Chapter 7: Awakening in a Personal Elysium

The morning in Minneapolis dawned radiant, with a clear sky of that intense blue only autumn can bestow. The first rays of sunlight caressed the treetops of the neighborhood, and the cheerful birdsong mingled with the distant hum of traffic. Workers, coffee cups in hand, began their daily routines; students, backpacks slung over shoulders, headed for bus stops. The world continued its course, utterly oblivious to what was unfolding inside the indigo-painted house.


In the guest room, Michael slept like a log. It wasn't restful sleep, but that heavy, dense slumber of someone who has spent months sleeping outdoors—where sleep isn't rest, but a temporary escape from hunger and cold. His body, now enhanced by the contract, no longer needed that compensation, but habit, that ancient survival mechanism, clung to him tooth and nail. He lay curled in a ball, unaware of the light seeping through the curtains.


Xix, in the metaphysical space he shared with Michael, was in a state of deep concentration. Floating in the void, his childlike form was surrounded by flashes of information: texts, images, symbols of human culture he analyzed with the meticulousness of a cosmic academic. He studied social hierarchies, belief systems, artistic expressions, searching for any advantage, any knowledge that might give Michael a sliver of power in the mortal world.


Downstairs, the sound of water rhythmically fell in the main bathroom shower. Vivian let the icy stream envelop them. It wasn't masochism; it was nostalgia. The cold water reminded them of the waterfalls of their homeworld, a place of eternal mists and rivers of liquid silver. Decades ago, they had adopted this human form, sculpted with the care of an artist working on their masterpiece. Their body, curvaceous and proportioned like a Greek goddess's, was their shell, their tool, and over time, had become their identity. Being without it for too long felt strange, uncomfortable, as if a part of their being were empty. That's why they maintained it twenty-four hours a day—a perfect second skin.


They turned off the faucet, and the bathroom's silence filled with the final drips. Stepping out, leaving a trail of steam in the cool air, they went to their room. Before the full-length mirror, they began to dress. Not for the outside world, but for the task at hand. They needed clothes that allowed free movement, that wouldn't hinder.


They went to the back of their closet and dusted off an old training outfit, stored away for years. A loose black shirt, a short skirt with a red heart as if it were an emblem, and fingerless red gloves. They tried on the shirt. It was too tight; their current body was different from back then. With a nostalgic smile, they took the garment and, with a quick motion, tore it lengthwise down the middle. Then they brought the two ends together. A faint glow emanated from their hands, and the fabric reconfigured, healed, and transformed into an identical shirt, now perfectly fitted to their new measurements. They put it on, along with the skirt and gloves. They looked in the mirror: the image reflected a prepared warrior, with the logo of a pirate sporting two eye patches embroidered on the shirt. An emblem from a past not of this world.


It was 6:30 in the morning when they ascended the stairs with firm, silent steps. They opened the guest room door and found Michael sunk in the deepest stupor. An amused smile crossed their lips.


"Haha," they murmured to themselves. "I guess some humans sleep like this, like bears in winter."


They cupped their hands around their mouth. They didn't raise their voice; their words were almost a whisper. "Michael, it's time for training." But passing through the funnel of their hands, the syllables transformed. They resonated in the small room with the power of a megaphone, bouncing off the walls like contained thunder.


Michael jolted so violently he nearly rolled off the bed. His eyes flew wide open, unfocused, his heart galloping in his chest. He blinked several times, looking around without recognizing where he was. The white ceiling, the light, the figure silhouetted in the doorway. It took what felt like minutes to process.


"It's… it's time… for training?" he mumbled, his voice thick.


"Of course, Michael," Vivian replied, their smile wide and full of energy. "Time to get ready. Up you go!"


Michael sat up, rubbing his eyes. As he did, his gaze landed on Vivian. Morning light streamed through the hallway window, illuminating their silhouette. The short skirt, the fitted black shirt accentuating their curves, the red gloves, the vibrant energy they radiated. His half-awake mind stumbled.


