The whistle cut through the Dome. Offside. B-7's reprieve.
For a heartbeat, the roar of the crowd scattered into groans, sighs, jeers. Then it re-gathered—rolling back like thunder. Every chant, every clap pressed down on the pitch.
Bram bent over, palms on his knees, gasping for breath. His chest burned; his legs felt like lead. "System," he panted, "why isn't my Replay Vision activating?"
[System]: Host, you'll have to figure that out yourself.
He gritted his teeth. No choice. Eight minutes. Just eight.
On the sideline, Coach Feine waved his arm. Two figures peeled off the bench—fresh legs.
"Percy out!" the coach barked. "Collins in!" "And Callen, switch! Kael, you're on!"
The changes snapped into place:
GK: Mhed
DEF: Kael, Jory, Felix
MID: Bram, Collins
FWD: Daren
Benched now: Percy and Callen, exhausted.
The Dome's holo-screen blinked:B-7 Substitutions: Collin #12 (MID) on, Kael #15 (CB) on.
The A-3 bench clapped mockingly, voices cutting. "Fresh meat? Too late!"
Bram rolled his shoulders, forcing the ache down. He glanced at Percy—a wiry, sharp-eyed midfielder with quick feet. The boy gave him a nervous nod.
"You hold middle with me," Bram said, voice calm despite his lungs. "No heroics. Just keep the ball moving."
Collins swallowed hard. "R-right."
Whistle. Play resumed.
Felix drilled the free kick low into Callen's feet. Collins didn't hesitate—out wide to Daren.
A-3 surged. Their captain, Renji, was everywhere at once. Long strides, chest high, eyes sharp. He cut passing lanes before they even opened.
Daren tried to drive forward, but an A-3 winger bit into his path, forcing him to shove the ball back inside.
"Collins!" Bram called.
The sub met it, a little clumsy, almost losing it to a pressing forward. Bram darted across, shoulder brushing Collins, taking the ball himself.
He felt it instantly—the pressure. Renji's shadow loomed, two more A-3 bodies closing in.
Options? Left? No. Too tight. Right? No space.
He dropped his shoulder, feinting left. Renji bit, just enough. Bram snapped the ball the other way, cutting past the captain's leg. The crowd roared.
But another defender slid across, boots snapping at Bram's heels. He chopped the ball back—release, release—and laid it into Jory, who sent it flying wide toward Kael.
Fresh Kael. Fresh legs. He exploded down the line, outrunning his marker. The Dome lit up with gasps.
"Go! Go!" Daren's voice split the noise.
Kael swung a cross early—low, fast, skimming the grass. Bram pushed forward, lungs screaming, but the ball never reached him. Renji, recovering like a machine, intercepted with one long stride and cleared high.
The ball arced—straight into a counter.
A-3's striker killed it midair, spun, and suddenly they were pouring forward. Three against three.
Collins in goal crouched low, eyes unblinking. Felix barked orders, dragging the line tight. Bram turned, forcing his body to sprint again.
Every breath was fire. Every step heavier.
The Dome didn't care. The noise only swelled, hungry.
The counter was vicious.
A-3's striker, Cassian, cut diagonally into the gap between Jory and Kael, the ball glued to his boots. His speed wasn't dazzling—but his timing was. Every touch carried intent.
Bram sprinted back, vision tunneling.
[ Stamina drain 78%. Muscle efficiency dropping. ]
The System whispered, almost cold. Bram shoved the voice aside. Later. Survive first.
Cassian feinted right, dragged left. Jory bit—too deep. The striker slipped by, space opening.
"Close him!" Felix roared, lunging.
But Cassian didn't panic. He poked the ball across the top of the box, straight into the path of his teammate, Elias, who had surged forward like a storm.
The Dome exploded. "ELIAS!" "ELIAS shot!"
Elias didn't hesitate. He let the ball roll once, set his body, and unleashed a strike.
The sound—crack—was like thunder.
The ball screamed toward the top corner.
Mhed leapt. A blur of gloves and grit. Fingers met leather. Not a clean catch—just enough. The ball kissed the crossbar, ricocheted down——Bram was there.
He didn't think. He threw himself into the rebound, chest colliding with boots, bodies. The ball spilled loose.
Chaos.
