The horn blared, echoing off the dome's high rafters. Players jogged back onto the field, boots stamping against the turf like war drums. The scoreboard still glowed:
Class B7 – 1 | Class C10 – 0
But one goal was nothing. A thread of silk ready to snap.
The referee blew the whistle. Second half.
Class C stormed out as if unleashed from chains. Their captain barked orders, shoving his teammates into position. The ball zipped across their midfield, faster, sharper than before.
"High press!" someone shouted from the stands.
Bram felt it instantly. The pitch seemed to shrink. Space evaporated. Every pass he touched drew two shadows, snapping at his heels.
"Keep calm!" he barked, pushing the ball back to Felix.
Felix didn't flinch. He spread it wide to Callen, who quickly returned it inside. Small passes, tight triangles. Survival football.
32th Minute C10's winger tore down the right, cutting inside Jory. He drove toward the box, the crowd on their feet.
Thud! Felix slid in clean, body low, studs tucked. The ball ricocheted out for a throw. The referee pointed firmly: no foul.
Roars erupted. Half the stadium cheered, half booed.
Felix stood, brushing dirt off his jersey, face stone-cold. "Not today," he muttered.
Team C10's pressure didn't relent. Another one-two sliced through midfield. Their striker burst free, sprinting toward the line.
Cross whipped in—dangerous.
Bam! Keeper Mhed punched it clear, knuckles stinging. The rebound spun to Bram.
He killed the ball with his instep, lifted his head. No time to dribble. No time to breathe. He slipped a quick diagonal to Daren.
Daren shielded, muscles taut, then laid it off to Callen on the wing. For a second, the crowd rose—counter!—but Callen's cross was intercepted. The chance fizzled.
Groans echoed from Class B's section.
34nd Minute Class C nearly struck. Their captain threaded a perfect ball through the lines. The striker met it first-time, blasting toward the near post.
"Keeper!" Felix shouted.
Mhed flung himself low, glove smothering the shot. The rebound popped up—dangerous—before Bram hooked it away with a desperate clearance.
Gasps. That close. Too close.
36th Minute The referee's patience thinned. Jory lunged late again, clipping ankles. Whistle. Free kick, dangerous range.
C10's captain placed the ball. Twenty-five yards out. Perfect for a curler.
The dome buzzed. Students leaned forward, breath caught.
Run-up. Strike.
The ball bent viciously toward the top corner.
But Mhed leapt—fingers brushing it—tipping it onto the crossbar. The rebound bounced out, Felix hammering it clear.
"YES!" Class B's section roared, voices raw.
The game had become survival. Every duel, every touch, weighed heavy. Class C surged like a storm tide, but Class B clung to their ground.
Bram's lungs burned, but his voice didn't falter. "Hold the line!" "Don't crack!" "Wait for the chance!"
The whistle hadn't saved them yet. But they were still standing.
And deep inside, Bram felt it: the storm was building toward something.
39th Minute Class C kept pounding. Their players moved like waves, crashing harder, faster, more ruthless. The noise in the dome was deafening, chants clashing from both sides.
Then it happened.
A long ball floated over Class B's back line. Their striker surged in, slipping just between Felix and Jory.
Chest down. Swing. Thwack!
The net bulged.
Class C's section erupted. Flags waved, throats ripped raw from screaming. Their players sprinted to the corner, piling on top of their striker. 1–1.
Bram's stomach sank.
But—
The referee wasn't pointing to the center circle. Instead, his hand went to his earpiece. He stood frozen, palm raised, signaling for the players to wait.
The dome shifted instantly. Cheers turned into restless murmurs. Class B's side held their breath.
"VAR check!" someone shouted.
Up above the pitch, the massive holo-screen lit up.
Potential Offside – Goal Under Review.
The replay played. First angle: the striker's run looked clean. Cheers erupted from Class C's bench. Second angle: tighter. The pass left the boot, the striker's shoulder seemed… ahead. Groans.
Third angle: the freeze-frame. A red line appeared across the turf. Then a blue line. The striker's knee was leaning past it. Just by an inch.
The crowd exploded in mixed chaos—half screaming injustice, half cheering salvation.
The referee listened. Waited. Then raised his arm.
"No goal!"
Decision: Offside.
