The morning sun shone not on rusted bleachers or worn-down grass, but on immaculate fields of emerald green. The Ravensworth Academy training ground was a sight to behold — three full-sized pitches, each meticulously maintained, with cutting-edge equipment lining the sidelines. Drones hovered above, tracking movement and speed; assistants with tablets recorded every pass and sprint.
The wealth of a noble house at its peak radiated from every blade of grass.
Here, football was not merely practiced. It was engineered.
"Faster! Keep the rhythm sharp!"
The voice that rang across the pitch was not the coach's. It was Cedric Ravensworth, captain and prodigy of the academy.
He stood tall at the center circle, ball at his feet, chest rising with controlled breaths. His dark hair clung to his forehead, glistening with sweat, yet not a hint of fatigue dulled his movements. He received a pass, spun on his heel, and threaded the ball diagonally across the field with perfect weight. The receiver barely had to move — the ball kissed his boots like it was drawn there by magnet.
The assistant coach blew the whistle, eyes wide. "Perfect tempo. Cedric, that's the standard! Everyone else, keep up!"
"Yes, Captain!" his teammates chorused, sweat flying as they pressed harder.
Cedric allowed himself a small smile.
At only seventeen, Cedric already carried himself like a professional. His frame was lean but strong, his balance impeccable, and his eyes carried an intensity that made others wary to meet them for long.
If Arthur's current stats hovered in the 58–62 range, Cedric's were another world entirely. Though no numbers floated above his head, his actions spoke volumes.
Passes struck with surgical precision.Dribbles flowed as though the ball were tied to his laces.Shots thundered into corners with frightening consistency.
"Vision like that at his age…" one assistant whispered. "I swear, he's already third-division standard."
"And improving," another replied. "The Ravensworth blood doesn't settle for mediocrity."
During a break, Cedric strode toward the benches. His teammates followed him instinctively, some out of admiration, others out of obligation. Even among nobles, hierarchy was real.
"Water," Cedric said simply. A bottle was handed to him immediately.
He took a sip, eyes sweeping across his squad. "Tomorrow's scrimmage — I want ten goals minimum."
A murmur ran through the players. One of the defenders, a burly boy named Rowan, frowned. "Ten? Isn't that a bit much?"
Cedric's gaze locked onto him. Cold, sharp, unflinching. Rowan swallowed hard.
"Ten," Cedric repeated. "If we can't dominate here, how do you expect to crush the qualifiers? Our name isn't just a banner — it's law. The Ravensworths don't win by a goal. We win by overwhelming force."
The murmurs quieted. Rowan lowered his head. "Yes, Captain."
Cedric's lips curved, not in kindness, but in satisfaction. "Good. Remember, hesitation is the same as surrender."
Training resumed with a scrimmage. Two teams formed, Cedric commanding one side. From the first whistle, his control was absolute.
He drifted into spaces effortlessly, demanding the ball without words. Teammates obeyed his rhythm — a short pass here, a quick flick there, then suddenly a splitting through-ball that carved the defense wide open. Within minutes, his side led 3–0.
By the end of thirty minutes, it was 6–0.
Cedric had scored two, assisted three, and dictated every attack. His opponents trudged off the pitch, shoulders slumped.
"Unfair," one muttered under his breath.
Cedric heard. His eyes narrowed. "Unfair? Then train until it's fair. The world doesn't gift victories. We take them."
The field fell silent. Even the coach didn't correct him. After all, Cedric's results spoke louder than any lecture.
Later, as the sun began to set, Cedric lingered at the edge of the pitch. Most players had gone to shower and eat, but he remained, juggling the ball on his thigh. Each touch was crisp, unbroken, as though gravity itself bent to his rhythm.
"Captain."
A younger teammate, Thomas, approached nervously. He was one of the academy's new recruits, barely fifteen.
Cedric didn't stop juggling. "What is it?"
"I… I overheard some of the seniors talking. They said… the Hayes are in the qualifiers again this year."
At that, Cedric's foot stilled. The ball dropped to the grass with a soft thud.
"The Hayes," he repeated, voice quiet.
Thomas nodded. "Yes."
The corner of his lips tugged upward — not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.
"I remember his family," Cedric murmured. "Once, they were proud. Strong. They thought themselves untouchable. Until my father showed them reality."
Thomas shifted uncomfortably. "Do you… think Author will be strong?"
Cedric bent down, picking up the ball. He spun it on his finger, eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
"Strong?" he echoed. "No. Not yet. He's the heir of a fallen house — a boy clutching at ashes. But…" He flicked the ball high, catching it smoothly. "That makes him dangerous. Desperation sharpens a man more than comfort ever could."
Thomas frowned, confused. "Then… do you respect him?"
Cedric chuckled, the sound low and sharp. "Respect? Perhaps. But don't mistake it for mercy. Respect is earned through victory. Until then, he's just another obstacle."
He tossed the ball onto the ground and struck it. The shot soared across the empty field, curving into the top corner of the far net with a satisfying thunk.
Cedric's eyes followed it, expression hardening.
"I will crush him," he said. "I'll crush the Hayes again, until there's nothing left but memory. That is my respect."
As Cedric walked off the field, the assistant coach approached. "You're staying late again?"
"Of course," Cedric replied. "If I don't push harder than everyone else, then what right do I have to lead Ravensworth?"
The coach smiled faintly. "Your father would be proud. He always said you were meant to redefine what nobility means."
Cedric's steps paused. For a brief moment, the sharp arrogance in his eyes softened — replaced by something heavier, deeper.
"My father didn't just want victory," Cedric said quietly. "He wanted dominance. A world where Ravensworth isn't just a house, but the house. And I…" His jaw tightened. "…I'll give him that world."
The coach bowed his head. "Then Arthur Hayes is unlucky to stand in your way."
Cedric resumed walking, his silhouette long against the fading sun.
"Unlucky?" he murmured. "No. He's fated. Every era needs its sacrificial lamb."