The air inside the dome wasn't just sound—it was weight. Every cheer, every laugh, every mutter pressed against their shoulders.
The tunnel lights flickered, leading them out. Boots clicked against concrete. The moment they stepped into the open, the roar sharpened—like the whole academy had been waiting only for them.
Students in A-3's colors—navy and gold—chanted in rhythm, their voices rolling like drums."A-Three! A-Three!"Their section was packed, banners unfurling, names of players painted in bold strokes.
B-7's side wasn't as loud, but it was real. A cluster of voices shouted, waving hastily painted signs: Underdogs bite too! and B-7 RISE!
Daren waved at them immediately, flexing like a madman. "That's right! Remember this face!"Jory muttered, "Gods, he's going to embarrass us before kickoff."Percy ignored them both, eyes scanning the pitch.
The grass gleamed under the lights, trimmed perfect, painted lines sharp as blades. This wasn't training ground turf. This was the stage.
At the center line, the referee waited, calm and sharp in black. Two sheets of paper in hand—the lineups.
The announcement boomed through the dome:
[ Class B-7 Starting XI ]
Goalkeeper: Mhed Venn
Defense: Callen Ward, Jory Finch, Felix Rowan
Midfield: Bram Ashcroft, Percy Hale
Forward: Daren Holt
Bench: Collins Micah , Kael Tills
Bram's chest rose once, steady. He glanced sideways—each face tight, focused, ready.
Then the announcer's voice shifted, and the crowd swelled louder.
[ Class A-3 Starting XI ]
Goalkeeper: Alaric Stone (tall, commanding, voice like thunder)
Defense: Marcus Vale, Renji Ito
Midfield: Elias Korran, Myles Drew, Haru Veylen
Forward: Cassian Dorne (their spearhead, tall and lethal with both feet)
Bench: Hugo Reen (defense), Orrin Lye (wing)
Even their names sounded sharper. Almost every A-3 player was known—rumors of academy prodigies with youth club ties, extra coaching, polished techniques.
The referee held the ball. Players shook hands. A-3's Cassian Dorne smirked as his hand clasped Bram's. "Underdogs bite, huh?" His voice was smooth, amused. "Try not to snap your teeth on us."
Bram didn't flinch. His grip was steady, his eyes calm. "Try not to choke when we do."
Cassian's smirk stiffened, just for a second.
Daren caught the exchange, bursting into laughter. "That's my boy!"
Felix only gave Bram a sidelong look—half a nod, approval hidden inside silence.
The whistle blew once. Players moved into shape.
B-7 Formation: 3-2-1Three defenders, two midfielders, one forward. Compact, gritty, space to fight.
A-3 Formation: 2-2-2Balanced lines, confident, stretching wide. They wanted to dominate with control.
The referee raised the whistle to his lips.
The crowd hushed, sharp and sudden.
Bram's heartbeat slowed. His last thought before the whistle—
Sixty minutes. Every second counts.
The crowd wasn't just noise anymore. It was layers.
High up, clusters of Class A-1 and A-2 players leaned forward, arms folded, studying every move before the game even began. Not cheering. Not mocking. Studying. Rivals in waiting.
Down by the railing, a group of Class C-9 boys hollered, half-jeering, half-goading. "Oi, B-7! Don't embarrass us after we fought you tooth and nail!" Daren threw them a thumbs-up, grinning like he was about to juggle fire.
A few D-class kids, younger and wide-eyed, waved sticks with scraps of cloth painted "B7." Their voices cracked as they screamed Bram's name.
And in one quieter section, girls from the Year One women's squad sat together, watching sharp. The same ones B-1 had seen play weeks ago. Their captain leaned forward, chin on her hand, eyes narrowed. "Let's see if the noise matches the steel."
Jory noticed them. He instantly slouched down on the bench like hiding would make him invisible. "Don't look at me, don't look at me—"Callen elbowed him, deadpan. "Relax. They're not scouting you." Daren leaned in with a wolf grin. "They're scouting me." "Shut up," half the team said at once.
Laughter spilled in their little corner of the bench, but it didn't last long. The weight in the air pressed again, stronger, tighter.
Bram tilted his head back, letting the buzz soak into him. His chest didn't feel heavy. Not today. He breathed slow, easy.
The whistle in the referee's hand lifted.
The sound of the dome swelled—cheers, chants, laughter, whispers, all woven together. Like a storm cresting.
Kickoff.
Boots struck turf all at once, the sound like thunder rolling in the dome. The ball spun out from the center circle, rolling across the grass with a hiss.
Felix was the first to move—shoulders tight, stride long. He leaned into the first duel, body blocking Cassian the A-3 forward before the game even had rhythm. The clash echoed, a low grunt tearing out of both players.
Bram jogged behind, eyes scanning. His chest rose slow, calm, but inside his pulse ticked like a drum.
They press faster than C-9… tighter lines too.
The ball zipped left. A-3's winger exploded down the flank, her boots digging grooves into the grass. Percy cut across, teeth clenched, shoulders wide. He timed the step—snap! The two collided, ball bouncing loose.
Callen charged, heavy steps pounding, and smacked it forward without hesitation. A clearance, not a pass. The crowd roared anyway.
Jory's voice cracked from the back line. "Set! Set!" His arms waved, panicked but trying to look steady.
B-7 shuffled back into shape. Felix growled, "Talk later. Mark now."
The rhythm was fast, too fast. A-3 didn't hold the ball—they slashed with it. One-two passes, flicks off the outside boot, sudden bursts of speed. Every touch was like a knife point testing for weakness.
Bram's gaze narrowed. His feet shifted without thinking, circling, shadowing. He wasn't chasing the ball. He was chasing the pattern.
They don't waste a second. They force us to react. If we keep chasing, we'll drown.
He darted forward, body dipping low. The next pass slipped through midfield—Bram's leg snapped out, intercepting. The ball rebounded high, wobbling.
Gasps rippled through the stands.
Bram's chest tightened. No time to settle. He twisted, swung his foot—punted the ball out toward Percy on the wing.
Percy trapped it with a soft touch, head snapping up. His body swayed like water, one shoulder fake, then the other. The defender bit—Percy slid past, hair flying, the crowd bursting into cheers.
"Go! Go!" Daren bellowed, already sprinting up the middle, hand raised.
Percy's cross whipped in—too sharp, too high. The keeper leapt, gloves snapping around it clean.
Groans spilled from the B-7 section.
Alaric the A-3 keeper's punt came quick, booming. The ball rocketed back into B-7's half, the sound of it cutting air like a blade.
Felix was already backpedaling, eyes locked. He leapt—header! The clash with the A-3 striker rattled his skull, but he held firm, nodding the ball sideways to Callen.
**
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