Correction. Execution." His tone left no room for chatter.
"Class C won't come back timid. They'll press. Their wide men will pin you, and their striker will drag you apart with diagonal runs." He jabbed a finger toward Callen. "You — sit deeper, screen those lanes. If you switch off, we're punished."
Callen bristled, but swallowed the retort.
Feine's eyes snapped to Jory. "And you — enough circus touches. Two-touch passing only. If you lose it once more in our half, you're done."
Jory's face burned crimson. "Y-yes."
Then the gaze turned to Bram. "You calmed us when it mattered. Good. But don't just react — dictate. You have the engine for it. If you hesitate, they'll eat you alive."
Bram stiffened. Replay Vision flickered in his mind, unspoken, but Feine's words cut close anyway.
The squad listened in silence. Feine wasn't Marrow, wasn't Silva, wasn't a professor. But his words carried weight — and if they wanted to survive this League, they'd have to trust him.
Around the dome, other squads huddled in their own corners.
Class C Team 10's bench was chaos by comparison. Their coach, a nervous Year 2 with ink-stained hands, flapped at the tactical board. "You—you need to close the half-spaces, yes, half-spaces!" His voice cracked, drowned by players bickering. "We're fine, we just need to shoot more!" one striker argued. The coach's words barely pierced the din.
The contrast was clear: in some squads, halftime was chess. In others, chaos.
Faculty Box
From above, the professors observed.
Professor Silva's glasses gleamed. "It isn't only the players being measured. You see? These student-coaches are candidates for leadership programs. Their performances will shape next year's ranks."
Professor Harkan's quill scratched. "Indeed. The League is a crucible for all. Even those who do not touch the ball."
Coach Marrow grunted. "Talk is talk. Let's see whose words hold when the pitch gets ugly."
The Headmaster said nothing. His gaze swept the benches, pausing — just a moment — on Feine Rennard's sharp commands.
Back to Bram's Bench
Feine Rennard clapped his hands once, snapping his squad's focus back. "We're ahead. But ahead means nothing if you stop fighting. Second half is survival. Control the tempo, kill their belief. And if a chance comes—bury it."
Daren thumped his chest. Felix smirked faintly. Jory exhaled shakily. Callen muttered, "Fine, fine," but his eyes burned sharper than before.
Bram simply nodded, jaw tight. Survival, growth, control — the words rang in him like drumbeats.
The horn blared.
Second half awaited.
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