"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."

The players filed onto the Krozball pitch, equipment rattling softly with each step. Adom took his position, feeling the familiar texture of the gauntlets against his palms. The grass beneath his feet was freshly trimmed, springy and perfect for sudden direction changes.

Coach Viriam moved to the center of the field, Krozball tucked under one arm. His expression shifted from skepticism to something almost like concern as his eyes found Adom among the players.

"Sylla," he called, beckoning Adom forward. "A word."

Adom jogged over, aware of the eyes tracking his movement.

"Coach."

Viriam's weathered face creased into a frown. Up close, Adom could see the thin scar that ran from his left eyebrow to his temple—an old Krozball injury, most likely.

"Listen, kid," Viriam said, voice pitched low. "Hugo tells me you've got talent, and I respect his judgment. But Krozball isn't just about talent—it's about staying in one piece." He glanced around at the larger players. "These fifth-years hit like battering rams. You sure you want to do this?"

"I'm sure, Coach," Adom said firmly. "I can handle it."

Viriam studied him for a moment longer. "Your father know about this?"

"He taught me how to fall properly when I was six," Adom said. It wasn't exactly an answer, but it wasn't a lie either.

That earned a short laugh from Viriam. "Okay. Okay. No need to be sarcastic kid." He slapped Adom lightly on the shoulder. "Alright then. But you tell me if anything feels off. Pride's not worth a shattered collarbone."

He turned to address the entire group, voice booming across the pitch. "Listen up! For those who need reminding, Krozball has three simple rules." He held up a finger. "One: No magic. Fluid enhancement only." A second finger. "Two: Duels are one-on-one." A third finger. "Three: Intentional targeting of vulnerable areas means immediate ejection."

His eyes swept over the assembled players. "This isn't a brawl—it's a sport. You hit to disrupt, not to damage. Clear?"

A chorus of "Yes, Coach" echoed back.

"Good." Viriam consulted a clipboard. "For today's practice match, we're mixing experience levels. I want to see how you work with unfamiliar teammates."

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

He began rattling off names and positions. Adom listened for his own.

"Blue team Spear: Sylla."

No surprise there. What did surprise him was the next assignment.

"Blue team Runner: Damus."

Adom's eyes snapped to Damus, who was adjusting his armor. The taller boy looked up briefly, his expression unreadable, before returning to his equipment.

Great. Just great.

On the bright side, at least they wouldn't be actively trying to flatten each other. For now.

The teams separated, blue and red vests distributed. Adom found himself standing with Damus, Talef, and four others he recognized only vaguely from previous practices.

"Adom," Talef nodded. "Don't worry about Damus. He's fast, but he'll get the job done."

"I'm standing right here," Damus said flatly.

"Exactly my point," Talef grinned. "All speed, no subtlety."

Damus rolled his eyes and turned to Adom.

"Just get me the ball," he said simply. "I'll handle the rest."

"That's not exactly how a Spear works," Adom pointed out.

"Then show me how it works," Damus replied.

This was probably the longest conversation they had in a while.

Coach Viriam's whistle cut through the air. "Positions!"

Adom moved to the defensive half of their side, settling into his stance. Across the pitch, the red team's Runners were already coordinating, planning their attack pattern. The Spear, a fourth-year named Jensen, kept his eyes fixed on Adom with obvious skepticism.

The Krozball gleamed in Viriam's hand as he held it aloft. The sunlight caught its leather surface, highlighting the intricate runes sewn into the seams.

"Begin!"

The ball arced high into the air, and everything else disappeared from Adom's mind.

[Flow Prediction] activated instantly, sharpening his senses. The world decelerated around him, movements becoming telegraphed and readable. The ball's trajectory stretched before him like a glowing path—it would land approximately seven meters to his right, where red team's tallest Runner was already positioning himself.

Adom's mind raced. Standard defensive positioning would put him at least four steps behind the play—too slow, too reactive. He needed something different.

His eyes flickered to the Runner's legs, the way he balanced his weight on the balls of his feet, preparing to leap. There was a pattern there, a rhythm to the movement.

Like a grasshopper.

Oh?

The thought crystalized with sudden clarity.

Grasshoppers didn't rely on running speed—they channeled immense power through their legs, converting stored energy into explosive movement.

