The dorm was quieter than usual. The echoes of Week 1's cheers had faded into a faint hum, leaving only the soft shuffle of boots and the occasional sigh of a restless student. Class B-7's squad lounged across their common room, but the energy was tight, coiled, different from the chaotic celebration of victory.
Daren paced, tossing a football from hand to hand. "C-9 tomorrow," he muttered, almost to himself. "Think we can—nah. We have to score again. First goal? Mine. Second? Mine. Third? Definitely mine." He grinned, teeth flashing, but the tension behind the boast was palpable.
Callen, sprawled on a couch with a boot dangling from his foot, snorted. "You always say that. Every game. Maybe tomorrow you let someone else touch the ball." His tone was dry, but his eyes betrayed interest, scanning Daren like a coach judging a trainee.
Jory slumped in a corner, shoulders tight. "I… I almost lost us last time. Twice. What if it happens again?" His voice cracked, genuine fear threading every word.
Bram didn't say anything. He was at the desk, notebook open, pen in hand. Flicking through pages, diagrams of passing lanes, timing, small observations from the last match, he traced them carefully with a finger. Each scribble was a silent rehearsal, a reminder of choices made and choices to come.
Percy, ever calm, leaned back on the windowsill, eyes on the glow of the academy domes outside. "We'll adapt," he said softly. "Don't overthink it. Just play."
Felix was in the corner, sharpening the studs of his boots with meticulous care. "Unity beats talent unless someone cracks it."
Collins muttered, almost to himself. "C-9 plays as one mind. One wrong move, and it's over."
Bram's gaze flicked up, catching each teammate's anxiety and focus, letting it all fold into a single quiet determination. His fingers tapped the pen against the notebook, a faint rhythm against the night.
The System purred in his ear, low and teasing: "Sleep tight, Ashcroft Jr. Tomorrow, they'll see if sparks become fire."
Bram exhaled slowly. Sparks or fire, it didn't matter. He had a team. And for the first time, the weight of expectation didn't crush him—it sharpened him.
Outside the window, the autumn wind rattled the panes. Somewhere in the vast academy grounds, the League's scoreboard pulsed faintly, numbers shifting like a heartbeat in the dark. Bram's lips curved into the faintest, stubbornest of smiles.
Tomorrow, he thought. We show them who we really are.
The morning sun had barely brushed the domes when B-7 gathered in the training hall. The air was thick with anticipation, the faint smell of turf and polish lingering from last night's drills.
Felix stretched, jaw tight, eyes scanning teammates. "Quiet morning, quiet minds. That's what I like."
Daren bounced on his toes, grinning. "Quiet minds? Speak for yourself—I've been replaying that goal all night!"
Callen checked his laces twice, muttering, "Focus. No heroics. Dark horses or not, C-9's not a joke."
Jory hovered near Bram, shuffling papers from the tactical sheet Feine had left on the bench. "I—I still can't believe we're up against them. Clockwork, all of them. Every pass, every move… precise."
Bram's eyes were fixed on the holo-board, where C-9's warming-up patterns flickered in soft blue light. Every pass, every sprint tracked in a subtle rhythm he could almost feel.
The System whispered, teasing as ever. [First real test. Precision over chaos. Can you read them, or will they read you? ]
Bram's fingers flexed on the table. He didn't answer—he never did—but the tiny twitch of a smile betrayed the storm of calculation in his mind.
Feine appeared, ink-stained notes in hand, eyes sweeping over the squad like a hawk. "Minutes to match. Review positions, anticipate threats. Remember—C-9 plays as one mind. One lapse and it's over. Bram, coordinate. Felix, anchor. Everyone else—support, communicate, execute."
The squad nodded, the energy taut as drawn strings.
Outside, the stadium loomed, the seats already filled with the hum of early-arriving students. Flags fluttered, colors flashing, and somewhere above, the holo-screen ticked down.
B-7 jogged out onto the pitch, boots clattering against the polished turf. The sun glinted off the glass rafters, highlighting the sweat and determination etched on every young face.
Across the field, C-9's squad moved like a synchronized machine. No chatter, no laughter—just clean, precise drills. Their captain's eyes scanned, calculating. Every motion spoke confidence, every step a threat.
The crowd's murmur swelled into a tide. Students leaned forward, whispers racing:"C-9 again… tough luck for B-7." "Dark horses? They're about to learn what precision means.""Will Ashcroft Jr. handle this one?"
