The sound of knocking echoed through the narrow dorm corridor.
"Oi, Bram! Wake up, you sleepy head!"
Felix's voice was half-annoyed, half-amused—the kind of tone that had become an alarm clock for everyone in B7 dorm. Bram stirred under his sheets, his body heavy after the drill the day before. His limbs ached in that dull, pleasant way that told him he'd pushed himself further.
"Yeah, yeah… I'm up," he muttered, dragging himself from bed. His reflection in the mirror was a mess—disheveled hair, sleepy eyes, and faint marks under his lids. He splashed cold water on his face, brushed his teeth, and quickly dressed in his academy training uniform—navy blue trimmed with silver.
By the time he stepped into the hallway, the others were already gathered—Felix stretching, Daren yawning like a bear, and Percy scrolling through his Cerebrox band.
"Feine's already at the cafeteria," Felix said. "He said if we're late again, he's cutting our warm-up time."
"Which means more laps," Daren groaned.
They all moved in sync down the hall and out into the brisk morning air of Royal Academy's east wing. The campus was alive with early risers—students from all classes streaming toward the dining dome, the smell of roasted grain and spice filling the air.
Inside, the cafeteria was a vast, domed structure filled with chatter and holographic screens displaying highlights from matches.
Bram paid for his meal with his academy points, the small digital counter above his wrist flickering as he tapped. He had just enough for a hearty breakfast. They all settled at their usual table—a little off to the side, where B7's chatter wouldn't get too many looks.
That didn't stop people from noticing them.
Across the cafeteria, A1 sat together—clean uniforms, perfect posture, the quiet confidence of champions. At their center was Lucian Ashcroft, Bram's older brother. Calm, composed, surrounded by laughter that never reached his eyes.
Beside him was Theron, the same boy who'd defeated Bram during the placement trials—sharp, arrogant, and still smirking like he owned the field.
Bram froze mid-bite. His eyes flicked toward them.
Percy noticed. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Probably not," Bram replied, tone dry.
Felix leaned in. "You think we can catch up to them before the season ends?"
Daren snorted. "Catch up? They're top of the league. Unbeaten. I'm not suicidal."
Dory, ever the hot-headed one, slammed his tray down. "Then we challenge them in the trial dome! Straight up!"
The entire table went silent. Then everyone turned to him with the same look: are you insane?
Even Bram blinked slowly.
"Sure," Felix said, deadpan. "You go ahead, Dory. We'll watch from the afterlife."
Laughter erupted. Loud, too loud.
Other students turned their heads, some snickering, others shaking their heads in disbelief.
"Those B7 guys again."
"Do they even know who A1 are?"
"Idiots."
The murmurs spread, but Bram barely heard them. His gaze stayed locked on Lucian—his brother who hadn't so much as looked his way.
For a moment, he wondered if Lucian was pretending not to see him… or if he genuinely didn't care.
At another table near the upper level, a young man sat alone, surrounded by holographic displays of tactical diagrams .It was Feine, B7's assigned coach—his eyes darting between formations, adjusting variables, muttering to himself.
"If Daren rotates faster during mid-shift and Felix stays deeper… that creates a counter-window for Bram's vision…"
He paused, rubbing his temple. Things were getting complicated; the higher they climbed, the more their flaws showed.
Suddenly, the door hissed open behind him.
A tall figure stepped in—a professor in gray robes with the academy crest emblazoned on the sleeve.
"Feine Rennard," the man said, voice firm. "The Headmaster requests your presence."
Feine's stylus froze mid-air. "...The Headmaster?"
"Yes. Immediately."
Feine blinked, confused. "That's… a first." He shut down the holograms and stood, slipping his datapad under his arm.
Whatever this was—it wasn't ordinary. And for the Headmaster to summon a student coach? Something big was brewing.
The walk to the Main Administration Spire felt longer than usual. Feine's footsteps echoed along the glass-tiled corridor, the hum of energy conduits beneath his feet matching the rapid beat of his heart. The early morning light filtered through the tall windows, casting fractured blue rays across the hallway.
He wasn't nervous—well, maybe a little—but mostly curious. Student coaches weren't exactly common, and getting summoned by the Headmaster of Royal Academy, a man most students only saw during major tournaments, was unheard of.
Feine stepped in.
