The Eternal Handicap

Two years had passed since Mike Delaney conquered the Grand Tournament and declined the Core of Reality’s wish. He had carved his name into the cosmic green — not with ego, but with effort. His legend grew, not just as a champion, but as a teacher, a reformer, and a stubborn Earthling who made golf balls defy causality.

But peace, like a poorly aimed putt, doesn’t always go straight.

It started with a ripple.

Mike stood atop the Cliff of Paradox, giving a lesson to younglings from the Mist Realms — odd fog-like creatures who communicated by vibrating the air.

“Focus not just on the shot,” Mike said, lining up a gentle curve, “but on the moment before it. The stillness. The choice.”

He tapped the ball. It spun in a tight arc, bounced once, twice, and kissed the cup with perfect elegance.

The foglings applauded with squeaky bursts.

But then the ground vibrated. A low hum pulsed across the sky like a heartbeat in reverse. The clouds split, and a sigil burned into the horizon — red, jagged, ancient.

Bogeyn appeared beside Mike in a blink, emerging from a sand trap.

“I was afraid of this,” the old mole-being muttered. “He’s returned.”

“Who?”

“Gorvax. The Bunker Tyrant.”

Mike squinted. “That sounds made-up.”

“Oh, it was,” Bogeyn said grimly. “By him. He made up his own title.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Back in the Celestial Archive, Bogeyn pulled dusty scrolls and glowing crystal maps.

“Gorvax was once a Champion,” he explained, unfurling a spiral-shaped galaxy diagram. “He mastered the dark putt — forbidden techniques fueled by ego and chaos. He believed golf was domination, not balance.”

Mike raised a brow. “What’s ‘dark putting’? Like using a five-iron on a mini course?”

Bogeyn grunted. “Worse. He broke the rules of causality. Bent space so that every hole was a certainty. Removed randomness, chance, even fun. Made the game into war.”

“Sounds like my ex’s dad.”

“Gorvax was defeated,” Bogeyn continued, “banished beyond the Out-of-Bounds Void. But he swore to return.”

“And now he has.”

Mike crossed his arms. “So, what, I challenge him to a match?”

“Not just a match,” said a new voice — high, shrill, and echoing.

A figure stepped out of a glowing hazard portal: tall, lean, cloaked in velvet shadows. His eyes burned red, and he wielded a putter forged from obsidian and sorrow.

“An Eternal Handicap,” Gorvax sneered. “Twelve holes. Twelve realms. One shot per realm. Each a twisted version of your precious game. Winner takes the Core of Reality.”

Mike whistled. “No pressure, huh?”

Gorvax smiled. “You may decline. But the price is everything. Your league. Your students. This realm. Obliterated.”

Mike didn’t hesitate. “I accept.”

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Hole One: The Infinite Tilt

A course where gravity pulsed erratically, tilting every ten seconds. Mike’s ball curved dangerously near the edge of a swirling void, but he tapped into his tempo — timing the pulse like a heartbeat. The putt dropped with half a second to spare.

Gorvax snarled and smashed his ball with brute force, slicing through the chaos. It hit the cup too — but cracked the platform.

“Draw,” the Referee Spirit declared.

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Hole Two: The Mirror Maze

Walls of light bounced reflections endlessly. One real cup, dozens of fakes.

Mike breathed, reached inward. His vision sharpened — angles clarified. He banked the ball off three walls. It landed in the real cup.

Gorvax grinned. “Amateur.”

He sliced his shot. It ricocheted off every mirror in the maze... and came back to hit him in the shin.

“Point,” said the Referee.

Gorvax growled.

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Hole Three: The Sandstorm Sanctum

An ancient desert realm of shifting dunes and illusion.

Mike squinted through the storm. His Earth instincts failed him here — he couldn’t see the hole, let alone aim.

Then he remembered something Bogeyn once told him.

“When you can’t see... listen.”

Mike closed his eyes. Felt the wind. Heard the grain of sand as it moved. He swung.

The ball disappeared into the storm.

Then: clink.

Cup.

Gorvax stared. “You… guessed?”

“I listened.”

Gorvax’s shot missed by inches.

“Two-one,” the Referee noted.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hole Four: The Fractured Library

Books exploded with ideas. Thoughts took physical form. Knowledge became obstacles.

Mike's doubt took shape — a towering shadow version of himself, hurling insults and second-guessing every angle.

“You’re not a real champion,” it hissed. “You were lucky.”

Mike steadied his breath. “Maybe. But I still showed up.”

He chipped the ball through its legs and into the cup.

Gorvax’s shadow-self turned into a writhing mass of ambition. He tried to brute-force through. Missed.

“Three-one.”

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As the holes continued, the course grew stranger.

Hole Five: A lava lake where shots had to float on soundwaves.

Hole Six: An upside-down cavern where you had to aim through reflection.

Hole Seven: A battle between putters — Mike's Stroke of Destiny sang against Gorvax’s Oblivion Club.

Mike was exhausted, but focused.

The score sat at 6-5, with Mike in the lead.

Final hole.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hole Twelve: The Core of Reality.

A single floating island. One cup. Endless wind. The sky swirled above, time itself warping in the clouds.

Gorvax grinned. “Let’s make it interesting. Winner takes the Core — and the other’s powers.”

Mike paused. “Why do villains always want everything?”

“Because I deserve it,” Gorvax snarled. “You’re a fluke. A mortal. A janitor with luck.”

Mike smiled calmly. “Nah. I’m a guy who practiced. A lot.”

Gorvax swung first.

The ball hummed, glowing red, cutting through the wind with unnatural force. It hovered over the cup... then dropped.

“Hole in one.”

The crowd gasped.

Gorvax turned to Mike. “Beat that.”

Mike stepped up. Looked at the wind. At the sky. The hole. The pressure.

He closed his eyes.

Thought of Earth. Of late nights at Putt Paradise. Of that one time he hit a curve shot off a garden gnome while holding a coffee in one hand.

He remembered who he was.

He swung.

The ball flew... slow. Too slow.

It danced in the wind, caught in a spiral. The crowd fell silent.

Then — it curved.

Bent.

Dipped.

Plunk.

Cup.

The crowd exploded into sound.

“Tie!” the Referee roared.

Gorvax shouted, “No! We must—”

But the Core of Reality intervened, pulsing between them.

“Two champions. Two truths. Balance is preserved.”

Gorvax screamed as he was pulled back into the Void — this time, imprisoned within a hazard forever.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Mike stood before the crowd, breathing hard. Sweat trickled down his temple.

The Core hovered once more.

“You may wish again,” it said. “This tie has earned you a second chance.”

Mike paused.

Then shook his head.

“I already got what I needed.”

And this time, the Core understood.

Back in his league headquarters, Mike opened a small golf academy for interdimensional youth. He taught the fundamentals — aim, balance, and humility.

He called the curriculum “Zen and the Art of Putting.”

Sometimes, in quiet hours, he’d sneak off to a new hole he'd designed himself: it had a volcano, a waterfall, and a single flower at the edge of the green.

And no matter how wild the course, he'd always land the putt.

Because now, he wasn’t just a champion.

He was the soul of the game.