The dawn air still stank of garbage and despair, but inside Michael something was different. A weird energy buzzed through him—like an engine that had just fired up for the first time. His ribs didn’t hurt as bad anymore; the constant tiredness that had been dragging him down for years was just… gone. He felt awake. Alive. Renewed, almost.
Then Xix’s voice cut straight into his head, clear and sharp, like the kid-god was standing right next to him in the empty alley.
“Go to Minneapolis. Find the sorceress Vivian. Tell her to teach you the basics of spellcraft. We need you ready for Munkai.” The words were flat, like an order from a drill sergeant.
Michael blinked, looking around the dark street. Minneapolis? That was hundreds of kilometers away. A stupid little spark of hope lit up in his chest. Maybe Xix would hook him up—some magic shortcut, a bike that appeared out of nowhere, a stack of cash dropping from the sky.
“Uh… how exactly do I get there?” he asked, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth despite everything.
Xix answered with total indifference, like he’d just asked for the weather. “That’s on you.”
Michael’s grin faded. “What? Come on, man—I don’t even have bus fare. I don’t have shit.”
“What are you talking about?” Xix sounded almost amused. Right then, glowing blue lines traced themselves in the damp air in front of him—an ethereal map showing the route from here all the way to Minneapolis. And right at the start of the line, one point glowed brighter than the rest. A place he knew too well.
“Just go to your old house and take what you need,” Xix said casually.
Michael’s stomach twisted. “You mean… steal?”
Xix gave a mental shrug. “I call it fair payback for years of emotional damage. What you actually do with that idea is up to you.”
“Damn…” Michael ran a hand through his greasy, tangled hair. “Guess I’m walking the whole way.”
“Walking?” Xix’s tone dripped with sarcasm. “Are you serious? Just run. And don’t stop.”
Michael stared at his own hands—thin, scratched, beat-up. “Run? You’re out of your mind. You saw what shape I’m in. How the hell am I supposed to run nonstop for hundreds of kilometers?”
“Don’t worry about how you look,” Xix said, and there was actual pride in the voice now. “I can’t give you any real powers yet—not until the tournament starts—but basic physical enhancement? That’s standard for any champion the second they sign on. You’re at the absolute peak of human potential now. Olympic endurance level. Muscles, heart, lungs, recovery—everything tuned to the max. For now.”
Michael’s eyes widened. A real grin broke across his face—the first genuine one in forever. “No shit? Like… how good?”
“Let’s just say you’ve got the engine of a top marathon runner at his prime. You could run all day and barely sweat.”
“Hell yeah!” Michael flexed his hands, feeling a strength humming under his skin he’d never had before. “With this I could—I don’t know—join a sport, make money, anything!”
Xix cut him off quick. “It’s temporary. Only for prep and the tournament. A loan, not a gift. Win—or at least crack the top ten—and the prizes will let you build whatever life you want afterward.”
Michael nodded, the excitement settling into something harder, more focused. He started stretching—arms, legs, back—and his body moved with a smooth, almost unnatural ease. No creaks, no pulls. “Okay. So what exactly is this tournament?”
Xix let out a mental sigh, like this was the annoying question he’d been waiting for. “It’s not really a ‘tournament’ like you think. It’s more… a slaughter game. Gods, entities, principles—whatever we are—we pick champions to represent us. Then we throw them into an arena. Fight. Survive. Kill each other, mostly. It’s all about will, power, and especially who can adapt and outlast everyone else.”
Michael let out a low whistle. “That’s messed up.” But his voice had more curiosity than fear. He finished stretching, blood pumping clean and strong. “So basically a cosmic battle royale.”
“Exactly,” Xix said, sounding pleased. “High stakes. Very high.”
“And the prize? For us humans, I mean. You said for gods it’s power or whatever.”
“For the champion? A Wish. Anything within the limits of your sponsor’s power. Basically whatever you want.”
Michael froze mid-step. “Anything? Like… world domination? Going back in time? Becoming a god?”
Xix’s response came fast and cold. “Don’t pick that last one.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “Only that one’s off-limits?”
“It’s… strongly discouraged. For both of us.” Xix’s tone had zero playfulness now.
“Got it,” Michael said. A low, almost dark laugh rumbled in his chest. “So everything except godhood. Cool. I’ll start running then.”
And he did.
It wasn’t running—it was flying. His legs exploded forward with power his brain couldn’t quite process yet. Wind roared in his ears. Buildings blurred past. Pure savage joy hit him. He was fast. Strong. Unstoppable.
It lasted maybe five minutes.
Too caught up in the rush, he didn’t see the corner coming. Slammed face-first into a brick wall. The sound was wet and ugly—like a melon splitting. He bounced off, hit the ground hard, stars exploding behind his eyes. Shoulder throbbed. Forehead already swelling.
A girl walking by with headphones yanked them off and ran over.
“Hey! Oh my God—are you okay?” She sounded young, worried for real. “Do you need an ambulance or something?”
Michael groaned, pushed himself up against the wall. “Nah… I’m good. Thanks though.”
She eyed him—dirty clothes, messed-up hair, fresh bruise blooming. “You sure? You look rough.”
“Yeah. I’m fine.” He forced a weak smile. “Really. Thanks.”
She hesitated, then nodded and walked off, glancing back once. He heard her mutter, “Drunk this early? Jeez.”
In his head, Xix burst out laughing. “Hahaha! Look at you! Crashed after five minutes of running! What a champion!”
“Didn’t expect to be that fast,” Michael admitted, rubbing his face with a wince. Shame burned worse than the hit.