Adom dropped lower, shifting his weight back. He channeled Fluid into his thighs, feeling the energy build and compress, muscle fibers tensing under [Silverback's Might].

Five meters from the ball touching down. Four meters. Three.

The red Runner's knees bent, preparing to jump.

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.

*****

An hour of effort, sweat, teenage drama, and strategic grasshopper-leaping later, the final whistle blew.

Red team: 16, Blue team: 13.

Serena, who'd subbed in for Jensen midway through the match, had just scored the final three-pointer with a move that even Adom had to admit was impressive. A spinning leap over Talef's attempted block, followed by a no-look shot that somehow curved around their Keeper's outstretched arms.

Adom bent forward, hands on his knees, sweat dripping onto the grass beneath him. His lungs burned, muscles trembled with exertion, and yet...it didn't feel like losing. Not really.

"Not bad out there," Talef said, clapping Adom on the shoulder as he passed. "Seven interceptions, four assists, and two scores. Even Damus seemed impressed."

Adom glanced over to where Damus was already stalking off the field, not bothering to look at anyone.

"High praise coming from him," Adom remarked dryly.

"Trust me, if he didn't approve, you'd know it," Talef replied with a knowing smile.

Coach Viriam's reaction, however, was anything but subdued.

"SYLLA!" The coach's voice boomed across the pitch as he barreled toward Adom like an excited bull that had just discovered sentience. "MY ACE!"

Before Adom could react, Viriam had lifted him clean off the ground in a bear hug that threatened to rearrange his internal organs.

"Coach—unhand—me—"

"Did you see him?" Viriam shouted to no one in particular, still crushing Adom against his chest. "Did you all see what I've been telling you about? That's my Spear! THAT'S MY SPEAR!"

"You've been telling us he's too small," Talef pointed out, walking past while toweling off his face.

"A momentary lapse in judgment!" Viriam declared, finally setting Adom down. "Size means nothing when you've got that kind of field vision! Three steps ahead of everyone else! Like he could see the future!"

Adom tried very hard not to react to that particular observation.

"Minimal praise would be sufficient, Coach," he managed, subtly checking if any ribs had been displaced.

"Minimal? MINIMAL?" Viriam's eyes bulged slightly. "I haven't seen a third-year move like that since—well, since me! And I was extraordinary!"

From the sidelines, Sam caught Adom's eye and mouthed "What is happening?" while making exaggerated gestures of confusion.

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.

*****

After practice, Adom and Sam headed toward Old Mari's, the former's body aching and stomach growling in protest of being empty for so long.

"I'm going to eat at least five meat pies," Adom declared as they rounded the corner onto Market Street. "Maybe six."

"You'll explode," Sam replied. "Apparently Mari's trying something new, too. Eren wouldn't shut up about it earlier."

"New? Mari hasn't changed her menu in twenty years."

"According to Eren, it's some kind of flat bread with sauce and cheese on top. She adds different toppings depending on what you want."

"Sounds messy."

"Sounds perfect."

The evening air was cool against their still-sweat-dampened skin. Students milled about, some heading to evening studies, others clearly bound for less academic pursuits.

"We're supposed to meet Eren there," Sam said, checking the time on his pocket watch. "He's probably already halfway through his second pie by now."

"Adom!"

At the sound of his name, Adom turned.

"Is that Cass?" Sam squinted down the street.

It was. Cassandra was hurrying toward them, her usual measured stride replaced by something close to eagerness. In her hand was a slender bottle filled with a sparkling blue liquid that seemed to glow faintly in the evening light.

"I was just coming to find you," she said as she reached them.

"Is that Moonswell?" Adom asked, eyeing the bottle. "Are you celebrating something?"

Moonswell was expensive and rare—a drink reserved for milestone achievements or life-changing events. In his first life, Adom had tasted it exactly twice: once when he made got into Xerkes, and once when he found a bottle among the debris of a destroyed Kati.

Cass smiled. Her eyes moved from Adom to Sam, a question in them.

"Sam knows," Adom said quickly. "About the guild. Everything."

"Everything?" Cass raised an eyebrow, her smile turning wry. "That's a lot of everything."

"Enough," Adom amended.

"I'm trustworthy," Sam added.

Cass glanced around at the passing students, then stepped closer, lowering her voice.

"Yes, I'm celebrating," she said. She looked between them, letting the moment stretch before adding:

"We received the Lightbringer sponsor."

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