Remember, Michael, he urged himself, digging his nails into his palm. Xix says it's a man. Xix says it's a man. Don't let appearances fool you. It's a man. Focus.


He got out of bed and, mumbling an apology, headed for the adjacent bathroom. The cold shower helped clear his head.


"You look like death warmed over," Xix commented, appearing in his mind as the water fell. "Don't worry. Vivian knows what they're doing. If anyone can prepare you for what's coming, it's them."


"I know…" Michael responded mentally, resting his head against the cold tile. "It's just that… I'm dead tired. This new body hasn't learned to live without sleeping like a hibernating bear."


"Don't you think you've slept enough?"


"If it were up to me… I'd sleep forever," Michael yawned, turning off the water and stepping out of the shower. He grabbed the towel he found and dried off quickly.


"It's quite curious, you know?" Xix said, a reflective tone in his voice. "You remind me of the Guardian."


Michael stopped, towel in hand. "The Guardian?" He brought a hand to his chin, thoughtful. "And who's that? Is he your friend?"


Xix let out a short laugh, a sound Michael was beginning to associate with moments of slight embarrassment or discomfort. "I suppose you could say that… though it would be more accurate to say he's someone I know. Someone important in my… past."


As he dressed in the clothes Vivian had left for him the night before (her boyfriend's, she'd said—a bit loose but comfortable), Michael felt curiosity stir.


"I thought you entities, gods, or whatever you are, didn't have friends. That it was all competition, temporary alliances, that sort of thing."


"Well, yes… depends who you ask," Xix admitted. "We have allies, we have enemies, rivalries that last eons. But in the Guardian's case… it's different. He's not like us. He's someone who has traveled through many lives, many existences, and somehow, at some point in that endless journey, I met him."


"Sounds… amazing." Michael finished dressing and looked in the small bathroom mirror. A gaunt young man with deep dark circles stared back. But in his eyes, there was a new spark. "But… isn't it lonely?" A genuine sadness crossed his face. "I mean, traveling forever, living a thousand lives… but alone."


Xix tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, a heavy silence, like an ancient sigh, filled the bond. When he finally spoke, his voice was an echo of something profound, a longing perhaps not even he fully understood. "Yes… it is."


They descended the stairs in silence, each lost in thought. In the kitchen, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bread welcomed them. Vivian, already settled, told them over breakfast about their first days on Earth, the customs they found strange, the food that had won them over. They spoke of their boyfriend, a human man who worked in international trade, always traveling. They mentioned his favorite foods, his quirks, the way he made them laugh. Michael listened, and for an instant, he could almost forget that she had survived a Munkai Tournament, that she had seen things he couldn't even imagine.


"Right," Vivian said, rising from the table with renewed energy. "Breakfast and chat are over. Time to begin. Follow me."


They led him through the living room to a door Michael hadn't noticed the night before, hidden behind a bookshelf. It led to a basement. They descended the wooden stairs that creaked softly. The basement was spacious, full of dusty boxes, old furniture draped in white sheets, and a smell of damp and time stood still. At the back, against the wall, stood a washer and dryer—old, front-loading models with glass doors.


"Look, Michael," Vivian said, stopping in front of the washer. "But don't be too surprised, okay?"


Michael surveyed the basement, the boxes, the cobwebs in the corners, and finally the washing machine. With a deeply ironic tone, he said, "Truly… it's hard to be surprised by this."


Vivian looked at him, one eyebrow arched, as if to say we'll see about that, kid. They approached the washer and opened the drum door. A circular, dark hole, just the right size for a small child to crawl into.


"Come on, Michael," they said, pointing inside. "Get in."


Michael stared at them. Then at the washer. Then back at Vivian. "You know? This is how horror movies start. The pretty girl telling the protagonist to get into the washing machine…"


"It's no joke," Xix interrupted, his tone one of restrained exasperation. "Just get in."