The room was circular and vast, walls lined with glowing tactical screens showing match replays, league standings, and data graphs that constantly shifted. At the center stood Headmaster Veylan Arcrest, tall, white-haired, his posture sharp as a blade. His eyes, a piercing silver-gray, turned toward Feine as if he could see through every layer of his thoughts.
Beside him, another figure stood—a woman in a tailored instructor's suit, her arms crossed. Instructor Sera Lys, head of the Tactical Division, known for her ruthless analysis and frightening intuition.
Feine instinctively straightened. "Headmaster Veylan. Instructor Lys."
Veylan nodded once. "Feine Rennard. I've been reviewing your data logs from B7's recent matches."
Feine blinked. "My… logs, sir?"
"Yes. Your tactical adjustments against A3 during the last half were interesting," Veylan continued, turning to a holographic replay. "You compensated for a lack of coordination by increasing positional fluidity. It almost worked."
"Almost," Sera added coldly. "You have vision, but no polish. You rely too much on improvisation."
Feine's jaw tightened slightly. "We lack raw stats, ma'am. I adjust based on instincts."
"Instinct," Sera said, stepping closer, "is only useful when it's accurate. Yours is… unpredictable."
Hale raised a hand, silencing her.m"Still," he said, "you've managed to pull a class on the brink of obscurity into the mid-tier. That's not something we ignore."
Feine frowned. "Sir, why call me here?"
Veylan turned to a different display—a series of brackets labeled 'season Trial Competition'. Feine's eyes widened. That was the rumored event—an internal evaluation across classes, used to test tactical growth, and also promotion to SS or S class in year 2.
"We'll be introducing something new this year," Hale said. "A Trial Dome system. The top three teams in the league can participate. They will play against S and A teams of year 2.
Feine felt his pulse quicken. "You mean…"
"Yes," Veylan said, smiling faintly. "You'll be representing B7 as the team's tactical head in the competition."
Feine blinked. "Sir, I'm— a year 2 student coach, and i think that's the instructors job."
"Exactly. That's why it's interesting."
Sera turned to Arcrest. "If you're serious, we'll need to monitor him closely. His methods deviate from standard formations."
"Let him deviate," Arcrest replied. "The academy needs deviation."
Feine swallowed hard. His mind was already racing through possibilities, scenarios, formations. If they won even one Trial match against an upper class, him, his team could shoot up the internal ranking system. It could also catch attention from scouts.
"Understood, sir," he said finally.
Arcrest nodded. "Good. You may go. And Feine…"
Feine turned back.
The Headmaster's expression softened slightly. "B7's rise—or failure—will reflect on you as much as its players. Don't let your creativity die under pressure."
Feine bowed his head. "I won't."
He left the office, the door closing softly behind him. For a moment, he just stood there in the corridor, heart pounding. Then he smirked.
"Bram… things are about to get interesting."
Meanwhile, on the western field, B7's morning training had already begun.The sky was streaked with soft gold, and the pitch shimmered faintly under the holographic projection barrier.
Felix blew his whistle—well, his imitation of Feine's whistle, since the real one was gone. "All right, guys, warm-ups first! We start with five laps!"
"Feine's late again," Percy muttered. "He's supposed to be our brains."
"Maybe he's upgrading his IQ," Daren joked. Bram jogged quietly beside them, think about how to utilize his ability well.
Bram sighed inwardly. Train perception, huh? That's easy to say when you're not the one with a throbbing headache every time you activate it.
Maybe… it wasn't just about seeing movement. Maybe it was about understanding intent—reading the flow, not just the play.
"Bram!" Felix called. "Stop daydreaming, we're starting drills!"
He blinked, snapping out of it. "Right."
As he joined the formation, he caught sight of something odd—a small drone hovering above, red light blinking. Academy surveillance. Probably monitoring class performance metrics. But still… it made his skin crawl. Like he was being watched a little too closely.
Feine arrived halfway through training, breathless but calm.
"Sorry I'm late," he said, holding a datapad. "Had to meet the Headmaster."
That made everyone stop.
"The Headmaster?" Percy said. "You serious?"
Feine nodded. "He wants B7 in the Trial Competition."
Silence.
Then Felix laughed nervously. "You mean—the same trial where we could face the upper classes of A and S?"
"Exactly," Feine said. "So you better stop slacking. From now on, training doubles."
Everyone groaned in unison. Except Bram—who was smiling faintly.
A challenge like that…Maybe it was exactly what he needed.