“Don’t sweat it,” Xix said, still chuckling. “Oh—start training for real now. Specific stuff.”
“Training?” Michael frowned, standing up slowly. “Thought you said I was already Olympic-level.”
“Exactly!” Xix snapped back, exasperated. “That’s your starting line, not the finish. An Olympian doesn’t win gold just because they’re born gifted—they train until they break, then build back stronger. You’ve got a Ferrari engine now. Learn to drive the damn thing.”
“Fair enough,” Michael muttered. He got it. Made sense.
He started running again—this time careful, controlled. Twenty minutes later, out on the city’s edge, a sharp whistle stopped him.
“Hey! You! Stop running like that!” A cop leaned out of his patrol car, lights off but engine idling.
Michael skidded to a halt—too fast. Feet tangled. He tripped spectacularly, rolling across the pavement until he stopped right under the lit window of a convenience store. A dad was coming out, holding his little girl’s hand.
The girl’s eyes went huge. She pointed. “Daddy! Look! It’s a superhero! He fell from the sky!”
The dad—tired-looking, worn jacket—glanced at Michael (dusty, scraped, clothes even dirtier now) and let out a short laugh. “Nah, sweetie. Heroes don’t dress like that.”
“But Hank—” the girl started, naming some movie character.
Dad tugged her along gently. “Hank wasn’t a hero till after a shower and a ton of therapy. Come on.”
“They called you dirty,” Xix snickered in his head.
“Can’t argue,” Michael sighed, brushing gravel off his arms.
He got up and walked over to the cop, who’d stepped out now.
“Sorry about the show, officer,” Michael said, trying to sound normal. “Just… in a hurry.”
The cop—middle-aged, sharp eyes—looked him over head to toe. “Yeah, I noticed. Name?”
“Michael Vekoc. I live on Samantha Newis Street,” he said, giving the old childhood address before everything went wrong.
The cop raised an eyebrow. “Samantha Newis? Sorry, kid, but the way you look… doesn’t exactly scream ‘suburban house’.”
“Yeah, I get that,” Michael said with a tired half-smile. “I don’t live there right now. My parents do.”
The cop studied him a second longer, then nodded slowly. “Got ID?”
“Yeah, hold on.” Michael dug into the ripped inner pocket of his jacket—miracle of miracles—and pulled out his old student ID. From before Johan. From before everything.
The cop took it, shone his flashlight on it. His face changed—skepticism to surprise, then something softer, almost sad. “It’s real. Michael…” He handed it back. “Can I ask you something personal?”
“Sure.”
“You in trouble? Like… real trouble? I can get you connected to social services, a shelter, whatever. You don’t have to live like this.”
The concern hit Michael harder than the wall. For a second he saw it—a normal way out. Help. A reset. He looked at the ID photo: younger him, eyes still hopeful.
“Thanks, officer. Really,” he said, and it came out more honest than he planned. “But I’m heading home. Gonna try to fix things. For real.”
The cop watched him a long beat, like he was weighing the words. Finally nodded. “Alright, kid. I hope you mean it. And next time I see you, I wanna see you looking like someone who’s got his shit together.” He tapped the ID. “And get back to school. World needs more good doctors.”
Michael swallowed hard. “I will. Thanks.”
The cop got back in his car. Michael started jogging again—slower, steadier.
Xix’s voice came back, cold and flat. “You lied. You’ve got zero intention of doing any of that.”
Michael kept his eyes on the road ahead. “You sure? Maybe someday—”
“No,” Xix cut in. No pity, no judgment—just fact. “You wouldn’t. And that’s fine. You made the only choice that fits the road you’re on now.”
“No one would blame me for trying to go back,” Michael muttered, almost to himself.
“Plenty would,” Xix said, tone turning thoughtful. “They’d say you didn’t fight hard enough before. That you didn’t suffer enough. That other people endure worse and still make it. Humans love judging other people’s wars from the safety of their own foxholes.”
Michael’s shoulders sagged under an invisible weight. “Yeah… it’s true.”
“But I don’t care about them,” Xix continued, and for once the voice had something almost gentle in it—like a strict teacher who actually believes in you. “I chose you. I saw the stubborn spark under all the dirt. The will that didn’t die even when everything else did. And I know you’ll surprise me… and everyone else.”
“Everyone else?” Michael glanced up at the sky starting to lighten. “Thought this was all secret.”
“Usually is,” Xix said. “Champions are normally already strong—people from worlds where magic and monsters are normal. But when someone from a low-level dump like this starts making noise… they get noticed. Little ‘gifts’ of attention. The other players start watching. Measuring the threat. Or underestimating the nobody.”
“Gotcha,” Michael said. “So in this world, nobody’s ever seen anything like this before.”
“Exactly. Your world’s been ignored. No god bothered with it. You’re the first seed anyone’s planted here.”
Michael let out a small, real smile—not bitter, not sarcastic. Just tired and determined. “Then I guess I’ll have to make this whole damn humanity proud.”
Xix paused, like the words actually landed. “At least this humanity. Yes.”
Michael met the voice in his mind and got the hint. A quiet laugh escaped him. “So there’s way more out there than I ever imagined, huh?”
“Way more,” Xix confirmed, sounding like a guide at the edge of something huge and terrifying.
And so, under a sky turning pale with dawn, the two kept going. Michael wasn’t sprinting anymore. He walked—firm, steady—toward the house of his childhood, toward a theft he now called payback, toward the first real step of a journey that would drag him far beyond anything he’d ever known. The cockroach with the new, powerful body had started its slow, unstoppable climb from the bottom.
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