"Look, Michael," Vivian said patiently. "Trust me. We need a safe, discreet place to train. A place where no one can see us, where there are no space limits. And believe me, there's nothing better than this."


Michael hesitated one more second. Then, with a mix of resignation and curiosity, he muttered, "Okay… Just… hope I don't get stuck."


He crouched, poked his head into the dark interior of the drum, and before he could think about the absurdity of the situation, an invisible force sucked him inward. It wasn't a rough pull, but a sensation of being absorbed, as if space folded around him. He felt dizziness, a brief pressure in his ears, and then…


Light.


A green, bright, warm light enveloped him. He blinked, blinded by the change. When his eyes adjusted, what he saw left him breathless.


He stood in the middle of a paradisiacal landscape. A vast valley stretched before him, covered in thick, green grass that looked like a velvet carpet. Tropical trees with thick trunks and giant leaves rose around him, swaying gently in a constant, perfumed breeze. Flowers of impossible colors, seemingly glowing with their own light, dotted the ground like brushstrokes from a divine painter. A stream of crystalline water meandered in the distance, its murmur a soothing melody. The sky, a purer blue than Earth's, was dotted with fluffy white clouds.


Michael inhaled deeply. The air was pure, clean, with a sweet undertone. He turned to Vivian, who had appeared behind him unnoticed.


"So… this is what the Elysian Fields are like, huh?" he murmured, his voice cracking with awe.


"Don't say such a thing," Xix scolded, though his tone held more surprise than annoyance. "They're nothing alike. But… it's certainly an impressive place."


Vivian laughed, a clear sound that echoed through the valley. "Truly, I'm flattered by the comparison. But no, this isn't some afterlife realm. This…" They spread their arms, encompassing the landscape. "…is just my personal garden. A private space I've cultivated and cared for since I arrived in this world."


"A garden?" Michael repeated incredulously. "This is a garden? It's enormous. It's… beautiful."


"Yes… but let's leave the admiring for another time." Vivian clapped their hands, and their expression turned serious, professional. "Michael, get into a combat stance. Right now, I'm going to teach you to make your magic flow through your body."


The tone of their voice brooked no argument. Michael swallowed, awe giving way to a new tension. He took a deep breath, bent his knees slightly, raised his fists to face level, mimicking stances he'd seen in movies. He felt clumsy, ridiculous.


Vivian circled him, observing with a critical eye. They shook their head.


"No. Not like that. You're rigid, tense. Magic doesn't flow through a block of stone. Relax your shoulders. Bend your knees, yes, but not like you're about to shit in the woods. Find your center of gravity. Feel it."


Michael tried to adjust, but shame and nerves paralyzed him.


"The Nemesis State, Michael, isn't something you activate with a switch. It's an awakening. You need to feel the magic within you, coursing through your veins, pulsing in your core. All living beings have it, but most ignore it, let it sleep. You have a contract, a bond with Xix. Your magic is more awake than any normal human's. You just need to… call it." Vivian stopped in front of him, their violet eyes boring into him. "Close your eyes."


Michael obeyed.


"Forget where you are. Forget who you think you are. Focus inward. Feel your heart beat. Feel your blood move. And beyond that, deeper… look for that spark. That different warmth. That tingling that isn't physical. When you find it… don't grab it. Don't force it. Just… observe it. And then, gently, ask it to move."


The seconds stretched. Michael breathed, trying to empty his mind. But thoughts crowded in: fear of the fifteen days, doubt he could do it, the image of Johan, his mother's embrace, Xix's voice… all noise.


Vivian watched him, seeing the internal struggle reflected in Michael's furrowed brow, the tension in his jaw. They sighed. This was going to be harder than they thought. But also, perhaps, more interesting. The cockroach had will, but his mind was a battlefield in itself. And the first enemy to defeat wouldn't be across the ring, but inside his own head. The training had just begun, and the real challenge wasn't magic, but the chaos within.