The door slammed shut behind them.
Silence swallowed the noise of the dome, but the echo of the crowd still clung to their ears. A-3… A-3… A-3. The chants didn't vanish. They lived in the chest, like phantom drums.
B-7 trudged into the locker room one by one.
Jory dropped onto the bench first, jersey sticking to his skin, sweat dripping down his temples. His eyes looked glassy, as if he'd been awake for days. He muttered something no one caught, just words ground into the floor.
Daren didn't sit. He paced, back and forth, fists clenching, unclenching, clenching again. His boots scraped harsh lines into the tiles. Every few steps, his lips moved like he wanted to yell—but nothing came. Only a growl, low in his throat.
Percy slumped against the wall, head tilted back, breath sharp. His chest rose and fell, but his face didn't move. Not a word, not a twitch. Just silence.
Callen sat cross-legged, elbows on his knees, rubbing his jaw. His eyes darted between his teammates, measuring the cracks. His breathing was steady, but the set of his shoulders screamed tension.
Felix… Felix finally sat down after standing too long. He bent forward, elbows digging into his thighs, hands clasped tight. His forehead nearly touched his fists. The captain didn't look broken—but he looked carved out, like the weight pressed into his bones.
The air in the room was thick. Damp. Hot. Nobody moved for long seconds. The only sound was dripping sweat, the faint hum of the ventilation, the rasp of lungs still chasing breath.
Then—Daren snapped.
His boot lashed out, smashing into a stool. The crack echoed like thunder, the wooden legs splintering, skidding across the tiles. "Damn it!" His voice was raw, strangled. "One damn goal!"
Jory flinched but didn't look up. Percy's eyes flickered but stayed on the ceiling. Callen's jaw tightened. Same as Collins and Kael.
Felix didn't lift his head. His voice came out low, hoarse. "Enough."
The word cut the air, clean.
Daren froze mid-step. His chest heaved, sweat dripping down his chin. His fists twitched, but he swallowed whatever fire burned inside.
The silence returned. Heavier now.
Bram sat near the end of the bench, towel around his neck, hands resting on his knees. His breathing was steady. His eyes weren't glued to the floor, nor the ceiling. They hovered—taking it all in. His teammates' anger. Their exhaustion. The weight that threatened to crack their spine.
Inside, the fire burned. But he let it burn slow.
The System's voice stirred. Soft. Almost playful.
[ Such heavy hearts. Such silence. Do you feel it, Host? That sting in the air? ]
Bram's lips barely moved. "…I feel it."
[ Mmm… most would crumble here. Kick walls. Curse the sky. But you… you sit. Why? ]
His eyes lifted, calm, steady. He exhaled once, slow. "Because the whistle didn't blow the season dead. Just one half of one match."
The System purred, like silk dragging across glass.
[ Hoh~ perspective. Dangerous weapon, that. ]
Feine finally walked in, arms folded. He looked at them, one by one. His voice was level, calm, cutting.
"You played A-3. You bled. You broke. And you lost." He let the words hang. Heavy. "Good. Remember it. Remember every second of that pain. Because one day, if you want, you'll turn it back on them."
The room stayed silent. But the words dug in.
Bram's hand clenched slowly against his knee.
The fire burned brighter.
The academy didn't sleep after the A-3 vs B-7 match.
By the next morning, the game was already legend.
In the Cafeteria, Year Ones clustered around tables, voices rising and falling like waves.
"Did you see that tackle from A-3's captain? He ate Daren alive!"
"Yeah, but B-7's keeper kept them from scoring three more! Did you see that save in the second half?"
"They still lost though. One-nil. Clean sheet. That's what matters."
"Not really. B-7 made them sweat. No one else has pushed A-3 that far yet."
Plates clattered, spoons scraped, and laughter mixed with heated arguments. The match had turned every corridor into a battlefield of opinions.
In the courtyard, two Year Two students leaned against a rail, watching the Year Ones pass.
"So, that's the group everyone's buzzing about? B-7?"
"Yeah. Didn't think much of them before. Now… people are saying they're the dark horse. Dangerous."
The other smirked. "Hah. Just because they made A-3 grunt a little? Please. Wait till they face real pressure."
Up in the stands the day before, instructors and seniors had been watching too. And their whispers carried farther than the students knew.
One instructor, arms crossed, murmured to another: "Ashcroft. The quiet one. He sees everything. He doesn't play like a normal first-year."