Bram adjusted his grip on the ball, eyes flicking to his teammates. Each one was a piece of the puzzle—Felix ready, Callen poised, Daren coiled like a spring, Jory tense but capable, Percy calm and calculating, Mhed, Collin, and Percy all ready to witness what was about to unfold.
The referee checked his watch, lifted the whistle. The tension tightened—every heartbeat syncing with the murmurs in the stands.
Bram exhaled slowly, feeling the collective weight of expectation, challenge, and strategy pressing down.
The whistle shrieked and the ball rolled.At once the dome woke. The sound of boots striking turf, of voices cutting through the air, of a thousand students leaning forward to watch.
C-9 began just as the rumors promised—smooth, sharp, and together. Their midfield didn't hesitate. The ball moved from one to another like it belonged to them, never staying still. Each touch short, neat, calm. It felt less like six boys and more like one mind passing to itself.
B-7 chased. Bram chased. He slid across the grass, eyes darting, waiting for a mistake. None came. Already, the difference from last week's match was like night and day. C-10 had been wild and reckless. These boys of C-9 were patient, precise, dangerous.
"Don't chase too deep!" Felix shouted from the back, voice rough as gravel. His body was already tight, crouched low, waiting.
The first danger arrived almost at once. A flash of movement on the left, C-9's winger breaking away. Jory lunged, but the boy skipped past him as if he wasn't even there. The cross came in, fast and cutting. The whole crowd gasped.
Mhed didn't wait. He launched himself forward, fists punching the ball away. But the rebound spun out to the edge of the box."Shot!" voices screamed.The strike came—hard, low, arrowing toward goal.It fizzed wide by a whisper.
Half the dome groaned in despair, the other half in relief.
Bram's heart hammered. His first thought wasn't relief. It was they're too clean. Too quick. We can't let them set the pace.
The ball returned to play. At last, B-7 strung three passes. Bram dropped into the center, received, touched, and turned. Percy was there, calm as ever, laying it back. A triangle of their own. For the first time, they looked like a team, not shadows.
Bram saw space ahead and tried to pierce it—Callen darting across the line. The ball left his boot—Intercepted.C-9 swarmed forward instantly. One touch, two touches, already breaking. Bram spun and sprinted back, lungs burning. It was Felix who saved them—diving, sliding, body crashing through the shot before it could fly.
The crowd roared. Some cheered. Some laughed.
Two minutes later, B-7 tried again. This time Daren wrestled his way forward on the left. He wasn't elegant. He didn't need to be. His shoulders smashed into his marker, his stride tearing the grass. He cut inside and let fly.The sound cracked—boot to ball, air splitting.Straight at the keeper. Caught clean.
"Wasteful!" Callen hissed, throwing his hands wide.Daren snarled back, "At least I took it!"
The referee's whistle shrieked then—foul on C-9, a shove too rough in the midfield. Free kick, thirty yards. Callen stepped over it, hair damp with sweat, lips curled. He swung hard. The ball curled, dipped—The dome held its breath.It fell just over the crossbar.
The sigh of thousands rolled down like a wave.
The clock ticked past ten minutes.Already, sweat clung to shirts. Boots dug deeper. Breaths came louder. This was not going to be easy.
C-9 pressed higher now. Their passes were faster, their movement sharper, like knives cutting lines into the turf. Every time one of B-7's players touched the ball, two white shirts closed in, forcing them to hurry.
Bram felt it first. He received from Percy, turned—only to see shadows closing left and right. A boot jabbed. The ball clipped away. Panic. C-9 surged. A flash through the middle, a neat one-two, the striker free—"Close him!" Felix roared.Mhed charged. The striker swung.Blocked. Mhed's gloves clapped the ball down, his body rolling with the force. Gasps burst from the stands.
"Keeper's on fire again!" someone shouted from above.
But the danger didn't end. The rebound spilled. The C-9 winger snapped it up. Jory lunged desperately, tangling legs. Whistle. Free kick, just outside the box.
The dome went silent, heavy with tension.The C-9 captain stepped up, calm, confident. His body coiled like a spring. The ball flew, curling over the wall—It smacked the post with a thunderclap.Groans. Cheers. Hearts pounded.
B-7 scrambled the ball clear, and Bram sucked in a long breath. His chest ached. His pulse hammered. He could hear the whispers again in the crowd: "They're cracking." "B-7 won't last the half."
