The following morning, the roar of the corridors had been replaced with the clash of boots and the sharp whistle of discipline.
The practice dome stretched wide and high, its turf glimmering faintly under the enchanted lights. Here, the League hype didn't matter. There were no cheering students, no whispers of Rising Stars. Only work.
Feine Rennard stood with arms folded, whistle hanging at his neck, tactical board tucked under one arm. His eyes scanned B-7 like a hawk's.
"Congratulations," he said flatly. "You survived Week One."
The squad—still buzzing faintly from victory—shifted uneasily.
Feine's voice cut sharper. "But surviving once isn't a season. Look at the table." He tapped the board. Holo-light projected the standings, where B-7 sat fourth. Above them, three Class A squads gleamed untouchable. "One slip, and you're back where everyone expects you to be."
Silence.
Feine pointed to Felix. "Defensive rotations. You held well, but Class C cut through twice. Fix it." To Callen: "Your track-backs were late. I don't care how many crosses you whip—if you leave space behind, we bleed goals." To Daren: "Good finish. But you missed two more. Ruthlessness wins matches. Not almost." His gaze landed on Bram. Steady. Unblinking. "And you."
Bram straightened.
Feine's voice didn't soften. "Good composure. Dictated the rhythm when the game turned chaotic. But you hesitated twice—once on the counter, once in buildup. Decide faster."
Bram's throat tightened, but he nodded. "Understood." And also Percy, you were quiet through out the game. Improve your involvement.
Feine let the silence hang, then blew his whistle. "Pair drills. Move!"
Boots thundered as they spread across the turf. The atmosphere shifted—lighter than the battlefield of the weekend, but still sharp, alive. Every sprint, every pass carried weight.
Felix barked orders in defense, slamming into Callen during shoulder drills.Collins and Jory fumbled a first touch, cursed, then nailed the next. Daren sprinted until his lungs wheezed, refusing to let anyone call him lazy.
Percy calm as ever, made his cut in runs.
Bram worked midfield passing circuits, sweat dripping down his neck. Every ball demanded more—faster, sharper, cleaner. The whispers of the corridor echoed faintly in his ears, but he shoved them aside. On the turf, only the next pass mattered.
Still, he felt eyes. Feine's, measuring, testing. Always calculating.
And Bram wondered—just how far did their coach expect them to go?
The faculty box overlooked the training pitches, glass walls fogged faintly from the early chill. Professors lingered with steaming cups in hand, their gazes fixed below where squads tore into morning drills.
Professor Silva adjusted his scarf, eyes narrowing on Class B-7. "Notice how their spacing is tighter now? Ashcroft Jr. is holding the center like a pivot stone."
Coach Marrow gave a low grunt. "One pass and one win don't make him a commander.
Silva's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Perhaps. Or perhaps he's proving that being the fourth Ashcroft brother doesn't mean being third-rate."
Professor Harkan's quill scraped against parchment, jotting furiously. "Not just the boy. Rennard's adjustments were sharp. The way he rebalanced their lines after halftime—rare awareness for a Year 2 student-coach."
Marrow snorted, folding arms like iron gates. "Coaches are tested in losses, not wins. Let's see them bleed first."
At the far end of the pitch, Class A-1 drilled in perfect synchrony, Lucien Ashcroft at the center, voice sharp, every motion crisp as a blade. The contrast was stark—A-1's polished machine against B-7's scrappy rhythm.
The Headmaster leaned against the railing, silent as ever. His gaze drifted between both brothers, unreadable.
Then, a ripple passed through the Academy grounds as the League's holographic board ignited in the sky above the dome. Students stopped mid-step, craning necks as fixtures scrolled into view.
[Week 2 Fixtures – Year 1 Academy League]
A-1 vs D-13
C-9 vs B-7
A-2 vs C-10
B-6 vs D-14
A-3 vs B-8
C-11 vs D-15
A-4 vs C-12
The crowd buzzed instantly.
"C-9 again? The dark horses!" "B-7's luck ran out fast." "They just beat C-10… now they face the squad that tied A-2?"
