Weeks after the A-3 match moved like a blur.
Between morning drills, lectures, and strategy analysis, time slipped past fast — but the sting of that narrow defeat still lingered in everyone's minds. Feine had said little about it, yet the intensity of training doubled.Every pass, every run, every misstep — corrected, refined, repeated.
By the end of the week, when they looked back on the matches that followed, it was clear something had changed in B-7.
Matchday 6 — B-7 vs B-6
It was supposed to be an even matchup — two first-year class teams, trained under the same instructors, using nearly identical systems. But the moment they stepped onto the pitch, the difference showed.
They didn't stumble anymore.They flowed.
Felix led with his usual spark, Dory and Percy rotated seamlessly, and Bram… he finally began to feel that faint, invisible rhythm of control he'd been chasing since the season began.
They won 2–0.Bram netted one — a calm finish after threading through defenders — and Percy sealed it with a long-range strike that sent the crowd in the dome buzzing.
It wasn't about domination; it was about balance. For the first time, their passing, positioning, and tempo felt unified — the kind of play that made instructors watching from the gallery whisper among themselves.
The chatter buzzed around, but Bram barely listened. His mind was still on the pitch — that single second before he'd scored, when everything had slowed, when he felt almost connected to the game's flow.
Not quite there… but close.
That night, he sat outside the dorms, towel around his neck, watching the twin moons of Arathia glimmer above the academy towers. The air was quiet, only distant voices of students echoing from the training domes.
Bram smirked, whispering to himself, "Just wait."
He didn't need to say more. The determination was already there — burning quietly beneath the calm.
The days that followed their win over B-6 passed in a rhythm — one that felt new to B-7. Gone were the hesitant passes and second guesses that had marked their early games. Now, their drills carried flow — the kind that came only after shared failure, shared sweat, and shared belief.
Every morning began before sunrise. Feine was already waiting by the training dome, clipboard in hand, his sharp eyes tracking every movement. "Positions," he'd call — and they would fall into formation like clockwork.
The chill of dawn wrapped the field as Bram led the warm-up run, boots thudding in sync with the others. Felix joked as usual, Dory grumbled about the cold, and Percy hummed quietly to keep his rhythm steady. Even the silent ones — Collins, Kael and Mhed — had started communicating better. No wasted words, just sharp passes and nods of understanding.
Feine's voice cut through the quiet, as always: "Think faster. Move cleaner. You're not just running drills — you're building instinct."
By now, Bram understood what that meant. The more they trained, the more the game began to slow down around him. When the ball came to his feet, he didn't have to think where to pass — his body already knew. The flickers of his ability — that faint golden shimmer in his eyes when focus deepened — grew sharper. The "Replay Vision," as he'd begun to call it, was syncing with his real instincts, no longer separate or forced.
But Feine wasn't letting them grow comfortable.
Every mistake, every slip of concentration, was punished with an extra lap or a silent glare that somehow felt worse than shouting.
Still, there was a quiet pride in him too — visible only in those rare, fleeting moments when the team executed a drill perfectly.
"Again," he would say — but there was always that faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
By the end of the week, the whispers around the academy had shifted.
"B-7's actually improving." "They're getting sharper every game." "Feine's system might really be working."
For the first time, B-7 wasn't seen as the group of underdogs who barely scraped through matches. They were starting to earn respect — not through flash, but through consistency.
As they gathered in the cafeteria one evening, Dory grinned over his tray of rice and stew. "You all feel it too, right? Like something finally clicked?"
Felix leaned back, hands behind his head. "About time. I was getting tired of Feine's death stares."
Bram smiled faintly, stirring his drink. "Don't jinx it."
"Jinx what?" Dory teased. "Our streak? Please. We're not losing again."
Feine's voice echoed from behind them, calm but sharp: "You'll lose the moment you start believing that."
The whole table froze. Feine passed by, setting his tray down a few seats away — deliberately within earshot — and began eating like nothing had happened.
Percy whispered, "He's always listening, isn't he?"
"Always," Bram muttered back, hiding his smirk.
The next morning, Feine gathered them in the dome again, eyes gleaming with that unreadable mix of challenge and pride. "You've improved. But it means nothing if you can't prove it again."
He turned toward the schedule board. "Next opponent — C-12. Fast, aggressive, unorganized. If you can't break them apart, then all this training means nothing."
Felix cracked his knuckles. "Sounds like fun."
Bram looked at his teammates — calm, focused, united. They were ready.
The sun was high when B-7 stepped onto the field of the Dome. The air shimmered faintly — warm light filtering through the transparent dome ceiling, the smell of synthetic turf and sweat thick in the air.
C-12 was already waiting on the other side of the field. Their players wore green-trimmed kits, restless and loud — the kind of team that thrived on chaos. They were known for reckless pressing and unpredictable bursts of energy. No structure, no restraint. Just speed and aggression.
Feine, standing behind the line with his pad, gave a small nod. "Remember," he said. "Don't chase their rhythm. Make them chase yours."
Bram's gaze sharpened. "Understood."
When the whistle blew — and the match began.
From the first seconds, C-12 pressed hard. Two attackers charged at Felix, forcing him into a hurried pass back. Percy dropped deep, shielding the ball and spreading it wide to Collins, who instantly lobbed it upfield.
"Hold the shape!" Bram shouted, tracking back.
