Part 2 الأرواح لعبة

The kid cracked his knuckles. "Now… let's try again."

In Olorun's mind: Okay, okay, okay, Olorun. Don't panic. You're facing a child. A CHILD. You can handle this. Wait—no. No, no, no. He already got one up on me. Ohhh man, oh man, oh man—what am I even talking about?!

The kid was already standing ready, smirk plastered across his face. "Alright, say it with me."

Olorun clenched his fists. Here we go. Stay cool. I got this.

Both shouted:
"ROCK! PAPER! SCISSORS! SHOOT!"

Olorun threw ✌ (scissors).
The kid threw ✊ (rock).

The chains rattled violently, then yanked Olorun skyward like a hooked fish.

"YEEEEELP—WHAT THE HELL—NOT AGAIN!!" Olorun screamed, flailing in midair.

The kid snickered. "Ahhh, look at you. Flopping around like a bug in a web. Pathetic."

Olorun growled, smoke trailing from his mouth. "YOU LITTLE SHOT—I SWEAR, once this game is over, I'll make sure you've got a few good bones left to break!"

The kid just smirked. "That's if you even get to the end. Look at the score, genius."

Olorun blinked, then glanced at the glowing scoreboard hovering in the air.

Olorun: 0
Beaver: 2

He squinted. "Wait—what?! I haven't even been shocked yet!"

The kid—Beaver—sighed, rolling his eyes like Olorun was a clueless schoolboy. "Okay, okay, let me explain it better, slowpoke. Basically, you've got ten lives. Each loss takes one. When you hit zero—" he pointed up at the crackling lightning dome above them, "—the chains drag you straight into that thing. Shocks the soul right out of you. And then, if you can't pay the bet…" His grin widened, sharp as knives. "The Reaper gets to snack on your soul instead."

Olorun's jaw dropped. "Ohhhhhh! Well why didn't you just say THAT the first time instead of—oh, I don't know—TRYING TO GIVE ME A HEART ATTACK?!"

Beaver shrugged. "More fun this way."

Olorun grumbled under his breath, pacing. "Man oh man, this is bad. Super bad. Okay… okay… focus, Olorun. You've got this. You're strong. You're smart. You're… oh god, who am I kidding, I'm playing against a psycho kid named BEAVER. I'm doomed."

Beaver snapped his fingers. "C'mon, ready or not?"

Olorun sighed dramatically. "Fine. Let's go, you punk."

Both shouted again:
"ROCK! PAPER! SCISSORS! SHOOT!"

Olorun threw ✊ (rock).
Beaver threw 🤚 (paper).

Olorun's eyes lit up in triumph, his face exploding with joy. "HAH! DID YOU SEE THAT?! PAY ATTENTION, BEAVER! I threw ROCK, and you threw SCISSORS! ROCK BEATS SCISSORS, BABY!"

He pointed both hands at the kid mid-air, already celebrating. "WOOOO! PRAISE BE TO THE MIGHTY ROCK! ALL HAIL THE FIST OF JUSTICE!"

But then the scoreboard flickered:

Olorun: 0
Beaver: 4

Olorun froze, his smile crumbling. "…Wait. What? Why does it say three?!"

Beaver smirked, waving his hand slowly to show the open palm. "Because I threw PAPER, dumbass. You weren't paying attention."

The chain yanked Olorun up into the lightning dome, sparking his whole body.

"WAAAAHHHHH!! NOT AGAINNNN!!"

Beaver cackled from below, rolling on the ground in laughter. "BAHAHAHA! You didn't even know what I played! You're beating yourself, old man!"

Olorun's veins popped in his neck. He ground his teeth until his jaw ached. "For the love of God, why can't I win!? Who cursed me with bad luck, huh—who, WHO, WHO?!"

Beaver shrugged, smirk never leaving his face. "Oh shit, you're just bad."

Olorun sighed like a kettle about to blow. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Anyway—let's go again. I already know I'm about to lose." He tried to laugh it off, but it sounded thin.

They lined up. The crowd hushed. The scoreboard glowed ominously: Olorun: 0 — Beaver: 5.

Both:
"ROCK! PAPER! SCISSORS! SHOOT!"

Olorun flung up 🖕 (middle finger—his stupid panicked sign).
Beaver calmly showed 🤚 (paper).

The chain ripped Olorun straight up. The lightning barrier crackled him full force—electric pins stabbed through his skin and lungs. He howled, body convulsing. The scoreboard updated: Olorun: 0 — Beaver: 5.

Beaver laughed, rolling on the sand. "So you gave up."

