NOVPUBThe trait bloomed in Damien's mind like a pressure shift—not loud, not overwhelming, just present, as if a layer of glass had been pulled off the world. Lines sharpened. Movement slowed. Every step, every pivot, every twitch of an ankle carried meaning now.
The system pulsed once.
—----------------------------------
Trait: Neural Predator
→ Weakpoint Trace: Active.
→ Combat Echo: Engaged.
→ Stolen Flow: Data absorbed.
—----------------------------------
Damien blinked—and the field turned tactical.
Aaron's sharp turns weren't random—they followed a rhythm, a half-beat syncopation before each drive. Rin's tackles had a two-step feint baked in, meant to bait pressure before snapping back. Even Lionel's long passes curved with an upper-hip twist he used to generate lift.
He hadn't noticed any of that before.
But now?
Now he saw it. Felt it. Understood it.
He didn't copy them outright—this wasn't some movie moment where he mimicked Aaron's style in ten seconds and became a prodigy. No. It was subtler.
A bend of the ankle to keep the ball tighter.
A body feint used earlier in the curve.
Little shifts.
Little advantages.
He tested one mid-game.
Received a pass on the outer edge of the pitch—right near the sideline, boxed in. Two defenders closed.
Normally, he'd reset. Pass back. Play safe.
Instead, he dropped a half-step—just like Aaron did when baiting—and let the pressure come.
Then spun inward.
Used the new touch angle from Lionel's style to cut the ball forward while his shoulder dipped into the gap.
Clean escape.
Someone whistled from the sideline. "Yo—did you see that?"
Rin smirked. "He's stealing moves now?"
"No," Damien murmured under his breath. "Just adapting."
The game continued. Fast. Focused.
But not frenzied.
Refined.
They weren't just attacking—they were linking. Passing into space. Reading each other's motion. There were still mistakes, sure—this wasn't pro ball—but it was fluid.
It felt good.
And Damien?
He was part of it now.
Not just the wildcard. Not just the unexpected ace.
He was integrated.
Each time he touched the ball, it wasn't about glory—it was about flow. He made Aaron's runs cleaner. Opened space for Rin's overlaps. Took heat off Lionel's long plays.
Even when he didn't score, he shifted pressure.
And the other side?
They were feeling it.
Ezra was winded, Kaine was getting sloppy, and Marek—
Marek was unraveling.
Every time Damien got past him, every touch that wasn't intercepted, every clean pass—Marek grew tighter. His movements stiffened. His checks became fouls. His eyes followed Damien with increasing desperation, like someone trying to catch smoke.
It all came to a head in the final stretch.
The whistle was close. Both teams were sweating, flushed with exertion. Students lined the sidelines now, some cheering, some just watching in stunned quiet.
Damien received a high pass from Aaron, caught it with his chest, and dropped it dead at his feet.
Marek was there—closing fast.
Damien didn't dodge immediately.
He let the pressure mount.
Let Marek think he had him.
A little shift.
A flick.
And Marek bit.
Hard.
Damien pivoted around him like wind curling around a rock—smooth, effortless, intentional.
He didn't look back.
He just whispered, loud enough for Marek alone.
"Keep up."
It snapped.
Marek turned—snapped—and surged in behind him.
Too fast. Too reckless.
The elbow came.
Hard. Dirty. Full swing, angled for the ribs with no intent to hide it.
But Damien's body moved before he did.
A blur of instinct honed under Elysia's brutal hand.
He twisted—stepped out with the lead foot and dropped his weight—just in time.
The elbow missed. By a breath.
Wind brushed against Damien's side like a near-death shiver.
If he hadn't trained—
If he hadn't learned—
He'd be curled on the turf, choking.
But he wasn't.
He was upright.
Still standing.
And Marek?
Frozen.
Caught mid-lunge.
Eyes wide.
Damien turned just enough to glance over his shoulder—expression unreadable.
Damien turned just enough to glance over his shoulder—
And this time, there was no smile.
No smirk.
No trace of amusement.
His expression was sharp. Tight. Lips drawn into a line. Eyes cold.