"Felix too," the other replied. "Leadership under fire, even in defeat. That boy's spine doesn't bend easy."
"And the hothead—Daren? He'll either be their ruin or their blade."
The words trickled down the grapevine, feeding rumors.
Some students whispered in awe. Others sneered, dismissive. But everyone remembered the scoreline:
A-3 – 1. B-7 – 0.
And Bram?
He walked the halls, calm-faced, towel still slung over his shoulder from training, as if the defeat hadn't carved into him. But in his chest, the burn didn't fade. He caught the whispers when he passed.
"That's him, right? The midfielder." "Didn't score. Didn't even stand out." "No, he did—he kept breaking up plays. Didn't you watch?" "Still lost, didn't they?"
Bram didn't stop walking. His face didn't twitch. But the words clung like weights to his back.
The System's voice slid in again, sly and curious.
[ Do you hear them, Host? They speak of you. Small voices, big judgments. Tell me… does it bother you? ]
His jaw flexed once. He exhaled slow through his nose. "No."
[ Liar. ]
His hand curled at his side. Just for a moment.
Then he pushed through the corridor doors into the light. The training ground stretched out, green and waiting.
The fire flared hotter.
The air inside A-3's locker room was heavy with sweat and polish. Jerseys hung half-loose, boots clattered as players unlaced them, the smell of liniment and grass thick as smoke.
Their captain, Elias, leaned against his locker, arms folded. Tall, sharp-jawed, hair sticking damp to his forehead. He hadn't spoken much since the final whistle.
Finally, he broke the silence.
"They're better than the table says."
A defender snorted, tossing his shin pads into his bag. "Better? Please. We dominated. They didn't even score."
"You call that domination?" Elias' voice cut through the room, cold as glass. "One goal. Sixty minutes. And I had to track that Ashcroft kid like a shadow, or he would've split us apart."
A ripple of silence followed. A-3 wasn't used to hearing their captain admit difficulty.
One of the midfielders scoffed, though softer. "He's just a class B student. Raw. Nothing compared to us."
Elias' eyes narrowed. "Raw doesn't mean weak. It means unfinished. You leave unfinished steel in the fire too long, it hardens." He pushed off the locker, jaw tight. "Mark my words. That boy will come back sharper."
The keeper chuckled, trying to break the tension. "So what, we're supposed to be scared of the underdogs now?"
"No," Elias said flatly. "We're supposed to respect them. Because if we don't…" He let the thought hang, unfinished.
Around him, A-3 exchanged looks. Some shrugged it off, too proud to listen. Others stayed quiet, remembering the sweat on their backs, the sting of bruises that weren't supposed to happen against "Team" like B-7.
Outside the locker room, word of Elias' rare seriousness had already begun to leak through the grapevine. Seniors smirked. Instructors raised eyebrows.
If the golden captain of A-3 had to acknowledge an opponent… then maybe B-7 wasn't a passing spark after all.
The second half of the season hadn't even started yet, and already the buzz was spreading like wildfire.
High up in the dome's senior section, older students leaned against the rails, eyes sharp. These weren't casual watchers — they'd been through matches like this, felt pressure like this, and they measured every play like blacksmiths checking the edge of a blade.
One scoffed. "They're bleeding energy. B-7's legs won't last another thirty."
Another smirked. "Maybe. But look at Ashcroft. Kid's lungs don't stop. He's… calculating."
Calculating. The word passed between them like a secret coin.
Not far off, a pair of instructors exchanged glances, their tones more analytical than mocking.
"Felix is holding them together. Without him, it's three-nil already."
"And the boy?"
"Bram?" The older man's eyes narrowed. "He's different. He doesn't bite on feints. He waits. Learns."
The younger instructor chuckled. "Dangerous type. If he survives long enough."
Down closer to the pitch, in the clamor of the student section, the girls' voices cut sharp through the chanting.
One clutched her scarf. "Did you see that tackle? He just threw himself in like—like he didn't care if he got broken!"
Her friend rolled her eyes, though her smile betrayed her nerves. "It wasn't reckless. He timed it. That's the scary part."
A third girl leaned forward, eyes burning. "Scary or not, they still lost."
"But they're not beaten," the first whispered.
That line stuck. The others didn't argue.
All around the dome, it was the same. Whispers. Opinions. Rival players from other houses taking notes. Older students measuring futures. Some sneering. Some impressed despite themselves.
And through it all, one name kept surfacing, again and again, like a ripple refusing to fade.
**
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