Olorun dangled in the air, lips blue. In his head, panic roared: I'm going to die. I can't win. Why can't I win? What is he doing?

But then—somewhere under the hot blind panic—something clicked. He'd watched Beaver for the last five losses. Tiny things: the way Beaver's left thumb twitched before paper, the tilt of his chin before rock, the little shoulder shift before scissors. Small, human patterns. Beaver had been mocking him so much he'd forgotten to hide the habits that made the kid tick.

"Pay attention, Olorun," he told himself, teeth clenched. "You're loud, you're dumb, you're flashy—but you can watch. Use your eyes."

Both shouted:
"ROCK! PAPER! SCISSORS! SHOOT!"

Olorun threw ✊ (rock).
Beaver twitched—late—and threw ✌ (scissors).

Olorun's fist landed, solid and sure.

The scoreboard flickered:
Olorun: 1 — Beaver: 5

And then—CLANK!

The chains rattled and Beaver was suddenly yanked upward. He gasped as his feet left the ground, rising a few meters. Sparks crawled along the barrier above him, humming like thunder just waiting to be unleashed.

Olorun froze, stunned. Then his shock melted into a loud, manic laugh. "HAH! LOOK AT THAT! I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO GETS DRAGGED AROUND! HOW'S THE WEATHER UP THERE, BEAVER?!"

Beaver scowled, dangling in the air. "Tch. Don't get cocky, old man. One point doesn't mean anything."

Olorun pointed dramatically, grinning ear to ear. "ONE POINT MEANS EVERYTHING, BRAT! THAT'S THE START OF A COMEBACK STORY!"

They traded blows like fighters testing reach now—Beaver adapting, Olorun learning faster. Each round became a little duel of mind and micro-tell.

Round after round:

Round: "ROCK PAPER SCISSORS SHOOT!"
Beaver flicks rock; Olorun anticipated, uses paper in a quick, theatrical palm-slide — Beaver scores. Score: O 1 — B 6. (Olorun yanked. Sting, spit, curse.)

Round: Olorun deliberately exaggerates a shoulder twitch he'd seen Beaver react to, baiting Beaver into paper — Olorun slams scissors with a practiced flick he's drilled in his head — Olorun: 2 — Beaver: 6.

Round: Beaver doubles down on unpredictability, throws an odd feint; Olorun misreads once and is launched again. Olorun: 2 — Beaver: 7.

Round: Olorun shifts style: he stops trying to outplay and starts to mirror Beaver's breathing, forcing the kid into the rhythm he wants. He times his throw on Beaver's exhale—it's a tiny psychological ploy that pays off. Olorun: 3 — Beaver: 7.

Round: Beaver, getting cocky, taunts mid-standoff. He changes tempo to throw Olorun off, but Olorun's nerves have cooled into focus. He reads the micro-smile and slams a winning rock. Olorun: 4 — Beaver: 7.

Round: Beaver reels, then lands a crushing paper that sends Olorun skyward. Pain explodes through him, but the fire of determination burns hotter now. Olorun: 4 — Beaver: 8.

Round: Olorun answers with a mind game: he pretends to lose—flails, makes a deliberate exaggerated feint, baits Beaver into overconfidence, then switches at the last heartbeat. He wins. Olorun: 5 — Beaver: 8.

Round: Beaver sneers, then shifts to a rapid double-feint that trips up Olorun's timing—another yank, another shock. Olorun: 5 — Beaver: 9.

Olorun dangled, breaths sharp as knives. The crowd's murmurs were a tide;He tasted metal and fear, but also something burning like stubborn pride.

Olorun clenched every muscle. He’d turned the match into a psychology war—reading twitches, baiting rhythm, mirroring breath, playing slow when Beaver rushed. Beaver, for his part, was raw talent and cruel glee—fast, unpredictable, and dangerously confident.

Round after round Olorun chipped away—small victories, larger losses. At one brutal moment, he was blasted into the dome and felt his lungs seize, but the sight of Beaver’s careless grin fueled him. He started to force Beaver into patterns: make the kid think chaos, then punish the little rhythm he left behind.

Then the tide turned in a real streak — Olorun found a groove, five wins in a row that felt like lightning in reverse. Each win was a sliver of life returned, his muscles shaking from the shocks but his mind razor-sharp.

Olorun: 9 — Beaver: 9

For a breath the entire market went silent. Even the chandeliers of lanterns seemed to sway with the tension.

Beaver’s grin was gone for once — replaced with an electric, dangerous smile. Olorun’s hair still smoked from the shocks; his chest heaved, but his eyes were absolute fire.