On the pitch, Bram's teammates froze, eyes shooting up to the glowing board.
Daren whistled low. "C-9, huh? Guess the League wants to see if we're real or just a fluke."
Felix cracked his knuckles, calm but sharp-eyed. "Good. If we want to climb, we need to take down the ones everyone's whispering about."
Jory groaned, dragging his palms down his face. "Couldn't we just get D-13 instead? I'd take a scrappy brawl over those clockwork freaks."
Callen smirked, though tension tightened his voice. "Dark horses versus underdogs. Either way, someone's story ends."
Bram said nothing. His eyes lingered on the flickering name: C-9.
The team that had dared to draw against Class A. The squad that trusted each other like one mind.
The System purred in his ear, sly as ever:[ Oho~ a proper test for you, Ashcroft Jr. Not chaos. Not arrogance. Unity. ][ Question is… can you break it? Or will you be swallowed by it? ]
Bram's jaw set, steady. The noise of the Academy blurred into the background. All he saw was the challenge.
Week 2 had is around the corner.
The Academy corridors boiled like a marketplace it's been three days after the fixtures were revealed. The match board still shimmered above the central atrium, names glowing like destiny carved in light. Everywhere Bram walked, the air buzzed with gossip, boasts, and brewing rivalries.
"C-9's going to crush them." "No, didn't you watch? B-7 have grit. They might pull it off." "Dark horses versus underdogs. Honestly, I can't wait."
The din wrapped around Bram and his squad wherever they went. Daren basked in it, grinning at anyone who so much as mentioned his goal from last match. Jory sulked, muttering apologies to Bram every other step until Felix threatened to tape his mouth shut. Callen, naturally, rolled his eyes at the noise but didn't miss a word of it.
At the mess hall, Class A dominated their corner. They ate with polish, uniforms spotless, every motion rehearsed perfection. Lucien sat among them like a king at court. He barely glanced across the room, but whispers chased him anyway:
"Did you see Lucien last week? He's untouchable." "Still, his little brother's name is everywhere. Imagine that—two Ashcrofts, both shining." "Shining? Don't be ridiculous. Lucien's the sun. Bram's just a spark."
Bram clenched his jaw, but said nothing.
On the other side, Class D tables were raucous, mugs clanging, chants still echoing from their surprise win. "If B-7 smashes C-9, we'll back them! Shake up the whole damn League!" someone bellowed, earning cheers.
Class C, meanwhile, was quieter but sharper, eyes flashing whenever B-7's squad passed by. One boy muttered, "They embarrassed C-10. If they take down C-9 too…" He didn't finish. The tension spoke louder than words.
The weight of it all pressed on Bram—every stare, every whisper, every expectation. For the first time, his name mattered in the Academy's story.
As they left the hall, Felix nudged Bram with his elbow. "Get used to it. You're in the League now. Every step, someone's watching."
Bram didn't respond. He didn't need to.
Because he already knew.
That night, when the corridors had emptied and the chatter dimmed to murmurs, Bram sat alone at his dorm desk. The window was cracked open, the autumn air sharp against his skin. Beyond the glass, the Academy domes glowed faintly with the pulsing light of the League's scoreboard, its numbers shifting like a heartbeat in the dark.
Bram's hands rested on the wooden desk, fingers twitching as if replaying passes only he could see. His chest still carried the noise of the crowd, the chants, the whispers, his brother's smirk.
Bram closed his eyes, the weight of it pressing down. For a moment, doubt threatened to rise — but he crushed it. Slowly, deliberately, he inhaled, and with it came the echo of Feine's words, the spark of his teammates' joy, the roar of voices that hadn't mocked, hadn't dismissed.
One win didn't make a season. But it made a beginning.
Bram's lips curved into the faintest, stubbornest of smiles. He leaned back in his chair, gaze fixed on the glowing scoreboard outside.
"One down," he whispered to himself. "A season to go."
And somewhere, faint as a whisper, the League itself seemed to pulse in answer.
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