Because that wasn't part of the game.
That wasn't competition.
That was a strike.
Deliberate. Meant to hurt. Not win.
And for one brief, silent moment, the air thickened.
Marek stood frozen mid-lunge, chest heaving, elbow still half-raised like he hadn't realized what he'd just done—or maybe like he had, and was waiting to see if he could get away with it.
He wouldn't.
Thump.
A shoulder hit Marek's side.
Hard.
"Oi—what the hell was that?" Rin's voice cut in, low and sharp, as he stepped between them without hesitation.
Aaron was there a second later, eyes narrowed, jaw tense. "You trying to throw elbows now? Seriously?"
Marek stumbled half a step back from the hit, caught off guard—not by force, but by response. His mouth opened, but no words came.
Because more were coming.
Lionel jogged over next, eyebrows drawn tight. "This supposed to be football or street brawling, dumbass?"
The rest of 2-A was closing in now—not violently, not mobbing—but unified. Present. No one flinched. No one looked confused.
They'd seen it.
Clear as day.
A foul? Sure. Fouls happened.
But this?
This was different. 𝚗𝚘v𝚙𝚞b.𝚌𝚘m
This was malicious.
Marek's hands flexed at his sides like he was trying to summon a response—something clever, something dismissive—but it wouldn't come. He was cornered, not by numbers, but by the clarity of the moment.
He'd tried to cheap shot Damien.
Then came the ripple.
Voices from the other side of the field—Class 4-C—sharpened like glass grinding against concrete.
"What's the problem?" someone called, voice cutting through the tension.
"He barely touched him."
"Overreacting much?"
Footsteps thudded closer from the opposite end.
Ezra. Kaine.
Of course.
They weren't running. But they weren't walking, either. That purposeful pace—that readiness in their posture—it was all Damien needed to see.
Kaine reached Marek's side first, chest puffed, grin tight. "What—he faked that now too?" His voice was loud, pointed, for the crowd more than anyone else. "Gotta say, Elford, it's impressive how many personalities you've got."
Ezra came up on the other side, saying nothing, but his body spoke for him. His arms crossed, feet planted wide, chin tilted up just slightly.
Ready.
Class 4-C began to coalesce behind them. Not all aggressive. But tense. Arms folded, hands on hips, quiet muttering. The shift was happening—us versus them.
Damien watched them close in—counted the numbers, the angles, the weight distribution in their steps. Not because he planned to fight.
Just because the trait was still active.
Still feeding him data.
Still showing him everything.
And the moment Kaine's smirk started to widen, like he was gearing up for some punchline—
Damien raised a hand.
Palm open. Low.
And spoke.
"Don't."
One word. That was it.
But it landed.
Not just on Kaine, but on everyone. Like he'd struck a tuning fork dead center in the tension.
Even Ezra's brow twitched slightly, uncertain.
Damien turned, finally facing Marek directly—nothing in his posture aggressive, but something undeniably final in the way he stood.
Damien stood there, surrounded by tension—by Kaine's forced smirk, Ezra's silent challenge, and the low hum of 4-C's defense rising like static.
But he didn't flinch.
Didn't rise to it.
He just looked at Marek for a long, flat second.
Then exhaled through his nose.
"It's pointless," he said, voice steady. "Arguing with people who are intellectually dishonest."
The words hit like a subtle blow—not dramatic, not loud. But precise. Cutting deeper than shouting ever could. Not aimed to provoke a fight.
Just to expose the fact that there wasn't one worth having.
He turned.
Took a slow step past Marek.
And as he passed, he stopped just long enough to glance down at the grass near the other boy's cleats.
Spat.
A sharp, wet sound in the silence.
Then he looked up again, expression cool, voice dipped low so only Marek—and by extension, Kaine and Ezra—could really hear it.
"You might want to control that behavior of yours," he said, tone mild. "It might not end up in your favor all the time."
And then—like twisting a blade with a smile—he reached out and gave Marek a light, dismissive pat on the shoulder.
Friendly. Mocking. Casual in the worst way.
"Lilbro."