They both raised their hands for the next round.

“ONE… TWO… THREE… ROCK PAPER SCISSORS—SHOOT!”

Olorun threw 🤚 (paper).
Beaver threw ✊ (rock).

For the first time, Beaver’s cocky smirk shattered. His eyes went wide with raw panic. “No. No no no no—! I–I–I—”

The chains rattled violently, then yanked him skyward. Beaver screamed, kicking wildly as his body rose higher toward the crackling lightning barrier.

“WAIT—WAIT, I DON’T WANNA GET FRIED!”

Just as he was about to lose control, a hand clamped around his ankle.

Beaver looked down in shock. Olorun’s face was twisted in effort, his muscles bulging, veins standing out. He was grunting, sweat dripping down his forehead as he struggled to hold the boy down.

“Wh-what are you doing?!” Beaver shouted, fear breaking his voice.

Olorun growled, teeth clenched. “TRYING TO SAVE YOU, DUMBASS!”

Beaver shook his head frantically. “You can’t! The chain only ends if we both say it at the same time!”

Olorun blinked, stunned. “What?! You couldn’t have mentioned that sooner?!”

Beaver shouted back, panicked. “I didn’t think you’d actually try to save me!”

Olorun growled, veins popping in his neck. “Well, surprise! Now count with me before we both get toasted!”

Together, they shouted:
“Three… two… one… I quit!”

SNAP!

The chains shattered into sparks. The lightning barrier fizzled, dissolving into the desert sky. The world shifted back to normal, the crowd rushing in with gasps and whispers.

Both Olorun and Beaver plummeted down—but Olorun twisted his body mid-fall, catching the boy against his chest. They slammed into the ground with a heavy WHAM, dust spraying everywhere.

Olorun lay there groaning, then gently dropped Beaver beside him.

The boy sat up trembling, his whole body shaking. When he looked at Olorun, his eyes widened. In his vision, the man was glowing—bathed in a golden, holy aura.

“M-Mr. Olorun…” Beaver’s lip trembled. “Why did you save me? I was rude to you. I mocked you. I laughed at you. I—I was ready to let the Soul Reaper take you! So why…?”

Olorun let out a long sigh, propping himself up with one arm. His usual loud voice softened just slightly.

“Because you’re just a kid,” he said. “A stupid, dumb, little kid. And I was stupid and dumb once too. Not ugly like you, though. Don’t get me wrong—I was extremely tempted to let you get shocked. But… I didn’t.”

Beaver’s eyes stung, his throat tightening. He whispered, “...Thank you. How can I ever repay you?”

Olorun’s grin cracked through again, cheeky and wide. He stuck out his hand. “You already know what I want, kid. Pay up.”

Beaver sighed, shoulders slumping, but reached into his bag. He pulled out a small pouch and placed it in Olorun’s palm.

Olorun peeked inside. His eyes lit up like twin suns. “KYJIO CARDS?! Ohhhh, my beautiful babies! It’s been so long! Daddy missed you!”

He clutched them to his chest, tears of joy streaming down his face.

Beaver stood, his voice steadier now. “Mr. Olorun…”

Olorun glanced up, confused. “Huh?”

The boy’s expression was serious, almost solemn. “I swear… one day, I’ll become an Ascendant. I’ll get strong. Strong enough to reach your level of greatness.”

Olorun blinked, raising a brow. “Ahh, well, that’s actually—wait. You wanna be an Ascendant?!”

Beaver nodded. “Yeah. It’s been my dream. Free food. Free bed. Free everything.”

Olorun groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Man oh man… kid, if you really want to be an Ascendant, then go for it. Just… don’t get corrupted, alright?”

Beaver clenched his fists, determination burning in his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll change my ways. I’ll be a good kid. From the Noya Market. And one day, I’ll meet you again.”

He gave Olorun one last respectful bow, then turned and ran, waving over his shoulder. “See you, Mr. Olorun!”

Olorun watched him go, lips tugging into a small smile. He waved back, muttering, “Stupid brat. Don’t die before then.”

The crowd dispersed. Olorun finally exhaled, stretching his arms, looking down at his reclaimed Kyjio cards with a grin. “Man oh man… what a day.”

Click. Click. Click.

Olorun’s ears twitched. He turned.

Six Ascendants stepped out from behind a stall, laser blasters aimed squarely at him. Their cloaks fluttered in the desert breeze, eyes glowing behind their masks.

Olorun froze, grin fading.

“…Aw, shit.”