"This is him? The Spear you've been raving about?" Coach Viriam squinted across the pitch, voice pitched just low enough that he probably thought it wouldn't carry. "He's barely taller than the Krozball posts."
Hugo shifted uncomfortably, his massive frame making the weathered bench beneath him creak in protest. "I know he doesn't look like much, but—"
"Doesn't look like much?" Viriam interrupted, scratching at his salt-and-pepper beard. "He looks like someone's little brother who wandered onto the field by mistake. Are you sure we're looking at the same kid? The skinny one with the white streak in his hair?"
"That's him," Hugo confirmed.
"God preserve us. I could snap him like a twig with one hand."
The murmurs rippled through the gathered players. Adom kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, pretending not to hear any of it while strapping on his right gauntlet. Next to him, Sam winced.
"They're not exactly being subtle, are they?" Sam whispered.
Adom said nothing, tightening the gauntlet with perhaps more force than necessary.
"Hey, mini-Spear," called Talef from a few feet away, his tone light and teasing. "Don't worry—if someone charges you, just duck. They'll fly right over you."
Several players laughed, not unkindly.
"Or you could run between his legs," added Mira, grinning. "Tactical advantage of being fun-sized."
More laughter.
Children, Adom thought. All of them. Playing at competition with absolutely no concept of real battle. In his first life, by their age, most would have already faced genuine life-or-death situations.
"Look," Coach Viriam continued, "I'm sure he's a nice enough kid, but this is Krozball, not storytelling hour at the library. People get hurt. Badly. Remember Galen Nox? Shattered his entire arm cage on that bad fall last season."
"Rib cage," Hugo corrected. "And yes, but—"
"My point exactly! We're talking broken bones as a matter of course. And now you want me to put—" Viriam gestured vaguely in Adom's direction, "—that on the field?"
Again.
"Coach," Hugo said, lowering his voice slightly (though not nearly enough), "I know this sounds crazy, but you have to see him play. He's got the best spatial awareness I've ever seen in a third-year. Maybe in any year."
"The dungeon hero, right?" Viriam's tone made it clear exactly what he thought of that title. "Look, I'm sure the stories about him are very exciting, but they're probably exaggerated. Kids that age tend to—"
"I watched him take down Serena in a duel," Hugo cut in. "Clean win. No tricks."
That caused a moment of silence. Even Viriam seemed to hesitate.
"You told me already, but are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
"Probably a fluke," Viriam muttered, but with less conviction now. "Or she was going easy on him."
"Serena doesn't go easy on anyone. You know that."
From the bench nearby, Serena herself looked up sharply. Her eyes found Adom, measuring him silently. Unlike the others, she wasn't laughing. Her jaw tightened, and she scoffed loudly enough for everyone to hear.
"It wasn't a fluke," she said flatly. "And I wasn't going easy." She returned to adjusting her gauntlets, adding under her breath, "Won't make that mistake again."
Sam leaned closer to Adom. "You okay?"
"Fine," Adom replied flatly.
"You don't look fine. You look like you're plotting someone's violent demise."
"That's just my face."
Sam snorted. "No, your plotting-violence face has more of a squint to it. This is your I'm-too-dignified-to-acknowledge-I'm-annoyed face. Very different."
Despite himself, the corner of Adom's mouth twitched upward. "The difference is smaller than you'd think."
Sam snorted. "Your sense of humor gets really dark when people underestimate you."
"It's not the underestimation," Adom said quietly. "It's the tedium of it. Eighty years, and I still have to deal with the exact same nonsense."
Across the field, Coach Viriam was still expressing his reservations. "And what about his parents? You think they'd be happy to learn we've put their precious boy on a collision course with some fifth year's fist?"
"He's Commander Sylla's son," Hugo reminded him.
"Oh, even better," Viriam threw up his hands. "So when he gets his arm broken, I'll have one of the Empire's top military commanders on my doorstep. Fantastic."
"Coach," Hugo said, with the patience of someone explaining a simple concept to a particularly stubborn child, "just watch him. One practice. That's all I'm asking."
Viriam stared at Hugo for a long moment, then let out an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. One practice. But if he gets flattened, that's on you. You saw what his father did last semester. I want none of that."
"Deal."
Adom finished adjusting his gear and stood up.
"All right," Viriam shouted, suddenly shifting to his full coaching voice. "Everyone on the field! Let's see what we're working with!"
Adom caught Hugo giving him an encouraging nod. He returned it with the barest inclination of his head.
"Remember," Sam said as Adom prepared to join the others on the field, "no magical death spells if someone laughs at you."
"I'd never," Adom replied with feigned innocence.
"Uh-huh. I saw your face when Talef made that height joke. Pure murder."
"Not murder. Just mild maiming."
Sam grinned. "Show them what you've got, old man."
Adom allowed himself a small, genuine smile. "Oh, I intend to."
Two meters.
Adom released.
The stored energy exploded through his legs, launching him forward like a bolt from a crossbow. His body shot across the pitch, covering the distance in a blurred instant. The red Runner was still mid-jump when Adom intersected his path, snatching the ball from the air with one outstretched hand.