Kael scrambled, swung a clearance. It only half-worked—ball skidding to the wing where an A-3 midfielder was already charging.
The second wave.
Cross incoming. Bram staggered upright, legs jelly, forcing himself into the box.
The ball whipped in—curving, cruel.
Cassian rose high, arching over Jory, head meeting leather.
"Keeper!"
Mhed exploded forward, fists first, punching through the header. The impact jarred the air. Ball cleared—just enough to land at Daren's boots.
"Run!" Bram's voice cracked.
Daren didn't need telling twice. He tore up the wing, heart in his throat, dragging B-7 out of the fire.
The Dome flipped—from roars of a near-goal to gasps at the breakaway.
Eight minutes? No. Less now. Six, maybe five.
And Bram's chest throbbed like a drum.
The game didn't slow. It only sharpened.
A-3 came again—measured, patient, the ball zipping in triangles that made B-7's defenders shuffle until their lungs burned.
Felix barked: "Left! Slide! Don't break!" His arm chopped across his chest, voice hoarse but commanding.
For the first time Replay Vision flickered into existence since the start of the match.
Bram tracked the pattern. His eyes followed not just the ball, but the angles. The tiny gaps. His chest rose heavy, but his mind spun sharp.
The winger cut inside. One touch, two. The crowd leaned forward. He swung—low strike—
Bram stepped. Not big, just half a step. His boot tipped the ball's seam, changing its path. It skidded wide of the striker's run.
Cheers burst from the B-7 section. Groans from the other side.
"Good touch, Bram!" Jory shouted, relief cracking through his nerves.
From the instructors' section, a man in a grey coat tilted his head. "That one sees the game differently," he muttered. "Not chasing, anticipating."
A senior beside him folded his arms. "Anticipating won't matter if his legs give out. A-3 presses until you drown."
Back on the pitch, Bram jogged out of the box, sweat dripping off his chin. His jaw was set, but his eyes kept moving. Watching.
A-3 reset, passing back, dragging B-7's line side to side. The crowd hummed like a hive, waiting for another sting.
Then—Daren roared. His body flung forward, intercepting a lazy touch. His boot smacked through the ball, sending it spiraling toward Collins.
Collins chest cushioned it, light as breath. He spun—hips loose, body rolling. The defender lunged—Collins slipped past, hair flying.
The stands erupted, half in cheers, half in jeers.
"Go on, Collins!" someone screamed.
Two girls in the stands gripped each other's hands, laughing nervously. "He looks like he's dancing—he's actually dancing!"
But A-3's fullback closed fast. Collins stretched, touched the ball ahead, then—snap!—a boot nicked it. Gone.
The roar flipped into groans.
Collins shoulders sagged, his breath ragged. He jogged back, biting his lip.
From the senior section, a tall boy smirked. "He's good for tricks. But tricks don't pierce A-3's spine."
The instructor beside him only nodded once. "Still—notice the shift? They've stopped hiding. They're daring."
Bram's chest heaved. He caught Feine's glance across the pitch—just a nod. No words. But it meant: keep going.
The System whispered in Bram's head, smooth and sly:
[ Sparks in the storm. But can sparks become fire, Host? ]
Bram clenched his fists. We'll find out.
The minutes ticked. Fifty. Fifty-one. Fifty-two.
B-7's legs wobbled. Even Felix stumbled once, teeth grit as he shoved back up. Jory's knees trembled every time he planted. Daren gasped between grins. Kael bent at the waist, hands on thighs.
A-3's coach paced the sideline, lips tight. Then—he called.
"Substitution!"
The crowd stirred. Murmurs spread like ripples.
From the bench, two boys shot up. One was Orrin, lean and restless, an attacking mid with quick feet. The other was Hugo, sturdy, defensive, a rock for tired legs.
The new boys ran on, slapping palms. "Let's lift it!" Lewis shouted. "Fresh legs, fresh fight!"
The crowd buzzed louder, a storm pressing against the dome walls.
The whistle shrilled. Restart.
A-3 pressed again. Sharp. Relentless. And Kael—he darted, nicked a pass, turned it with a snap.
Bram sprinted beside him, lungs burning, but his mind sharp. Lewis flicked it—Bram trapped, spun, and sent it wide to Collins.
The stands exploded.
"He's awake!"
