The Tournament of Forgotten Champions

The stars shimmered unnaturally in the skies over Puttaria. Something was changing. The gravity fields across the universe pulsed like a heartbeat. Runes in the League’s sacred greenstones began glowing for the first time in millennia.

Something — or someone — was calling the champions back.

Mike Delaney had just finished his last lesson of the day when Bogeyn appeared at his side, looking nervous for the first time since the Gorvax war.

“You’re going to want to see this,” the mole-being muttered, pulling a scroll from his robe.

The parchment unfurled midair, burning with stardust and ancient power. A symbol flared on its surface — a putter crossed over a spiral galaxy.

Mike frowned. “Is that…”

“The Sigil of the First Golfer,” Bogeyn whispered.

Mike blinked. “There’s a First Golfer?”

“Not just a golfer,” said a new voice — deep, musical, and vibrating with the weight of forgotten centuries.

A figure stepped from the shadows — cloaked in robes made of drifting moonlight. His eyes were galaxies. His voice shook mountains.

“I am Elder Slice. Keeper of the Lost Holes. Warden of the Eternal Scorecard.”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “...That’s a lot of titles.”

“I’ve earned them,” Elder Slice replied dryly.

The elder continued. “You have been summoned to the Tournament of Forgotten Champions — a gathering held only once every eon. A course built not from matter, but from memory. A test for those who have rewritten destiny with a stroke.”

Mike paused, arms crossed. “And what’s the prize?”

“The winner earns the Last Mulligan — one chance to undo a single choice in your past.”

Mike’s breath caught in his throat.

Undo one choice?

His mind reeled — flashes of regret, of loss, of things left unsaid. But he quickly steadied himself. “And what happens if I lose?”

Elder Slice’s voice dropped.

“The course… remembers. It feeds on your memories. Your fears. Those who fail it often forget themselves.”

Bogeyn looked up. “He doesn’t have to go.”

But Mike was already reaching for the Stroke of Destiny.

“I do.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hole One: The Cradle Green

Mike stood at the edge of a floating platform shaped like a crib. Toys drifted through space. Laughter echoed from somewhere too far to follow.

A tiny version of himself toddled across the green — chasing a glowing ball.

“This is where I took my first swing,” Mike whispered. “My sister gave me a plastic putter.”

The putt was deceptively simple. One clean line through a gentle slope.

But the pressure wasn’t the terrain.

It was remembering.

Mike took a deep breath. Aligned his stance. And gently stroked the ball.

It rolled forward… right into the cup.

Plink.

The baby version of him vanished, smiling.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hole Two: The Echo Hall

The green was a long, narrow corridor lined with mirrors. Each reflection showed a different version of Mike — older, angrier, bitter, successful-but-alone, broken, cynical, cruel.

“This is what you could have become,” Elder Slice said, watching from above.

The ball was there, but invisible in the reflections. The cup too.

Mike had to play blind — trusting his feel, not his eyes.

The angry reflections taunted him. “You never deserved this. You’re still just a guy in a parking lot with nothing.”

Mike closed his eyes. Focused on his grip. His breath.

Swung.

The ball rolled.

And somewhere, in one of the silent mirrors — it dropped.

Another point.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hole Three: The Lost Course

A desert wasteland. No landmarks. No hole in sight.

Elder Slice floated beside him.

“This one’s different. You don’t use your putter here.”

Mike looked confused. “Then how do I—”

“You find it.”

Mike wandered for what felt like hours. Shadows shifted. Heat blurred the horizon.

Until he stumbled across it.

A photo.

Taped to the inside of a locker.

He pulled it free. It showed him — and his sister. Their last mini golf match before the accident. Her last smile.

He turned around — and the hole was there.

Waiting.

With trembling hands, he put the ball down, swung… and it dropped in like a tear falling home.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Tournament continued. Each hole stranger than the last.

A zero-point field where you could only move the ball by remembering a moment of complete stillness.

A reverse-time putt where you had to predict the ending of a stroke and then swing backward into the motion.

A hole where the ball turned into your most painful memory — and you had to strike it gently, without shattering it.

Through every trial, Mike kept going.

Not because he wanted the Last Mulligan.

But because he realized something horrifying:

Someone else was trying to win it.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

In the penultimate round, Mike finally met her.

His final opponent.

She wore a green hoodie. A crooked grin. Her voice sounded like wind chimes.

“You don’t remember me, huh?” she said.

Mike’s eyes widened. “No way…”

The girl gave a mock bow. “Cassie Delaney. Your sister. Well, a version of me. The one you left behind when you left Earth. The one who died.”

Mike staggered back. “You’re… this isn’t possible.”

Elder Slice watched silently. “The Tournament draws from what was, what could be, and what should not be.”

Cassie smiled sadly. “If I win, I come back. For real. I get my life back. And you lose everything.”

Mike’s grip tightened on the Stroke of Destiny.

“I’m not going to lose,” he said.

“But… I’m not going to take that away from you, either.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Final Hole: The Mulligan Spiral

A towering spiral ramp that descended through space and time. The cup sat in the center of a galaxy.

One shot.

Each player.

No retakes.

Cassie went first.

She lined up. Her form — perfect. Her stroke — identical to Mike’s.

The ball rolled. Spiral after spiral. It dropped into the galaxy’s center.

In.

Elder Slice nodded. “Now you.”

Mike stepped forward. Looked down into the galaxy — and saw his life. The memories. The moments. The joy.

He didn’t want a do-over.

He just wanted to keep going.

He smiled softly.

“I don’t need the Mulligan.”

He stepped back.

Forfeited.

Cassie gasped. “Mike—no—why?!”

“Because I’d rather carry the weight of my past… than erase you from it.”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

The course dissolved.

And with it — so did she.

Whispering: “Thank you.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Mike awoke on the putting green behind the League tower.

Bogeyn sat beside him, sipping tea.

“You gave up the shot,” the mole-being said gently.

Mike nodded.

“I didn’t lose,” he said.

“No,” Bogeyn agreed. “You just chose.”

Mike stood, stretching. “Alright. Enough memory holes and ghost siblings.”

“What now?”

Mike grinned.

“We build a new league. One where no one needs a Mulligan.”