The pitch glistened under the late afternoon sun, a pristine emerald carpet manicured to perfection. Gleaming stands lined the sides, packed with spectators eager to watch the friendly. For Ravensworth Academy, even practice matches attracted a crowd. Nobles, sponsors, and talent scouts filled the seats, their gazes sharp, expectant.
On the touchline, the Ravensworth squad stood in matching kits — crimson and black, a predator's colors. They radiated confidence, the kind born not just from skill, but from privilege.
At the center of it all was Cedric Ravensworth.
The seventeen-year-old captain adjusted his armband, eyes sweeping the field with a hawk's calm intensity. Broad-shouldered yet lean, Cedric moved with a predator's grace, every motion efficient. His dark hair was slicked back, and his gaze held a fire that silenced teammates when it turned their way.
To the fans, he was already a star. To his squad, he was both leader and executioner.
"Cedric," their coach, Viktor Hale, approached, voice low. "Remember: this isn't about the scoreline. It's about sending a message. Control the tempo. Show the difference between nobility… and commoners."
Cedric nodded once. He needed no pep talk.
"Understood."
The whistle blew.
Ravensworth versus Graythorn Academy — a respectable opponent, known for their grit. But grit meant little before precision.
From the first touch, Cedric dictated play.
As ball after ball flowed through midfield, Cedric dropped deep, demanding possession. His first touch was velvet, cushioning a pass fired at him with ease. His second? A perfectly weighted through-ball that split defenders, placing it at the feet of their striker, Roland.
1–0.
Not five minutes had passed.
The crowd erupted, chants of "Ravensworth! Cedric!" echoing across the stands.
Graythorn tried to rally, pressing higher, doubling Cedric whenever he touched the ball. But he was unfazed. A deft feint sent one marker stumbling, a body feint wrong-footed another. Cedric glided forward, his vision sharp.
A curling pass arced from his boot, landing precisely in the run of their winger. Cross. Header. Goal.
2–0.
By the twentieth minute, Graythorn looked rattled. Cedric's aura suffocated them — not just his skill, but his composure.
From the bench, Coach Hale crossed his arms, lips curling in approval. "That boy… he's already playing beyond this level."
Beside him, an older noble leaned forward. "How old is he again? Seventeen?"
"Seventeen," Hale confirmed. "But in truth… he could start in Division Two tomorrow. Perhaps even Division One in a year."
The noble chuckled. "The future belongs to Ravensworth indeed."
On the pitch, Cedric continued his dominance.
A Graythorn defender finally lunged, desperate, aiming to cut him down. Cedric anticipated it, rolling the ball behind his heel and pivoting smoothly. The defender stumbled past, grasping at air.
With one burst of pace, Cedric entered the box. The keeper rushed out, arms wide.
Chip.
The ball arced gracefully, floating over the keeper's outstretched hand, before kissing the net.
3–0.
The stands erupted again.
Cedric didn't celebrate wildly. He merely raised a fist to his chest, acknowledging the crowd before turning back, eyes already scanning for the restart. To him, it wasn't about glory. It was about control. About dominance.
By halftime, the score was 4–0. Cedric had one goal, two assists, and over seventy percent pass completion in the final third.
In the locker room, his teammates buzzed.
"Captain, that chip was unreal!" Roland gushed. "You made that defender look like a child!"
Cedric merely sipped water, towel draped around his neck. "He overcommitted. Punishing mistakes is the minimum expected."
Another teammate chuckled nervously. "Cold as ever."
Cedric's gaze swept them, firm. "We are not here to amuse ourselves. We are here to establish Ravensworth as the pinnacle. If you want to laugh and cheer, save it for after the trophy."
The locker room quieted instantly. Cedric wasn't cruel, but his presence demanded seriousness. Even the older boys bowed their heads when he spoke.
The second half resumed.
Graythorn, battered but stubborn, pushed higher. Their captain charged into a tackle, finally dispossessing Cedric. For a moment, the crowd gasped — a glimmer of hope.
But Cedric rose smoothly, jogging back. He didn't chase recklessly. He simply waited.
When the ball inevitably returned to midfield, Cedric struck like a viper. A clean interception, a swift turn, and suddenly Graythorn's shape collapsed. One-two with Roland. A delicate through-ball. Another finish.
5–0.
By the final whistle, it was 7–0. Cedric had two goals, four assists, and a performance so polished it seemed rehearsed. Graythorn's players collapsed, gasping, humiliated.
Ravensworth walked tall, heads high.
The stands thundered with applause, names chanted in waves. But above all, one name echoed most.
"Cedric! Cedric! Cedric!"
Later, in the tunnel, Cedric walked calmly, towel draped around his shoulders. Journalists clamored, cameras flashing, nobles calling out congratulations.
One reporter shoved forward. "Cedric! What do you say to the claim that Hayes Academy is recovering? Some believe their heir, Arthur Hayes , is training to restore his family's name!"
At the name, Cedric paused. His lips curled faintly, though his eyes remained calm.
"Hayes …" He adjusted his armband. "A relic of a fallen house. His father was respectable once, but respect doesn't win matches. Nobility is measured on the pitch. If he wishes to challenge Ravensworth—"
He leaned closer, voice cool, sharp as a blade.
"—then he had better be prepared to face reality. I will not show mercy."
The reporters scribbled furiously, flashes erupting.
Cedric walked on without another word, steps steady, mind already shifting to the next match. Yet somewhere deep inside, a flicker of curiosity stirred.
Arthur Hayes.
A boy trying to crawl out of the abyss.
Cedric almost respected the attempt. Almost. But in his world, respect without strength was worthless.
If Arthur truly stood before him one day… Cedric would crush him, without hesitation.