WebNovels

Chapter 44 - Chapter 44: Resolve

By midmorning, the sun had climbed high over the training dome, spilling warm light through the skylights of the Tactical Studies Hall. Rows of students sat behind shimmering holo-desks, their datapads flickering with diagrams of rotating formations, zones, and passing channels.

B7 arrived a few minutes late, still sweating from drills. Coach Silva didn't even look up as they slipped in—his voice filled the hall like a whip crack. "Take your seats. The field forgives sweat, not ignorance."

The class fell silent immediately.

Silva was a mountain of a man—graying beard, sharp blue eyes, voice that could make even senior students sit straight. On the projection board behind him, the word "Positional Compression" glowed in bold letters.

He pointed to the display. "Most players think space is something to use. Wrong. Space is something to take. Whoever controls compression controls the match."

He turned toward the students, his gaze slicing through the rows. "Ashcroft. You're a midfielder. Define compression."

Bram blinked once, then stood. "When a team reduces the available space for the opponent to maneuver, forcing errors through pressure and positioning."

Silva lips twitched—almost approval. "Good. Now—what happens when you over-compress?"

"Formation collapses," Bram said without hesitation. "Passing lanes vanish, and defensive shape breaks."

Silva nodded slowly. "You've been studying. Sit."

Percy whispered, "Nerd." Bram smirked.

Silva continued, voice steady but commanding. "Every decision on the field is a chain. A weak link breaks rhythm. That's why A1 stays undefeated—they move like a single thought."

That name sent ripples through the room.

Felix leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "Coach, what about underdogs? What if your chain is made of weaker links—but stronger resolve?"

Silva gaze cut to him. "Resolve doesn't close gaps in skill. But it can make the fall slower." He paused. "If you want to climb, you need vision. Not the kind that looks forward—the kind that sees between the lines."

Bram froze. Vision.

It wasn't the first time he'd heard that word this morning, but from Silva tone, it felt heavier—like the universe was pushing him toward something.

Afternoon. The dome shimmered alive, converting into the Practical Training Arena, a half-field simulation ground surrounded by floating holo-screens that tracked each student's metrics in real time.

Coach Marrow stood at the sideline, arms folded. "Today—positional transition under fatigue. Half team defends, half attacks. I want fluid play, no static stances."

The whistle blew.

Teams scattered into motion. Felix took charge instantly, barking orders. "Hold the line—Daren, push right! Bram, eyes on me!"

Bram's body moved on instinct. But his mind… drifted.

Every sound—the thud of the ball, the rush of boots against turf, the air slicing past—seemed to stretch. The edges of his sight shimmered faintly blue. For a moment, time slowed, fractured like glass.

He saw the pass coming before it happened—just half a second early—but enough to intercept. He pivoted, stole the ball, and released a perfect short through-pass to Callen.

Then the vision snapped back. The shimmer vanished.

[Replay Vision Activated: 23%][+1 Vision Stat Earned]

He stumbled slightly as the System panel flickered in front of him.

[Host your resolve is commendable ]

My aim is top 3 in the league table

"Nice steal, Bram!" Felix shouted.

He nodded faintly, but inside, something was shifting. He was starting to understand the shape of his gift—not just replaying what he saw, but feeling the flow that led to it.

Up above the training dome, behind a tinted observation panel, two figures watched in silence.

Headmaster Arcrest stood beside Instructor Sera Lys, arms folded behind his back.

Sera's tone was flat. "The boy's mid-match visuals with instinct. That's beyond typical."

Arcrest's eyes gleamed faintly. "Ashcroft blood runs deep.

"Perhaps," Sera said, smiling faintly.

Below them, Bram's figure darted across the field again—calm, measured, his focus razor-sharp despite the exhaustion beginning to set in. Every pass, every intercept, carried a rhythm—one that didn't belong to normal training drills.

Sera tilted her head. "You think he'll reach the threshold before the Trials?"

"If he does," Arcrest murmured, "we'll see what the Academy really responds to."

Evening draped itself across the academy. The last echoes of practice faded, and the sky outside burned orange and violet. Students filtered back toward dorms, chattering about the upcoming midseason event—the Trial Competition.

B7 lingered near the benches, exhausted but oddly satisfied. Percy groaned, collapsing backward. "I can't feel my legs." Daren chuckled weakly. "That's because Feine doubled our training load." Felix just smiled. "Good. Maybe we'll actually look like a team by next week."

Bram sat a little apart, towel over his shoulders, watching the faint shimmer of the replay field fade into night. In his vision, the System flickered one last time.

[Mission Progress: 23% → 24%][Reward: +1 Vision Stat]

He exhaled softly. "Step by step."

For a brief moment, he thought about A1. About Lucian. About the look his brother had given him in the cafeteria—curiosity tinged with quiet pride… or pity, he wasn't sure which.

Either way, he would earn his place. Not as Lucian's younger brother. Not as a class B student. But as Bram Ashcroft—the one who would rewrite what "Football" meant.

The tension of the A-3 match still lingered in everyone's muscles. Even after weeks, the sting of defeat hadn't faded — not for Bram, not for B-7.

But something in that loss had shifted them.

Morning sunlight poured through the Academy's steel-lined windows, turning the training dome's floor into glints of gold. Feine stood before his squad, tablet in hand, sharp eyes scanning his players as they assembled for drills.

"Alright, listen up," he said, his voice clipped but steady. "We've had our share of draws and one narrow loss. That's not bad — but it's not enough. The next three fixtures decide whether we stay mid-table or rise into contention for the Trials."

The word Trials alone seemed to electrify the dome. Everyone knew what that meant — the top three classes from each teaam would qualify. Those who made it would be watched by scouts. For the rest… just another season of anonymity.

Bram's fingers clenched around his shin guards as Feine continued, "We're fifth right now. A-3 just pushed up to eleven points, D-14 and A-2 are both climbing fast. We win the next three, and we're back in the running."

"Then we win them," Felix said, stretching his neck, his confidence loud as always. "Simple."

Daren smirked. "You make it sound like a walk in the park."

Feine smiled faintly. "It won't be. But I like the spirit."

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