The whistle blew.
Not sharp. Not loud. But final.
It cut through the roar of the crowd like a knife. The scoreboard froze, glowing across the wide dome:
C-9 – 1 | B-7 – 1
Draw.
For a heartbeat, nobody moved. The ball rolled a few more steps across the grass, bumping softly against Felix's boot. He didn't kick it. He just stood there, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping from his chin.
Daren bent forward, hands on knees, gasping. His hair stuck to his face, his shirt clung to his back. "Man that was intense …" he whispered, though his voice was so thin it barely reached anyone.
On the other side, C-9 players weren't cheering either. Their faces were stone. To them, a draw was almost a defeat and also a victory.
The crowd filled the silence for them. Cheers, groans, claps, even whistles. Some shouted B-7's name with wild joy. Others yelled insults at C-9 for "breaking rhythm." The dome shook with voices.
Bram just stood in the middle of it, not smiling, not frowning. His chest thudded like a drum. He looked up at the scoreboard again, almost not believing it. One–one.
Felix's voice broke the stillness. Rough. Short. "Line up."
They formed the line, dragging their legs, and shook hands with the C-9 players. Some handshakes were stiff, some heavy, some barely touched. Then, finally, they walked off, one by one, into the tunnel.
The noise followed them in, fading only when the heavy door swung shut.
The locker room was hot. Too hot. Steam rose off their skin. Water bottles hit the floor with dull thuds as they dropped them after long gulps.
Jory fell onto the bench, legs spread, chest heaving. "Gods… my body's gone. Just gone."
Percy leaned against the wall, sliding down until he sat on the ground. He laughed once, weakly. "One–one. Against machines. We're crazy."
Daren was still pacing, unable to sit, fist tapping his palm over and over. "Should've been two. That last ball—if I had —"
Felix cut him short, voice low but firm. "No. Enough. We held."
The room quieted. Only the drip of water bottles and their breaths filled the space.
Then, slowly, everyone turned their eyes to Bram.
He had taken the seat at the end of the bench, head bent forward, hair sticking to his face. His jersey clung to him, heavy with sweat. He hadn't spoken a word since the whistle.
Callen asked softly, almost afraid to disturb the air: "Bram… you alright?"
Bram lifted his head. His eyes were steady. Tired, yes. Red around the edges, yes. But steady.
"Better next time," he said simply. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried.
The words hung there. Not fiery. Not Boastful. Just… Simple.
And strangely, that was enough.
Outside, through the thick walls, they could still hear the crowd chanting. Some voices called their names. Others doubted. The sound mixed, like waves crashing from far away.
And in the corner, Feine Rennard stood silent. His eyes on his players. He didn't smile, but there was a spark—brief, quick—in his look.
Feine gave his speech then turn to his benched players, or those who didn't get the chance to play. " Kael (backup defender), Collins (mid/wing utility), the match was intense and also a change would have disrupt the rhythm of the game, but always be ready." they both nodded unwillingly, well i don't think they will disagree.
The storm had ended. But the echoes… had only just begun. The crowd did not leave quickly.
Even after the whistle, even after the scoreboard froze, people stayed in their seats. They argued, they shouted, they shook their heads. Some stamped their feet like they could shake the result away.
"Unbelievable! C-9, a team that drew against a class A team was held by B-7, and was almost defeated?"
"A draw. Not just the result, the intensity of the match?"
"And man, Bram's goal was a masterpiece!"
"Didn't you see? That Ashcroft boy—he bent the rhythm. He broke their flow."
"That striker too… the wild one. He almost scored twice. If he gets sharper, he'll be dangerous."
The voices mixed, swelling and fading, a sea of opinions crashing inside the dome.
Up in the high seats, the professors sat together. Some leaned forward, some sat back, arms crossed, silent. Their eyes were sharp, their minds sharper.
Professor Silva. "The match was intense. That is the story."
Professor Marrow tilted his head, a faint smile touching his lips. "It seems someone is about to awaken. soon… just another push.
Professor Draven snorted, folding his arms tighter.
But Professor silva, leaned forward. His gaze was fixed on the retreating figures of Class B-7 as they left the tunnel. His tone was low, unreadable.
"A draw against hhmm… well this is why we left them in B and C. They both have the potential to go further, we want players with intense Ego. Whether they know it or not."
The others fell silent at that.
Outside the dome, students swarmed.
Some cheered B-7's names, banging on the walls of the tunnel as the players walked past. Others mocked them, shouting that it was only luck, that next week would crush them.
Rumors spread before the sweat had even dried.
"Did you hear? Bram Ashcroft froze the flow of C-9's midfield and even scored a stunner."
"No, no, it was the defender—Felix, I think. He kept their backline alive."
"Wrong, C-9 players controlled the game!"
Each version grew wilder the further it spread. But one truth held in every retelling:
Bram had his day.
Back in the locker room, the players could hear the rumble outside. It felt strange—like the whole academy had suddenly turned its eyes on them.
Jory muttered, "They're actually talking about us… like we matter."
Callen smirked tiredly, "Even class A can't match as when it comes to talk of the week." though it didn't reach his eyes.
Percy laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "We drew once. Let's not act like kings."
Felix stood, arms crossed, voice heavy. "No. He's right. We matter now. Which means next week… they'll all come for us harder."
The room went quiet again at that thought.
Bram sat still, his hands on his knees, staring at the floor. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't frowning either. Just listening.
Then, in his mind, the System's voice slipped in like a whisper only he could hear:
[ Hidden mission completed. ]
[ Score your first goal in a league match ]
[ Reward: +4 stamina boost ]
Bram closed his eyes for a second, letting the words sink in. Then he murmured under his breath, almost too soft for even himself to hear.
