Morning dew clung stubbornly to the academy's worn training pitch. The grass was patchy in places, uneven in others, and the white lines marking boundaries were already fading. Compared to Ravensworth's gleaming facilities, Lionheart Academy's grounds looked almost pitiful — yet to Arthur, it felt like hallowed ground.
Today would be another day of drills. Another day of struggle.
"Alright, you lot!" Coach Darius barked, whistle dangling around his neck. His gravelly voice carried across the field like the roar of a war drum. "Passing circuit — now! No sloppiness!"
Balls were set up in cones, creating zig-zag paths where players were expected to control, pass, and move in rhythm. The drill tested not just technique, but tempo and stamina.
Arthur lined up behind Marcus. His fingers flexed unconsciously, palms damp despite the morning chill.
(System, status check.)
The faint blue screen flickered in his vision:
Arthur Hayes — Position: AMFOverall: 59
Pace: 62
Dribbling: 60
Passing: 63
Shooting: 58
Defending: 44
Physical: 57
Vision: 64
Stamina: 61
Skills: None unlocked.
It looked pitiful. Especially compared to the glimpses he'd seen of others during the scrimmage. Yet, Arthur clenched his jaw. Numbers could change.
The whistle blew. Marcus burst forward, quick touches moving the ball in a zig-zag, crisp passes bouncing perfectly to the cones. Smooth, controlled, efficient. He reached the end and tapped the final cone with a light strike.
"A!" the system chimed above Marcus's head, faint but visible only to Arthur.
Now it was his turn.
Arthur exhaled and stepped forward. The first touch was decent, the ball staying close. The second? Too heavy. He scrambled, adjusting, nudging the ball back under control. His rhythm faltered.
"Focus, Hayes!" Darius barked.
Arthur pushed through, forcing the ball into passes. Some were too soft, others too hard. He could almost feel Clovis's smirk burning into the back of his head. By the time he reached the end, sweat already trickled down his temple.
"C!"
Arthur gritted his teeth.
Again.
By the fifth attempt, his lungs burned. His shirt clung to him, soaked with sweat. The results weren't better: C, C, D, B, C.
Only once had he managed a B.
"Pathetic," Clovis sneered as he jogged past. His own drill had shone with precision, ball rolling as though under a spell. "How the mighty Hayes have fallen. If this is your standard, better quit before you embarrass us further."
Arthur didn't reply. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms.
Marcus clapped his shoulder when Clovis was gone. "Ignore him. You're improving."
Arthur shot him a look. "That was 'improving'?"
Marcus grinned faintly. "You didn't trip this time. Baby steps, Arthur."
Arthur snorted, but some tension eased from his shoulders.
Training rolled on. Shooting drills came next. Balls lined the eighteen-yard box. Each player had to strike at targets placed in the corners of the net.
Arthur stepped up.
His first shot skied over the bar.The second hit the side-netting.The third curled too wide.
By the tenth, he managed to clip the lower corner. A single "B" blinked on his screen. The rest were Cs and Ds.
"Again!" Darius barked.
Arthur staggered back into line, chest heaving.
Clovis strutted forward, striking cleanly with each attempt. Balls thudded into top corners, precise and ruthless. His results glowed: A, A, A, B+, A.
"See?" he said smugly, turning toward Arthur. "That's what real heirs are made of."
Arthur didn't answer. His jaw tightened, but he forced his focus inward.
Ding!
(System, progress report.)
[Passing +0.2][Shooting +0.1][Dribbling +0.1][Stamina +0.3]
Tiny. Almost invisible. But there.
It was proof. Proof that every drop of sweat wasn't wasted.
By evening, the players collapsed on the grass, groaning. Muscles twitched with exhaustion, and the air smelled of salt and dirt.
"You'll thank me when you're not humiliated in the qualifiers!" Darius barked, though his own face gleamed with pride beneath the harshness.
Arthur lay back, staring at the dusky sky. His body screamed in protest, but a strange peace lingered in his chest.
Small gains. That was enough for now.
Night fell over the academy. The dormitory buzzed with low chatter. Some boys traded jokes, others whispered about girls from the nearby city, laughter echoing through the halls.
Arthur sat on his bunk, towel draped around his neck, while Marcus sat cross-legged on the bed opposite.
"Did you hear?" Marcus said, lowering his voice. "About Ravensworth?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "What about them?"
"They've been tearing through friendlies. One of our seniors said they beat Ironfang Academy 7–0 last week."
Arthur stilled. Ironfang wasn't weak. They'd finished mid-table last youth league.
Marcus leaned closer. "And apparently, their captain—Cedric Ravensworth—scored four himself. Four. They say he's already better than half the second-division starters."
Arthur's mind flickered with the memory of Cedric's name. He didn't know the boy, but the Hayes memories he'd inherited carried bitterness. The Ravensworth family had been one of the hands pushing them into the dirt.
A strange mix of dread and fire pooled in Arthur's stomach.
"Cedric, huh…" he murmured.
Marcus smirked. "Don't worry, you'll get your chance to face him. Maybe even nutmeg him."
Arthur snorted. "Or maybe he'll nutmeg me into retirement."
They both laughed, tension breaking. Yet deep down, Arthur's determination hardened.
If Cedric was the mountain ahead, then fine. Arthur would climb. Even if it killed him.
When the dorm fell quiet, Arthur slipped out. The night air was cool, carrying the faint scent of grass and earth. He walked back onto the empty training pitch.
(System, load passing drill.)
The cones lit faintly blue in the dark, phantom-like. Arthur set the ball down and began. Step by step, touch by touch, pass by pass.
The rhythm echoed in the silence. His breath grew ragged, legs heavy, yet he pressed on. Again and again.
[C+][C+][B][B][C]
By the thirtieth attempt, his shirt clung to him as though he'd stepped through rain. Yet when the system flashed [A-], a shaky smile broke across his face.
He fell onto the grass, chest heaving, sweat dripping into the dirt.
"Finally," he whispered.
A single 'A'.
It wasn't much. It wasn't Cedric's dominance, nor Clovis's talent. But it was his. Hard-earned.
Arthur closed his eyes, exhaustion tugging him toward sleep. Yet even as darkness pressed in, a thought lingered.
One step at a time. One drill at a time. No matter how far behind I am… I'll catch up.
The stars above blinked faintly, as if bearing witness.
And somewhere, beyond the hills, Cedric Ravensworth was no doubt still training too.