The sun hung low over the academy pitch, bathing the grass in a warm orange glow. Whistles shrieked as Coach Darius stalked the touchline, his eyes sharp as hawks while the players moved in formation.
"Again!" he barked. "The ball doesn't move fast enough! Passing lanes, boys, passing lanes! This isn't a children's game. Reset the drill!"
Arthur jogged back into position, sweat dripping down his temples. His shirt clung to his skin, and his legs already burned, yet training had only just begun.
The academy's morning routine was harsh. After two hours of fitness drills, they transitioned into technical sessions — passing grids, rondo circles, shooting accuracy.
Arthur exhaled, glancing at the cones ahead. The passing drill was simple in theory: receive, turn, pass to the next station. Speed and accuracy determined the grade. But with Coach Darius watching, every mistake felt like an insult carved into stone.
"Start!"
Arthur's turn came. The first pass arrived sharp — he controlled, turned, and sent it forward. A little too heavy, forcing the receiver to stretch.
"Tighter, Hayes!" Darius snapped. "Your passes need to kiss the ground, not beat it senseless!"
Arthur gritted his teeth and kept moving. Second, third, fourth pass — each came quicker. He stumbled once, recovered, then sent the final ball through the small goal.
The whistle blew.
"Grade: C," Darius muttered, scribbling on his clipboard.
Arthur's chest tightened. A C again.
The next player, Clovis, strutted to the line. He received the first ball, flicked it with a flourish, and threaded his pass perfectly. Smooth, crisp, confident. The drill ended with a sharp finish through the mini-goal.
"Grade: A," Darius said.
Clovis turned with a grin, his eyes sliding toward Arthur. "That's how it's done. Watch and learn, heir-boy."
Arthur clenched his jaw. The system in his head flickered.
[Passing Drill Completed]
Grade: C
Progress: +0.3 Passing
Current Passing Stat: 60.2 → 60.5
A fraction. Barely anything. But something.
He inhaled sharply. "Again," he whispered to himself.
The drills continued for hours. Shooting accuracy next. Targets pinned to the corners of the net, each hit scored points. Arthur stepped up, ball at his feet, heart thudding.
First shot — too central. Thudded against the keeper dummy.Second shot — low but wide.Third — clipped the target barely.Fourth — off the bar.Fifth — better, sneaking inside the post.
The whistle.
"Grade: D," Darius announced, shaking his head.
Arthur lowered his gaze, walking back as murmurs filled the air.
Clovis, of course, strutted forward, lashing his shots with practiced ease. Two targets shattered, the rest cleanly in.
"Grade: A."
Clovis spread his arms like a conquering hero, soaking in the chuckles of his hangers-on. "Guess some of us are born to score, and others are born to watch."
Arthur ignored him, though his chest burned.
Ding!
[Shooting Drill Completed]
Grade: D
Progress: +0.1 Shooting
Current Shooting Stat: 58.5 → 58.6
Tiny. Insignificant. But it was still progress.
By noon, training finally paused. The players collapsed on the grass, gulping water and wiping sweat. Arthur sat apart, catching his breath. Marcus joined him, tossing a towel his way.
"You look half-dead," Marcus said flatly.
"Feel worse," Arthur muttered, toweling his face.
"You're improving, though."
Arthur scoffed. "C's and D's aren't improvement."
Marcus gave him a sidelong glance. "You think I started out with A's? Took me two years to sharpen my tackles. Keep grinding. Don't listen to Clovis."
Arthur looked at him, surprised. Marcus wasn't one for speeches.
"Thanks," Arthur said quietly.
"Don't thank me. Prove it on the pitch."
After lunch, classes filled the afternoon — tactics theory, physical conditioning, then a lecture on "football as nobility." The instructor droned on about league structures and noble rankings, but Arthur's mind drifted.
In this world, football wasn't just sport. It was the backbone of society. Nobility was measured not by bloodlines, but by league standing. Titles, land, influence — all tied to a family's football club.
The Lionhearts had once stood among the upper houses. Until Ravensworth twisted the league against them.
Arthur's fists clenched under the desk. The weight of legacy pressed heavy on his shoulders.
That evening, the academy dorm buzzed with chatter. Players lounged in the common hall, cards and dice scattered across tables. The talk, as always, revolved around the qualifiers.
"Did you hear? Ravensworth's captain scored a hat trick in their last friendly.""Cedric? He's a monster. They say his dribbling's already at 75.""No way! He's basically second-division level already."
Arthur sat quietly, listening. Each word sharpened the looming shadow of their rivals.
Marcus sat nearby, unbothered, polishing his boots. "Rumors are rumors. They bleed the same as us."
Clovis snorted from across the room. "Easy to say when you're not the one who has to score against them. Arthur better pray Cedric doesn't break his ankles in the first five minutes."
Laughter rippled. Arthur stood silently, leaving the room without a word.
The training pitch at night was empty again. Moonlight washed the cones and nets in pale silver. Arthur stood alone, ball at his feet.
"Drills," he whispered.
Ding!
[Training Menu Unlocked]
Passing Circuit
Dribbling Maze
Shooting Accuracy
Vision Challenge
He chose Passing Circuit.
The system flickered, overlaying ghostly cones and glowing arrows across the grass. A ball zipped toward him — he received, turned, passed to the next phantom station. Again. Again. The speed quickened. The margin for error shrank.
Sweat poured. His lungs burned. But his focus sharpened with each touch.
Final pass — crisp, clean, straight through the glowing mini-goal.
The system chimed.
Ding!
[Passing Drill Completed]
Grade: A
Progress: +1.5 Passing
Current Passing Stat: 60.5 → 62.0
Arthur collapsed onto the grass, chest heaving. He stared at the glowing +1.5, a small but real jump.
A smile tugged at his lips.
Finally.
Unseen from the stands, a figure lingered. Selene Valebridge sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, watching him work. She didn't call out, didn't approach. She simply observed, her eyes soft in the moonlight.
When Arthur finally dragged himself off the pitch, she whispered into the night:
"You really are different now."
The wind carried her words away, unheard.