The Greens Between

The League Tower stood tall against a sky washed clean by victory, its obsidian spires catching the last rays of a hopeful dawn. Below, inside the quiet chambers where the Guardians gathered, Riven stood alone — staring at his own reflection in the mirror-polished glass of the Hall of Intent.

The Corruptor was sealed, yes. But Riven could still feel it — a whisper, a residue clinging to his spirit like ash after flame.

“You’re lucky,” Nova had said after the battle, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Most don’t come back from that.”

But had he really come back?

He remembered the power — not just wielded, but promised. The greens had obeyed him, warped for him. He had felt like a god. And that terrified him more than the darkness ever had.

Now, every echo in the hall sounded like doubt. Every step he took felt like it was being measured. The Guardians hadn’t said anything. They didn’t need to. Trust was fragile — as fragile as the game itself.

Riven knew what he had to do.

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That night, under a pale moon, he left.

No goodbyes. No ceremony. Just a bag, his old putter — worn and real — and a note on Mike’s door.

“I need to find out if I’m still me. Don’t follow. Keep the team strong.”
— Riven

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The courses he walked now weren’t on any map. These were the lost holes — courses so ancient, so infused with the earliest essence of the game, that they existed between worlds.

The first was called Whispering Hollow, a course carved into a mountainside, where the wind itself judged each shot. He played alone, and the winds were harsh.

When he faltered — when his focus drifted — they screamed.

But when his strokes were honest, when he remembered the feel of play as it was meant to be — simple, joyful — the wind carried the ball like a friend.

Hole after hole, Riven played not to win, but to listen.

And something began to change.

The corruption’s whisper grew fainter. But something else stirred — something older.

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On the fourth course — Greenveil Bog, where the mist never lifted — he met her.

A figure in robes the color of rusted iron and fallen leaves, leaning on a crooked staff shaped like a broken club.

“You’ve walked far, rulebreaker,” she said without looking up.

Riven froze. “You know me?”

She smiled, though her face was hidden. “I know your kind. Those who dance with shadows and think they lead.”

“I'm not him anymore,” he said, voice low.

“Maybe not. But you carry something that doesn’t belong to this world anymore.” She pointed at his chest. “The ember. The spark of what he was.”

“You mean the Corruptor?”

“I mean before the Corruptor.”

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She led him to a grove where trees arched like cathedral ceilings. At the center was a stone table, and on it, a relic — not a putter, but a staff. Cracked, but humming with dormant energy.

“His name was Varro,” she said. “Before he became the Corruptor.”

Riven’s pulse quickened. “You knew him?”

“I was his caddy,” she said simply. “When he was just a boy with a swing that could cut through storm and silence.”

She told the tale slowly, like placing puzzle pieces on sacred ground.

Varro had been brilliant. A savant. But also impatient. He didn’t just want to play the game — he wanted to own it. Change it. Bend it to his idea of fairness and strength.

He believed the game was flawed — that the Guardians played favorites, that chaos favored the lucky, not the skilled.

So he broke a rule.

Just one.

But in the game, one rule broken opens a thousand cracks. And from those cracks, the darkness formed.

“He thought he was saving the game,” she whispered. “But he lost himself before he could see what he’d become.”

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Riven stood before the relic, the staff still glowing. It pulsed faintly in time with his own heartbeat.

“He was the first,” she said. “But he’s not the last. The Corruptor was sealed, yes. But its essence is unkillable. It waits for another vessel. And that vessel carries the echo of Varro.”

“You think it’s me.”

“I know it’s you.”

Silence stretched. The mist crept in.

“But that doesn’t mean you’ll fall,” she added. “If you claim the Staff of Varro… you might understand the Corruptor’s heart. You might even rewrite your fate.”

“Or I could become him.”

“That’s the game, isn’t it? Risk. Play. Choice.”

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Riven reached out.

The moment his fingers brushed the staff, the world vanished.

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He stood alone in a void of emerald light. And across from him… was himself.

Or rather — the version of himself who had never come back. The one who had given in.

“You miss it, don’t you?” the shadow-Riven asked. “The control. The clarity. No second-guessing, no fear. Just… power.”

“No,” Riven said. “I don’t miss you.”

The shadow laughed, stepping forward. “We’re not enemies. We’re choices. You’re just the version that flinched.”

“I’m the version that fought.”

A putter formed in Riven’s hand. The shadow mirrored him.

A single green unfolded beneath them — vast, endless, with one hole on a horizon that bent like infinity.

“Play me,” the shadow said. “And see who you really are.”

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They played.

Stroke for stroke. Line for line. Not to win. Not even to compete.

But to understand.

And with every shot, Riven remembered the feel of the game — not as power, but as play. As connection. As something that didn’t need to be conquered.

He landed the final putt.

The shadow vanished.

And when he opened his eyes, he was holding the staff.

It had changed — now part putter, part relic. And it pulsed not with corruption, but with balance.

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Epilogue: A New Player Rises

Weeks later, Mike stood on the edge of a new green — the next League Challenge. He felt the team behind him, stronger than ever.

A figure stepped from the mist.

Riven.

Changed.

Tired, but smiling.

“What did you find out there?” Mike asked.

Riven held up the hybrid staff. “That the game isn’t just about playing right. It’s about playing true.”

And for the first time since the battle, the team felt whole again.

But somewhere, deep in a crack beneath Hole 13…

A whisper stirred. Watching. Waiting.

The game would never be over.