"…Stat panel."
The panel flickered into place. Lines of pale light wrote themselves across his vision:
[ Player Status: Bram Ashcroft ]
Age: 12
Position: Midfielder (Undeclared Specialty)
Overall Potential: ??? (Locked)
Stamina: 58 (+4)
Agility: 53
Strength: 46
Passing: 68
Dribbling: 52
Shooting: 42
Vision: 55
Composure: 48
Determination: 75
Bram's lips parted. He blinked once. Twice.
For a moment he just stared. His body was trembling, but not from exhaustion anymore.
Finally, he spoke, not loud, but in his mind. "System… I've been meaning to ask. I've had so many questions in my head since that day I reincarnated… since the moment you appeared. At first, I didn't bother. I thought, this is just like those novels I used to read back then. I believed the answers would come later, so I let it go."
The System's voice answered him, cool and steady, without the slightest tremor.
[ Host. All your questions will be answered as you progress. ]
Bram let out a short breath. He nodded faintly. "I expected that much. But this one… I need to know."
His eyes narrowed, sharp despite his fatigue."Why is my position listed as 'Midfielder (Undeclared Specialty)'? Why not just midfielder? And why is my overall potential locked?"
The panel shifted. New lines of text began to glow, one after another.
— Hidden Trait: Survivor's Will (Activated)
— Replay Vision (Tier 1)
— Shadow Link (Fragment) (Locked)
The System's voice followed, calm, almost indifferent:
[ Your role is not fixed. Your growth will decide your specialty. Midfield is your base, but the path has not yet been chosen. ]
[ As for your potential—locked does not mean absent. It means unseen. When the right conditions are met, the seal will break. Until then, the world cannot measure you. ]
Bram stared at the words. His chest rose and fell, slow and heavy. His fingers curled into fists against his knees.
"…So even the System doesn't give me answers that easily," he muttered.
But despite that, a faint heat flickered in his chest. Survivor's Will. Replay Vision. Shadow Link. Each word felt like a door—locked, but waiting.
Bram closed the panel with a slow blink. The faint glow faded, leaving only the sweat-soaked locker room around him.He sat still for a while, the others too tired to bother him with questions. But his mind wasn't resting. Survivor's Will. Replay Vision. Shadow Link. Even the System seemed to be hinting that this was just the beginning.
The sound of a door creaked. Everyone turned. A tall figure entered—the staff official, holding a clipboard. His eyes scanned the room before he spoke:
"Player of the Match: Bram Ashcroft."
The words landed like a spark. Jory whistled low. "You lucky bastard." Daren muttered, half-annoyed, half-proud, "Figures… score one stunner and the whole world sings your name."Felix didn't speak, but a faint smirk tugged at his mouth.
Bram only lowered his head, his voice barely above a whisper. "…Player of the Match?" The official gave a short nod before leaving. "It will be displayed on the notice board."
And indeed, when they stepped out of the tunnel later, the noise had shifted. Chants rose, louder now, Bram's name bouncing through the dome. For every cheer, there was doubt, but one truth had spread like wildfire: Bram Ashcroft was the talk of the week 2.
—
Near the stands, a figure waited. Dark hair tied neatly back, uniform sharp, posture proud—Elira Ashcroft. Bram's senior sister. She had watched the match silently, her eyes unreadable to others. But now, as Bram walked toward her with his teammates, she stepped forward.
Her gaze softened when it fell on him. "You did well." Bram froze for a second. "…Sister." Elira reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. "The goal against C-9 is not luck. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. You've shown you're not afraid to stand on the same field as them. That matters more than they realize."
Bram's throat tightened, but he smile and nodded. "…Thank you." Her lips curved, just slightly. "Don't stop here. This was only the first echo."
Then, just as quickly, she turned and walked away, leaving Bram staring after her, the faint warmth of her words burning in his chest.
—
Elsewhere in the Academy
While B-7's draw stole the spotlight, the other matches of Matchday 2 brought their own storms:
A1 crushed C10 2–0.
A2 edged B6 1–0 in a tense, narrow win.
A3 stumbled, held 1–1 by C12, shocking the crowd.
D14 defeated B5 2–1, grinding through in their usual bruising style.
B8 clawed their first points, beating D15 1–0.
C11 managed a 0–0 draw against D16, both sides desperate but wasteful.
Each result reshaped the table, shifting power subtly. Whispers spread fast—"A3 dropped points? C12's midfield is sharper than they thought." "D14 looks scary; no finesse, just force." "B8 finally woke up."
But all of it circled back to the same center: the name Bram Ashcroft, and the fact that B-7 and C-9.
—
Standings after Matchday 2
A1 – 6 pts | +5 goals
A2 – 6 pts | +2 goals
D14 – 6 pts | +2 goals
A3 – 4 pts | +2 goals
B7 – 4 pts | +1 goal
C9 – 4 pts | +1 goal
C12 – 2 pts | 0 goals
A4 – 1 pt | 0 goals
B8 – 3 pts | –1 goal
C11 – 1 pt | –1 goal
D16 – 1 pt | –3 goals
B5 – 0 pts | –2 goals
B6 – 0 pts | –2 goals
C10 – 0 pts | –3 goals
D13 – 0 pts | –4 goals
D15 – 0 pts | –3 goals
—
And so, as the academy buzzed with arguments and speculation, one truth became clear: pressure was rising. Matchday 3 loomed ahead, and with it, the eyes of the entire league sharpened.
This time, they would not underestimate B-7. And for Bram, the echoes of his first goal were only the beginning.
**
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