The Awakening of Parthon, God of the First Swing

Mike Delaney sat on the balcony of the League Tower, sipping iced tea brewed from starfruit leaves, his feet kicked up on the railing. The universe was quiet again. No tournaments, no clones of his dead sister, no rogue AIs turning golf into dystopia.

Just... calm.

He hated it.

Bogeyn appeared beside him with a scroll in one hand and a haunted look in his many eyes.

“You might want to cancel your afternoon nap,” he said grimly. “The Pantheon of Par has awakened.”

Mike sat up. “Come again?”

Bogeyn tossed the scroll on the table. It unrolled with a gust of air that smelled like ancient wind and wet grass. The symbols on it shimmered gold: concentric circles, a spiral swing, and a towering figure made of golf balls and divine wrath.

“Parthon,” Bogeyn said. “The God of the First Swing. Creator of the cosmic green. Source of all putting energy. He’s waking up.”

Mike squinted. “You’re saying golf has a god?”

“Several, actually. There’s also the Sandtrap Serpent and the Lady of the 19th Hole. But Parthon is the worst.”

“Why?”

“He judges the state of the game across the universe,” Bogeyn muttered. “If he finds it... corrupted, he resets everything.”

Mike choked on his tea. “Resets? Like—”

“New universe. New rules. All past games wiped. All champions... forgotten.”

A low rumble shook the sky.

The greenstone in Mike’s pocket turned ice cold.

Bogeyn’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“He’s watching.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Later that night, a beam of golden light tore open the sky above the League. A voice boomed from the clouds, deep and echoing across all of space and time.

“THE GAME HAS STRAYED.”

“POWER HAS BEEN ABUSED.”

“THE TEST SHALL COMMENCE.”

A massive course began materializing in orbit — rings of greens connected by floating bridges, rotating obstacles, solar flares, and ancient symbols of balance.

This was Parthon’s Gauntlet — a myth, until now.

And it was built for teams.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Back in the strategy chamber, Mike stood at the head of the table.

“We need five,” he said. “Five who embody what the game should be.”

Bogeyn nodded. “But choose wisely. Parthon doesn’t care about stats. He judges spirit.”

Mike looked around at the profiles hovering midair — holograms of players from across dimensions.

He pointed to five.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Chip” — The Trick-Shot Goblin

A green-skinned ball of chaos from the Trick Zones of Hole 99.

Hits every shot backward, blindfolded, or ricocheted off absurd angles.

Reason: Parthon values joy and improvisation.

Ayla of the Wind Clan

A warrior monk who plays barefoot and only uses wooden putters.

She once putted blindfolded across a canyon using only wind acoustics.

Reason: Parthon respects harmony with nature.

Unit 44-X (“Forebot”)

A reprogrammed AI who broke from PUTTNET and discovered art through putting.

Speaks only in golf puns and existential questions.

Reason: Parthon must see that technology can learn.

Zeek “The Slacker” Morrison

A 90s-era Earthling who plays in cargo shorts and flip-flops.

Plays stoned, but somehow hits genius-level shots.

Reason: Parthon must understand golf is not always serious.

Mike Delaney

The Chosen Putter. Wielder of the Stroke of Destiny.

Proven in memory, war, and wisdom.

The anchor of the team.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

They launched in a reality-cruiser shaped like a giant dimpled golf ball, spiraling toward the Orbiting Course of Parthon — a massive arena visible across solar systems.

As they landed, Parthon’s voice echoed again.

“FIVE TRIALS. EACH A TRUTH OF THE GAME.”

“PASS — AND THE UNIVERSE REMAINS.”

“FAIL — AND THE SCORECARD IS ERASED.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

The team stood on a giant putting green made of clouds. No obstacles. No tricks. Just a single hole.

Parthon's voice whispered: “Make me smile.”

Chip stepped forward, grinning with too many teeth. “Easy.”

He turned around, pulled out a curved spoon, and yeeted the ball off a bouncing mushroom. It ricocheted off a tree, bounced off Ayla’s shoulder, hit Forebot in the shin, then landed in the cup.

Mike turned to Parthon’s glowing eyes.

They twinkled.

“ACCEPTED.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Wind, fire, earth, and water all moved across the green. Every second changed the terrain.

Ayla stepped up, closed her eyes, and listened.

The wind carried her shot across fire. Water cooled it. Earth cradled it.

Cup.

“ACCEPTED.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Forebot faced off against a drone army trying to calculate every stroke. He walked calmly through, tapping his ball without even looking.

Each putt defied calculation.

The final one curved mid-air into the cup.

Forebot bowed.

“ACCEPTED.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Zeek walked onto a green made entirely of rubber.

He scratched his head. “Yo, anyone got a Red Bull?”

He pulled out a beat-up mini putter, lazily flicked the ball. It bounced, flew, skipped, danced, bounced again...

And dropped.

Zeek lit a cigarette and walked off. “Whatever.”

“ACCEPTED.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Mike stood alone on a floating platform shaped like a spiral galaxy. The cup was not visible. No ball was present.

Parthon’s voice rumbled.

“THIS IS WHERE I FIRST CREATED THE GAME.”

“THERE IS NO BALL.”

“NO HOLE.”

“JUST SWING.”

Mike stared at his empty hands. He didn’t move.

He looked down.

Then stepped back, raised his arms… and mimed a swing.

Nothing happened.

Except everything.

The stars shimmered.

The course blinked.

And the Stroke of Destiny reappeared in his hands.

A ball appeared, midair — already in motion.

It dropped into a golden hole no one could see.

The universe sighed.

“ACCEPTED.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

The team stood together on the final green.

Parthon’s voice returned, softer now.

“YOU HAVE REMINDED ME.”

“THE GAME IS NOT BROKEN.”

“IT IS ALIVE.”

A golden putter descended from the sky — not a weapon, not a prize, but a symbol.

Mike stepped back.

“This isn’t mine.”

He handed it to Forebot.

The machine took it with reverent silence.

Because in that moment, the universe remembered:

Golf — real golf — isn’t about control.
It’s about wonder.