But Bram refused to let the thought live. He shouted, sharp and fierce, "Hold the line! Stay compact!" His voice cracked through the chaos.
Something shifted. For the next few minutes, B-7 didn't collapse. They fought.Felix barked orders, his tackles brutal but clean. Percy threaded passes, steady hands calming the storm. Callen raced the wings, chasing every long ball like his life depended on it. Even Jory, shaken from his foul, stuck closer, gritting his teeth, refusing to slip again.
At minute fifteen, a chance came.
Bram picked up the ball in the center. He glanced up. Space. Daren was already sprinting. One heartbeat. Bram lifted his foot, threading the ball like a needle through fabric.
Daren burst into it, one-on-one with the keeper. The whole dome screamed.He struck.Saved. A fingertip flicked it wide.
The sound of thousands rose and fell in a single wave. Daren cursed the sky, fists clenching. Bram pressed his lips tight. It was close—too close.
From the stands, the chants grew louder. Some for C-9, sharp and commanding. Some, surprisingly, for B-7. Rough, raw, unpolished—but there. "B-7! B-7!"
By minute twenty, the battle was clear.C-9 had elegance. B-7 had grit.Every tackle thundered. Every pass burned.And still the score remained 0–0.
20:01 The crowd had split into two storms now. One side pounding chants for C-9, the other—rougher, fewer voices—yelling for B-7. The noise clashed in the air like thunder.
C-9 pushed wide. Their winger darted down the flank, body weaving, boots tapping like drums. Callen chased, breathing hard, but the winger's step-over slipped past him. Cross! The ball curled into the box—Felix rose. His head met leather with a crack, clearing it away. The crowd gasped, half cheering, half groaning.
In the 22nd minute Bram found the ball again. He looked up. White shirts everywhere, moving as one. No space. He tried to dribble forward—two players boxed him in. He spun, passed back to Percy. Safe. Too safe."Forward, Bram! Forward!" Daren shouted, waving furiously.But Bram knew. Rushing now meant losing everything.
23rdminute,Jory slipped. Panic flared. C-9 stole the ball, their captain driving forward. One pass, another, and their striker was free again. Mhed exploded off his line, hands spread like wings. The shot thundered low—blocked by Mhed's knee! The rebound bounced loose.Felix slid in, crunching boots, clearing it into the stands. The dome erupted.
"Keeper's saving them!" the voices shouted."B-7 can't hold forever!" another screamed.Bram's lungs burned. He pressed a fist against his thigh. No—we can hold. We will hold.
Now it was their turn. Percy clipped a neat ball through midfield. Bram touched it once, twice, then swung a wide pass toward Callen. The winger caught it, sprinting down the line. The crowd roared as Callen whipped it low into the box.Daren slid in—missed by inches! The ball trickled past the far post. Groans echoed. Daren slammed his palms into the turf, teeth bared.
C-9 answered fast. A counter, smooth and deadly. Their midfield sliced through the center like knives. Bram lunged for a tackle—too late. The shot flew.Mhed again. Gloves stretched, body twisting.Save! He clutched the ball to his chest, rolling, dust clinging to his jersey. The crowd leapt to its feet. Even C-9's supporters couldn't help but clap.
28 minutes later, the tempo slowed, but only slightly. Every player gasped now, breaths ragged. Shirts clung with sweat. The turf was torn where boots had gouged it. Still, neither side gave way.
Bram drifted back to collect. The ball rolled to him, and for a moment—just a moment—there was space. His chest tightened. He lifted his head. He saw it.Daren was running. Jory too. The line was open.Bram struck. The ball curved perfectly between defenders. Daren sprinted into it.The keeper rushed out. Daren swung—Blocked again! The ball spilled wide.
Half time was approaching, whistle hung in the referee's lips. The dome was a storm of voices, pounding feet, raw chaos. Both teams lunged one more time, one last attack.C-9 pushed. A long shot! Caught. Mhed smothered it.
30:00WHISTLE. Halftime. 0–0.
Players bent double, hands on knees. Some dropped to the turf, panting. The stands roared, louder than ever. No goals, but the game was alive, fierce, sharp.
B-7 walked off together, sweat pouring, lungs heaving.C-9 too—heads high, faces calm, not shaken.
The scoreboard glowed above:B-7: 0 | C-9: 0
The storm had only begun.
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