The roar from Class B's section nearly lifted the roof. Felix punched the air once, jaw tight. Mhed dropped to his knees, relief flooding out.
Bram exhaled, chest heaving. Saved by a sliver of grass.
Class C raged. Their captain stormed toward the referee, arms wide. Teammates followed, surrounding him. The referee stood firm, voice sharp, eyes colder than stone.
Yellow card. Protesting.
The captain's fury boiled, but he had no choice. He shoved the ball back for the restart.
Energy shifted. Class B smelled blood in the chaos.
Felix intercepted another rushed pass, immediately sending Bram forward. Bram skipped past one press, fed Daren down the channel. Daren muscled through a challenge, but his shot was dragged wide.
Groans again, but the momentum was tilting.
42th Minute The dome still buzzed about VAR. Class C's section booed relentlessly, chants of "Thieves! Thieves!" echoing.
But on the pitch, Bram's voice cut clear:"Stay sharp! They're rattled!"
And he was right. The storm hadn't passed—it had shifted.
44th Minute The restart crackled with nervous energy. Class C were still furious, their captain barking orders louder than ever. Their attacks turned reckless, pushing too many men forward.
Bram saw it. He gestured sharply. "Now! Counter!"
Felix won a header, knocking it down for Jory. Jory didn't hesitate—two touches and slid it straight to Bram.
Bram turned on his heel, Replay Vision flaring. He saw Percy sprinting into space. A single threaded pass cut through Class C's midfield like silk.
Percy burst forward, the crowd rising. Defender chasing, lungs burning. He whipped a cross toward the box—
Daren charging!
Daren met it full stride, body coiled—shot! Deflected! The ball smacked a defender's shin and spun away. Groans tore through Class B's supporters.
But Bram was already waving. "More! Again!"
46th Minute The referee's whistle pierced the noise. Callen had been clipped late near the sideline. Foul. Free kick for Class B.
VAR flashed briefly to check for violent conduct, but the screen confirmed: reckless, not malicious. Just a warning.
Felix stepped up for the free kick. Bram muttered under his breath, "Make it count."
The delivery was vicious—curling, dipping into the six-yard box. Daren rose, colliding with two defenders. His header thundered down—straight at the keeper. Safe hands.
The dome groaned in disappointment.
48th Minute Class C snapped back immediately. Their winger tore down the left, Callen chasing desperately. A quick one-two and the winger burst into the box.
Felix moved to cover—but the winger tumbled under his shoulder.
Whistle.
The stadium froze.
Penalty?
The referee held his whistle in his mouth, arm raised again—VAR check.
The big screen flickered. Replays rolled. Contact was there, but the winger had dragged his leg, selling it hard. The faculty box itself buzzed, professors murmuring at the borderline decision.
Final ruling: No Penalty. Simulation.Yellow card to the winger.
The stadium erupted—half with cheers, half with venomous boos. Class C's bench nearly exploded, players screaming at the injustice.
Felix smirked, chest puffed. "Too easy."
The tension was unbearable. Class C were losing control. Their tackles turned harder, fouls stacking. Their coach screamed himself hoarse, but his players barely listened.
And Class B—They smelled blood.
Bram picked the ball near the halfway line. He slowed, then burst forward past one man, then another. Replay Vision flickered, showing two glowing lanes. He chose the sharper one—slid it through for Daren.
Daren turned, hammered a shot from distance—Just wide!
Gasps. The net rippled, but only from wind.
50th Minute The referee blew for a brief injury pause—Class C's midfielder rolling after colliding with Jory. Trainers rushed in.
Both sides caught their breath, but the atmosphere was electric. One mistake, one spark, and the match would explode again.
Bram wiped sweat from his face. He wasn't just playing anymore. He was dictating.
And he could feel it—the next goal would decide everything.
52th Minute The injury pause ended. The referee's whistle restarted the storm. Class C poured everything forward—midfielders, fullbacks, even their captain bombing into the final third.
It was chaos.
Felix roared at the back, organizing. "Hold the line! No gaps!"
Bram dropped deeper, lungs burning, eyes darting. Replay Vision flickered faintly, but fatigue blurred the lines. He had to trust instinct now.
A long ball dropped into the box. Felix rose again, clearing with a monster header. But the rebound fell straight to a Class C midfielder.