"B-7's pressing forward!"
The A-3 section roared back, chanting to drown it out.
Bram felt it all pressing in—the roars, the chants, the storm. His pulse thundered in his ears.
The ball was rolling. And so was the storm.
The pitch trembled with noise. The dome had turned into a storm.
Kael's fresh legs cut across midfield, darting like a spark. He tapped the ball, weaving past one tackle. The crowd gasped, rising to their feet.
Bram shadowed him, lungs burning, but his eyes clear. He clapped once, sharp. "Here!"
Kael flicked it sideways without looking. The ball rolled into Bram's path—smooth, perfect.
Replay Vision again activated with many possibilities.
Bram touched it forward. His chest swelled with the sound of thousands leaning in.
But then—pressure. A-3's midfielder slid across, boot out, eyes cold.
Bram didn't panic. One step. A shift of the hip. The boot missed by inches.
He spun out, the crowd screaming as he slipped through.
"Go on, Bram!" Daren's roar thundered behind him.
But the wall was there. A-3's back line—tight, unbroken, waiting.
Bram slowed. His heart hammered. His mind ticked.
Pass? Shoot? Hold?
Bram's boot pressed the ball still for half a heartbeat. Then he rolled it left, dragging the defender.
Collins darted wide, Felix cut inside. Options flashed.
But Bram's eyes snapped back to the space—a single seam between two defenders. Narrow. Deadly.
He struck. Quick, low, cutting through like a blade.
The pass found Daren's stride.
Daren bellowed, legs pumping, smashing through the gap. He raised his boot—strike!
The ball rocketed—gloves snapped. The keeper punched it away.
The dome erupted—half in relief, half in agony.
"Almost!" a girl in the stands shrieked, clutching her friend's arm. "They almost had it!"
An instructor stroked his chin. "The Ashcroft boy… he sees doors that don't exist."
A senior leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "Seeing doors isn't enough. Can he force them open?"
The rebound skittered loose. For a heartbeat, time froze.
Bram sprinted. His legs screamed, lungs on fire, but he didn't stop.
The ball bounced high. Too high.
The A-3 defender leapt first, head smashing it clear.
Bram staggered, chest heaving. His fingers curled into fists. So close.
The crowd buzzed like a hive, the air thick with what-ifs.
Minutes bled away. Fifty-six. Fifty-seven.
A-3 slowed the pace, dragging the ball across the pitch, controlling again. Their chants swelled. "A-3! A-3! A-3!"
B-7 pressed, pressed, pressed—but legs were heavy, lungs tighter.
Still, they didn't break. Not yet.
Felix barked until his throat was raw. Daren slammed his chest, urging his teammates on. Collins fought through his own exhaustion, twisting, cutting, demanding the ball.
And Bram—Bram's eyes never left the rhythm. He followed every pass, every turn.
They're calm. Too calm. One mistake from us, and it's done.
The System whispered again, quieter now, like silk on skin:
[ The tide is still theirs, little Host. But tides turn. Do you believe in your legs? Your fire? ]
Bram's breath hitched. His jaw clenched.
"Yes," he whispered. "I do."
Fifty-nine minutes. The dome shook.
A-3 drove down the flank. Their winger cut inside, cross slicing through the box.
Felix leapt, heading it out, but the ball dropped again—edge of the box.
Their striker wound up—boot swinging—
Bram hurled himself forward. His body flung across the grass. His boot stretched—clash! The ball ricocheted high.
The whistle shrilled.
Full-time.
The dome exploded.
Some cheered. Some groaned. Some just collapsed back into their seats, drained.
The scoreboard burned above:
B-7: 0 — A-3: 1
The stands buzzed with voices:
"That was intense."
"Very intense."
"B-7's stubborn… but is stubborn enough?"
Seniors leaned back, smirking. "That's football. Dreams hit walls."
Instructors nodded quietly. "Still… that Ashcroft boy. He is now tapping into his real potential. But not yet."
And in the tunnel, Bram walked with his teammates, body aching, lungs raw. But his eyes were sharp, steady.
The System hummed, sly, almost pleased:
[ You lost. And yet… I smell growth. A sprout cracking through stone… the season may be interesting after all. ]
Bram wiped sweat from his brow, lips tightening into something close to a smile.
We'll be back.
**
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