The dawn broke soft and cold over the eastern courtyard of Arathia Royal Academy. A light fog rolled between the training domes, clinging to the grass like the ghosts of the match that had ended just hours ago.
Bram Ashcroft lay awake before his alarm even buzzed.
His dorm room was dim, washed in gray light. The silence after the crowd's roar felt unreal—too still. His mind replayed fragments of the loss against A-3 like a broken reel: Collins' blocked strike, Felix's frustrated shout, his own body slowing just before the final play. That instant—the hesitation, the late activation—echoed more than the defeat itself.
Replay Vision didn't respond.
The thought came again, sharper now. He had called for it. Felt the usual pulse build behind his eyes. But it had refused to appear until the play had already ended.When it finally triggered, all it showed him was the past, like a cruel mockery—clearer than ever, but too late to change a thing.
He sat up, elbows on his knees, breathing slow.The System's interface shimmered faintly in his vision, lines of cool azure text floating above his hand.
[System Notice]Replay Vision Synch Ratio: 52%Neural Lag: 3.8 secEmotional State: unstable.Recommendation: recalibrate through mental rhythm training.
Bram frowned. "Why didn't it respond when I called it?"
No answer. The interface pulsed once, then vanished.
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Figures."
Outside his window, he could see other dorms stirring—students in their training suits heading for morning drills, the academy banners fluttering gently. The world moved on as if their match had been a distant storm already forgotten.
By breakfast, the cafeteria buzzed with its usual chaos.The smell of buttered bread and hot broth filled the long hall, chatter bouncing between teams and divisions. Screens floated above the walls, showing replays and match results across the academy.
League Standings (Updated):
A-1 – 15 pts (+9)
A-2 – 13 pts (+5)
D-14 – 10 pts (+4)
A-3 – 11 pts (+4)
B-7 – 8 pts (+1)…
Bram's eyes lingered there a moment. B-7's name, not at the bottom—but slipping.
Felix slumped into the seat across from him, tray half-filled. "You look like a ghost."
"I could say the same," Bram muttered.
Felix smirked tiredly. "At least ghosts don't have to attend analysis class. Heard the instructors want us to explain why we lost. You better have a poetic answer ready."
Collins joined them, carrying two cups of coffee. "Poetic won't cut it. Coach says we'll redo all our position drills. Twice."
Bram only half-listened, gaze drifting to the far tables where A-3 sat laughing. Their captain—blond, confident—lifted his cup toward Bram, a casual salute of rivalry.Bram looked away first.
When the others headed to class, Bram remained, staring into his cup.
The room had mostly emptied when a soft voice broke the silence."Brooding already? You really are an Ashcroft."
He turned.
A tall young woman leaned casually against the pillar beside his table. Silver hair, faintly glowing in the cafeteria light; sharp yet warm gray eyes that carried the calm of someone used to winning.She wore the silver-trimmed uniform of the S-Class, Year 3—its crest etched in gold.
"Elira," he breathed, standing halfway between surprise and relief.
His sister smiled, sliding into the seat opposite him as if she'd been expected all along. "Missed me?"
He chuckled softly. "I was about to say you wouldn't come unless the academy was burning."
"Well," she said, setting her cup down with a delicate clink, "rumor was my little brother almost set the field on fire with his nerves yesterday. Thought I'd come check."
Bram groaned. "That spread fast?"
"It's the Royal Academy ," Elira said, amused. "Even the pigeons gossip here."
For a moment, they simply sat there—the hum of the cafeteria fading around them. There was warmth in her teasing, but her gaze was serious. She had the air of someone who had fought through storms and learned to read the weather in people's eyes.
"You played well," she said at last. "Not perfectly, but well."
"That's your diplomatic way of saying we lost."
"You lost because you were thinking too much. You hesitated in the final play."
Bram's jaw tightened.
Elira stood, motioning for him to follow. "Come with me."
They walked across the central campus gardens, where sunlight now cut through the fog. Students passed them, whispering—mostly out of awe. Elira Ashcroft was a name every everyone in the academy knew.She led him toward one of the smaller, unoccupied fields behind the Class dome.
"Still remember the first thing Father taught us?" she asked.
Bram smiled faintly. "Don't flinch when the world charges."
"Close. He said, 'Read the rhythm, not the motion.' You keep chasing movement, Bram. You need to listen instead."
She tossed him a training ball."Try it."
He blinked. "What?"
"Close your eyes. Throw it back when you feel I've moved."
He hesitated, then obeyed. The sound of the wind, her faint footsteps, the shifting grass—they blurred into a pattern.He caught the rhythm once, then lost it.She laughed softly. "You see? You're trying to think through it. That's why you hesitate. It mirrors your thought rhythm. When your focus scatters, it falters."
"So the glitch—"
"—isn't a glitch," she said. "It's you."
He opened his eyes, breath uneven.
Elira smiled. "When you finally stop forcing control, you potential will stop hesitating too."
Later that evening, after she'd returned to her dorm, Bram stood alone again on the training pitch.The sky burned orange and purple. The wind was cold against his neck.
He closed his eyes.
He remembered the last match: Felix shouting, Collins diving, the roar of the stands, the flash of A-3's captain darting past him.His heartbeat slowed.
He exhaled once—and for a split second, the world froze.
The grass swayed in rhythm. His pulse echoed in perfect sync with the wind.He saw the faint shimmer of Replay Vision begin to form again—ghostly lines sketching motion trails before him—then it flickered and dissolved.
[Calibration Incomplete. Emotional Desync Detected.]
Bram clenched his fists.
"What emotion?" he muttered.
The System's voice was calm, distant, almost human this time.
[The one you ignore the most.]
Then silence.
He stood there until the last light of day faded, the question burning deeper than any loss.
When he returned to the dorms, he noticed the academy bulletin screens flashing with a new headline.
ANNOUNCEMENT: Royal AcademyTrial Competition — Year 3 boys.Cross-Rank Challenges Begin Next Week.
Students gathered around, murmuring with excitement.Felix's voice came from somewhere behind him. "Well, looks like we are going to witness the might of the SS classes in year 3."
Bram didn't reply. He only stared at the glowing letters.
Because beneath the announcement, one name caught his eye—a list of confirmed entrants.
Gareth Ashcroft – SS-Class
His elder brother.
Bram exhaled slowly. "Of course."
The wind outside howled faintly against the glass as the academy prepared for another storm.