Volley! Mhed dove full stretch—fingertips! The ball ricocheted off the post and spun out.
The dome gasped. A hair's breadth from disaster.
Bram clenched his jaw. "No more."
54th Minute Class B countered. Jory nicked a loose ball, darting forward, and found Bram in stride.
Bram's touch was heavy—defender lunged—Bram recovered with a snap-turn.The crowd roared.
He spotted Daren peeling wide. Quick pass, then sprinted to join. Callen overlapped on the right. Cross whipped low—defender blocked, corner given.
The referee pointed to the flag.
Corner kick. Bram jogged to take it. He breathed, crowd noise crashing around him.
He whipped it in, near post. Felix thundered in, colliding with the keeper. Ball spilled loose—chaos—Jory swung a boot—deflected out.
"Again!" Bram shouted, pumping his arms. The momentum was theirs.
Class C tried again, desperate now. Their striker bulldozed through two tackles and fired—wide. His scream of frustration echoed in the dome.
Time drained away.
58th Minute Substitution for Class B. Feine Rennard signaled—fresh legs in midfield, Percy off, Collins a steadier runner on.
"Lock it down," Feine barked. "Five minutes. No mistakes."
Bram nodded, feeling his chest tighten with pressure.
60th Minute + Added Time: 3 Minutes The board went up. The dome shook—three minutes for Class C to claw back, for Class B to survive.
The first minute—attack after attack. Crosses whipped, bodies clashed, the referee waving play on.
Second minute—Bram intercepted, launched Callen forward. Callen cut inside, took a shot—parried. No rebound.
The third minute—the last storm.
Class C's captain carried the ball, weaving past one, past two. He reached the box. Shot loaded—
Felix lunged, blocking with his chest. The ball spilled loose. Another Class C striker pounced—
Mhed dove, smothering it with both gloves.
The whistle.
Full-time.
The scoreboard froze: Class B 7 – 1 | Class C 10 – 0
The stadium erupted. Cheers, groans, chants all crashing together.
Felix collapsed on the grass, arms wide. Daren leapt onto Bram's back, nearly crushing him. Callen pounded the air with both fists.
Bram just stood there, chest heaving, staring at the scoreboard.
We did it.
The System chimed in, smug and playful:[ Ding~! League Debut: Victory Secured. Assist: Logged. Standing: Rising. ][ Not bad, Ashcroft Jr. Think they'll remember your name now? ]
Bram exhaled, unable to stop the smile breaking across his face.
They would.
The locker tunnels funneled the noise into a dull echo. Class B-7 walked back, lungs still burning from the war on the pitch. Some grinned, some limped, but all of them carried one thing they hadn't in years—belief.
When they reached the Ceremony Hall, the crowd was already gathered. Holographic banners pulsed above the marble floor, waiting for the system to tally the first week.
The table shimmered into existence. Four glowing columns: Class A, Class B, Class C, Class D. Each squad's emblem hovered, shifting into order.
The crowd surged closer.
The Table after Matchday 1
A1. 3points, 3goals.
A3. 3points, 2goals.
A2. 3points, 1goal.
B7. 3points, 1goal.
D14. 3points, 1goal.
C9. 3points, 1goal.
C12. 1point, 0goal.
A4. 1point, 0goal.
...
...
...
Gasps rippled.
Class B students erupted in cheers, pounding fists into the air.
Felix grinned like a wolf. Daren nearly started chanting on the spot. Even Callen's eyes glittered with pride.
Bram only stared at the glowing B-7 beside the giants of A1 and A3. His heartbeat thudded.
[ Week 1 Awards ]
A new set of panels spun into view:
Man of the Match (Match B7 vs C10): Mhed (Goalkeeper, B7)
Rising Star: Bram Ashcroft (Midfielder, B7) – First League assist involvement.
The hall roared again.
"Rising Star?" Jory gaped. "Already?!"
Felix clapped Bram on the back so hard his lungs nearly emptied. "See, Captain Serious? Even the board agrees."
Bram muttered, "…too soon."
[ Too soon? ] the System chuckled in his head, voice dripping with amusement. [ No, no, Ashcroft Jr. This is just the beginning. ]
Above them, the holograms locked the results. Week 1 was done. Week 2 loomed.
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