He hit the ground in a controlled roll, absorbing the momentum, then pivoted sharply. The red team's defense was still reacting to his unexpected interception, their formation momentarily broken.
Damus had already spotted the opportunity. He was sprinting up the right flank, having slipped behind red's Blocker.
Adom didn't hesitate. He planted his back foot and channeled another burst of Fluid-enhanced strength, launching the ball in a tight spiral. It cut through the air at a speed that made it whistle, curving slightly to lead Damus's run.
Perfect placement.
Damus caught it without breaking stride, spinning past red's desperate Keeper, and slammed the ball through the highest hoop.
Three points.
Twenty seconds from whistle to score.
The pitch went quiet for a beat, then erupted in scattered exclamations.
"What the—"
"Did you see that jump?"
"How did he even—"
Talef jogged past Adom, slapping him on the back. "That," he said with appreciative emphasis, "was not normal."
Damus trotted back to position, tossing the ball to Coach Viriam. He met Adom's eyes briefly, giving him a single, curt nod. Coming from Damus, it was practically a standing ovation.
Adom felt a rush of satisfaction so intense it was almost embarrassing. The technique had worked perfectly—better than he'd anticipated. The grasshopper-leap combined with [Silverback's Might] gave him an explosive speed that nobody would expect from someone his size.
That would be pretty good in a fight.
He could hear Sam whooping from the sidelines, could see Hugo's barely-contained grin. Even Coach Viriam was watching him with a new intensity, his earlier skepticism replaced by calculating interest.
For a moment, Adom was tempted to say something cool, something that would capitalize on the stunned expressions around him. A witty one-liner, perhaps, or a confident declaration. The perfect cue for some edgy remark that would haunt him in his nightmares for decades.
But he didn't.
Thank god he didn't.
Too old for team drama and wannabe protagonist moments, even if his body disagreed.
Instead, he simply readjusted his gauntlets and returned to position, fighting to keep his face neutral even as a warm glow of vindication spread through his chest.
Adom responded with the smallest shrug possible, equally baffled by the coach's complete reversal.
The match itself had been chaotic and punishing. Red team had quickly adapted to Adom's unconventional style, double-teaming him whenever possible. But that had created openings for Damus and Talef, who'd capitalized with ruthless efficiency.
For his part, Adom had discovered that [Flow Prediction] combined with his enhanced speed made him nearly impossible to pass against. It was like having a map of everyone's intentions stamped directly into his brain and being able to act on it. By the second quarter, red team had stopped trying to pass anywhere near him.
There had been complications, of course. [Silverback's Might] combined with Fluid enhancement was like trying to control a runaway horse with silk threads. Twice he'd overshot his jumps, once sending himself crashing into the stands (much to Sam's amusement). Another time, he'd passed the ball with such force it nearly broke through the Keeper's protective gear.
Biggins had been right—[Flow Prediction] helped him manage his strength better, anticipating how much force was needed rather than just unleashing raw power. But even with that advantage, there had been moments when his control slipped. A misjudged tackle that sent both him and Serena tumbling across the pitch. A blocked shot that rocketed off his gauntlet and almost took out Coach Viriam on the sidelines.
Still, they'd adapted. By the final quarter, he'd found a tentative balance between power and precision.
"You need work on your endurance," Viriam continued, now in full coaching mode as the team gathered around. "And your shooting form is terrible—absolutely atrocious. Like watching someone throw a dead fish. But your positioning? Your anticipation? Divine. DIVINE!"
He clapped Adom on the shoulder with enough force to make his knees buckle slightly.
What is it with that old man and his strength?
"I'm putting your name down for the tournament roster," Viriam announced. "First string."
A murmur rippled through the gathered players.
"First string?" someone whispered. "After one practice?"
"Told you," Hugo said smugly from nearby.
"Your father will be alright with that, yes?" Viriam asked, suddenly remembering the potential complication. "Commander Sylla won't mind you traveling for the tournament circuit?"
"Absolutely not," Adom said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "He's very supportive of athletic pursuits."
"Excellent!" Viriam beamed. "Then it's settled. We'll start special training tomorrow. I have some techniques from my playing days that will transform your game. Ancient secrets, passed down through generations of Spears!"
"They're not ancient secrets if you read them in 'The Comprehensive Guide to Krozball,' Coach," Serena called out, deadpan.
"Silence, heathen! My wisdom is beyond textbooks!"
As Viriam launched into an enthusiastic speech about the tournament schedule, Adom found himself suppressing a smile. The plan had worked almost too well. He now had his ticket to the north, to Northhaven, and from there—to the Giant Highlands.
The Primordial Runes. The Grimoire. Understanding why Law gave it to him. All of it now within reach.
He'd been so caught up in the match, in proving himself, that he'd almost forgotten why he was doing this in the first place. The sport itself had been unexpectedly...fun.
Sam sidled up next to him as Coach Viriam continued extolling the virtues of proper hydration before long journeys.
"SYLLA! LIGHTBRINGER!" Viriam's voice cut through their conversation. "Pay attention when your coach is dispensing invaluable wisdom!"
"Yes, Coach!" they chorused, straightening up immediately.
Viriam nodded, satisfied, and returned to his lecture.