C-12's captain darted down the right flank, cut inside, and fired. Jory deflected the shot with a sliding tackle, sending the ball spinning out of bounds. The crowd — mostly first-year students — erupted in cheers.
Feine didn't react. His arms were crossed, his eyes calculating every movement.
Ten minutes in, the storm began to settle.C-12's initial burst lost its edge, their lines started to stretch thin.
That was when B-7 struck.
Felix intercepted a pass near midfield, spun once, and found Bram cutting between defenders. A flick. A touch. A perfect through-pass that rolled into space.
Bram didn't hesitate. He sprinted forward, faked right, then left — and slipped the ball past the keeper's legs.
"Goal!"
The sound of the crowd hit like a wave.1–0.
Felix ran up, slapping Bram's shoulder. "Finally! That's the rhythm!"
But they didn't celebrate long — C-12 came back even harder. Their forwards threw themselves forward with reckless abandon, desperate for an equalizer.
Twice, B-7 nearly conceded — once when Dory mistimed a clearance, and again when their keeper, Mhed, had to dive to his limit to push a curling shot wide.
Feine's voice cut through the chaos: "Focus! Don't match their pace — control it!"
And Bram understood. He slowed the game down. When he had the ball, he didn't rush. He waited. Drew defenders in. Then slipped it sideways or back, reshaping their attack with patience.
Bit by bit, C-12's energy burned out.
By the second half, the difference in control was obvious. Percy dictated the midfield, Daren roamed the channels, and Bram… he saw things clearer than ever. Every movement of his teammates appeared as faint traces in his mind, ghost images of what could happen next.
His "Replay Vision" pulsed once — gold shimmered faintly at the edge of his sight — and he passed without even looking.
The ball curved between two defenders — straight to Daren, who volleyed it in.
2–0.
The dome exploded in noise.
C-12 tried to recover, but the game had already slipped away. Their wild rhythm turned into frustration — fouls, misplaced passes, angry shouts.
When the final whistle blew, the score stayed 2–0.
B-7's second straight win.
Bram knelt briefly on the turf, chest heaving. Sweat rolled down his temples as he looked up at the scoreboard.
Two wins in a row. Momentum — real momentum — at last.
Feine approached slowly, arms still crossed. His tone, as usual, was calm. "You controlled the game today. Better."
"Still rough in defense," Felix muttered.
Feine nodded. "Good. You noticed. Fix it before I do."
He turned to leave but stopped, glancing back at Bram. "You're seeing more now, aren't you?"
Bram blinked. "Maybe."
Feine smiled faintly. "Then keep watching. Vision without understanding is just luck."
The words lingered long after he walked away.
The next morning, the academy buzzed with fresh energy. The results from the previous night's fixtures had been posted across the main atrium, holographic screens rotating through league updates, match stats, and player highlights.
Students crowded around the displays, whispering and pointing.B-7's name glowed brighter than usual — two green marks beside it, symbolizing consecutive wins.
League Update: Week 7
1. A-1 – 24 pts
2. A-2 – 20 pts
3. B-7 – 17 pts
4. D-14 – 16pts
5. A-3 – 14 pts
6. C-9 – 11 pts
7. A-4 – 10 pts
8. B-8 – 9 pts
9. C-12 – 6 pts
10. D-16 – 5 pts
....
Bram stared at the rankings as if they were alive. They… They Just need to hold on or go beyond. The trials will be within their reach.
Percy whistled low. "We're actually there. We're climbing."
Felix grinned, clapping Bram's back. "Told you. No more hesitation."
Dory pumped his fist. "We just need to crush the next one!"
"Next one," Feine's voice said from behind, calm as ever, "is D-9. Don't underestimate them."
They turned to see him standing near the entrance, datapad tucked under his arm, the usual unreadable expression on his face.
"D-13 doesn't play pretty football," Feine continued. "But they're dangerous when underestimated. Counter-heavy, defensive, and brutal in tackles. They don't chase wins — they grind for draws."
Percy grimaced. "So, we have to break a wall."
Feine nodded once. "Exactly. And if you can do that, B-7 enters the top two for the first time this season."
That alone sent a ripple of adrenaline through them.
Felix leaned back, smirking. "Then we'll just break it down piece by piece."
Feine's eyes narrowed slightly, but a faint smile ghosted across his lips. "Confidence is good. Arrogance is not. Learn the difference."
He turned to Bram. "You're starting to see the rhythm, aren't you?"
Bram hesitated, thinking of how the field seemed slower now — how movements unfolded like threads in his mind before they happened. "It's like… the world slows, and I just know where the ball should go."
Feine's tone softened. "Then next match, don't just see the rhythm. Control it."
Later that night…
The dorms were quiet. Outside, the academy lights shimmered under a violet sky, reflected faintly on the dome surfaces. Bram sat by his desk, match highlights replaying on his holo-pad — his passes, the flick to Dory, the intercepted runs.
His reflection on the screen looked focused, but distant.
"Control the rhythm, huh…"He leaned back, closing his eyes.
The faint pulse of his Vision ability hummed at the edge of awareness — slower, steadier now, no longer wild.
[Host you think you can hold your grounds against A1?]
"Haa! Why do you always pop up without notice." Bram exclaimed as he jumps of his feet.
[Host it's a test of reaction speed ]
"You just did that to tease me."
Somewhere in the distance, across another wing of the Academy, Lucian Ashcroft — his brother — was watching the same replay.
For a moment, Lucian's calm mask broke. A small, knowing smile crossed his lips.