The whistle had long since blown, but the noise hadn't died.
Class B-7 filed off the pitch in a ragged line, sweat-soaked and battered, but every step carried something new. The stands weren't jeering. They weren't laughing. They were cheering. For them.
It wasn't the wall of sound reserved for Class A squads, not polished and thunderous, but it was raw, unrestrained. A roar of disbelief, joy, even pride.
"B-7! B-7!" a pocket of voices started chanting. A handful at first, then swelling until the tunnel walls shook.
Felix smirked, wolfish. "Haven't heard that since… ever." Daren grinned so wide his cheeks hurt. He pumped his fists to the crowd, earning another wave of cheers. Even Callen, usually so dry, muttered under his breath, "Guess hell froze over."
Bram didn't wave. He didn't grin. He just kept walking, boots heavy, heart hammering. The sound pressed against him like a tide. Not mockery. Not dismissal. Something else. Recognition.
From the upper tiers, other squads watched.
Class A students leaned against the railings, faces lit by the holographic scoreboard. Some scoffed, dismissive, but their eyes lingered longer than before.
"B7 actually beat them?" "Must've been a fluke. Ashcroft's still carrying water for his brother.""…Still. Didn't look like a fluke from that pass."
Class D's clusters hollered approval, treating the upset like a rebellion. Class C muttered and glared, pride stung.
And through it all, Bram's name threaded on whispers: Ashcroft. Ashcroft. Ashcroft. Not Lucien's brother. Not fodder. His name.
For the first time since stepping foot in the Academy, Bram Ashcroft was no longer invisible.
The tunnel swallowed them, noise fading to echoes, but the weight of it followed.
The locker room reeked of sweat, leather, and adrenaline. Jerseys clung, boots scraped against the stone floor, lungs still catching up to the chaos they'd endured.
Then—
"YEAAAHHH!" Daren roared, punching the air as if the goal had just gone in again. The rest of the squad laughed, tension cracking into relief.
Felix dropped heavily onto the bench, tugging off his shin guards with a grunt. His face betrayed nothing, but the faintest curve at his mouth betrayed him. "Not bad. Could've been better."
"Better?" Jory sputtered, slumping beside him. "We won!
Felix arched a brow. "Doesn't matter. Next one's what counts."
Jory groaned, burying his face in a towel. "I almost cost us with that turnover. Twice."
Bram clapped him on the shoulder, firm. "You didn't. Mhed saved, we recovered, and we scored. Mistakes don't define the game. Response does."
Jory blinked at him, surprised by the calm in Bram's tone. Slowly, he nodded. "…Right."
Callen peeled off his jersey, hair plastered to his forehead. "Still think we should've buried two more. But, eh… better than losing." His smirk didn't hide the spark of pride in his eyes.
Daren, still pacing like a caged animal, pointed at Bram. "That pass, though. Right through the middle. You saw it before anyone else—didn't you? Don't deny it."
Bram didn't answer. Replay Vision flickered unbidden in his mind. He only muttered, "It worked. That's enough."
The laughter and chatter swirled, louder now, the squad basking in something they'd been starved of: belonging to a victory.
The door banged shut.
Feine Rennard stepped in. Their student-coach's presence cut the noise at once. Lean, sharp-eyed, hands still ink-stained from his tactical notes, he scanned them like a general surveying troops.
"One win," Feine said evenly, "doesn't make a season."
Silence.
"You fought hard, but mistakes nearly buried you. Jory—cut the hero moves. Callen—track back faster. Percy —you were solid, but don't get complacent. And Bram—" His gaze landed, steady, unflinching. "Good composure. Keep dictating. You're not just part of the game anymore. You shape it."
Bram sat still, back rigid, heat creeping up his neck.
Feine clapped his hands once. "Enjoy tonight. But tomorrow? We reset. Sharp minds, sharper feet. The League doesn't forgive arrogance."
Then he turned and strode out, leaving the team with the weight of his words—and the electric high of victory still buzzing through their veins.
The faculty box overlooked the dome, glass walls catching the hum of the crowd as it began to thin. Professors lingered, their eyes not on the departing students, but on the names now etched into the glowing League table.
Professor Silva adjusted his glasses, lips curved into the faintest smile. "Interesting. Ashcroft Jr. — controlled the midfield far more than I expected. For someone branded a shadow of his brothers, he held his ground."
Coach Marrow snorted, arms folded across his chest like a fortress. "Hmph. Don't start singing praises yet. One pass doesn't make a midfielder. Class C-10 were sloppy. I'll call it grit, nothing more."
At the edge of the box, Professor Harkan scratched notes with his ever-scraping quill. "Not just the players. Look at their bench." His quill tipped toward Feine Rennard, who was already leading his squad down the tunnel. "That boy showed poise. Tactical clarity. Not common among Year 2s."
"Bah." Marrow waved it off. "He'll be chewed up when the pressure mounts. Coaching is easy when you're winning."
The Headmaster said nothing. He leaned against the glass rail, eyes narrowed as if he could pierce straight through the layers of noise, flesh, and nerves, down to the raw potential glowing faint in certain players. His gaze lingered on Bram Ashcroft — longer than the boy would have ever noticed.
Finally, the Headmaster turned. "It is only week one." His voice was soft, yet it silenced the others. "But the League… has already shifted."
The words hung in the air, heavier than applause.
Morning in the academy corridors was different after League matches. The stone arches usually echoed with yawns and half-asleep footsteps; today, they buzzed like a marketplace.
"Did you see the save?!" "Mhed practically flew—penalty heroics, man!" "No, no, Felix's block was better. That's how you defend!"
Banners of House colors hung heavier, brighter somehow, as if the victories of yesterday had polished the air itself.
And among it all, Bram's name spread like wildfire.
"Ashcroft Jr. got Rising Star?" "Crazy. Didn't even know he could play this well." "Guess talent runs in the blood…""…or maybe he just got lucky."
Others sneered, Some argued, but the whispers stayed constant: Ashcroft.
Bram walked through the tide, bag slung over his shoulder, head lowered just enough to ignore, just enough to hear everything. Callen nudged him with a smirk. "You're a celebrity now. Want me to start signing autographs for you?"
"Shut up."
But Daren was grinning ear to ear, retelling his goal to anyone who asked (and even those who didn't). Jory lingered closer to Bram, quieter, muttering apologies every so often until Bram sighed, "One mistake isn't your career, Jory. Drop it."
Across the corridor, Class A students loitered near the stairwell, draped in smug confidence. One of them — tall, golden-haired, sharp smile — leaned casually with arms folded. Lucien Ashcroft.
"Rising Star, huh?" His voice cut across the chatter like a blade.
Bram froze.
Lucien's eyes, cold and calculating yet laced with mocking warmth, locked on his brother. "Careful, Bram. You're making our name look… interesting."
Some of his classmates chuckled. Others stayed silent, watching.
Bram exhaled slowly, fighting the heat rising in his chest. He didn't answer.
Bram clenched his jaw, ignoring it — but the faintest twitch of a grin betrayed him.
Lucien tilted his head, as if sensing the flicker. Then he smirked and walked away, leaving the corridor humming with fresh rumors.
Behind him, Lucien's smirk deepened—not mockery this time, but something quieter. Calculating.
The whispers roared back in, hotter than before.
**
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