The dawn air still smelled of garbage and hopelessness, but inside Michael, something new blazed. A strange energy, like a freshly ignited engine, coursed through his veins. The pain in his ribs had diminished to a faint reminder, and the chronic exhaustion he'd carried had dissipated. He felt… renewed. That's when Xix's voice echoed in his mind, clear and direct, as if the child-god stood beside him in the empty alley.
"Go to Minneapolis. Find the sorceress Vivian. Ask her to teach you the basics of spellcraft. We need you prepared for Munkai." The command was dry, military.
Michael blinked, looking around. Minneapolis. It was hundreds of kilometers away. A stupid spark of hope gleamed in his eyes. Maybe Xix would give him something, a magical shortcut.
"Well… how do I get there?" he asked, unable to suppress a crooked smile. He imagined a phantom motorcycle, a portal, or at least a wad of bills falling from the sky.
Xix answered with an indifference that cut like a knife. "That's your business." The entity seemed to smile within his mind, savoring his disappointment.
"What? But I don't have a pot to piss in," Michael protested, his shoulders slumping.
"What are you talking about?" said Xix, and before Michael's eyes, in the damp air, lines of bluish light began to trace, forming an ethereal map showing the route from his city to Minneapolis. A route that passed, notably, over a familiar point. "Simply go to your old house and take the necessary funds." The point on the map glowed brightly.
A knot tightened in Michael's stomach. "You mean steal?" he said, his tone laced with a disdain that was, in truth, the last vestige of a morality the streets hadn't completely eroded.
Xix gave a mental shrug. "I merely consider it fair compensation for emotional damages. What you do with that consideration is your responsibility." The coldness of the logic was overwhelming.
"Damn…" Michael muttered, running a hand through his tangled hair. "I guess I'll have to walk the whole way."
"Walk?" Xix's voice dripped with condescension. "Are you stupid? Just run. And don't stop running."
Michael looked at his own hands, thin and scratched. "Run? You're crazy. You saw my body, or what's left of it. How do you expect me to run non-stop all the way there?"
"Don't worry about your appearance," Xix replied, a note of pride in its incorporeal tone. "While I cannot yet grant you any active powers until the tournament begins, basic physical enhancement is the bare minimum a champion receives upon signing a contract with an entity like myself. It's standard."
A genuine emotion, the first in a long time, lit up Michael's face. "How good are we talking?"
"Let's say… you have the physical baseline of an Olympic endurance athlete at his peak. Your muscles, cardiovascular system, recovery capacity… all have been adjusted to the upper limit of human potential. For now."
"Hell yes!" Michael exclaimed, opening and closing his fists, feeling a latent power he'd never known. "With this, I could take up any sport! I could—!"
"It's only for the preparation period and the tournament," Xix interrupted, cutting his daydream short. "It's a loan, not a gift. But don't worry. If you win, or at least make it into the top 10, you'll have prizes more than sufficient to sculpt whatever life you want."
Michael nodded, reality settling back in. He began to stretch, movements his body executed with a surprising, almost alien fluidity. "Right. What exactly is this tournament?" he asked, touching his toes without the slightest pant.
Xix emitted a mental sigh, as if it were a bothersome but inevitable question. "Well, it's less a sports tournament and more… a slaughter game. We gods, entities, principles… whatever you wish to call us, choose champions as representatives. Then we hurl them into an arena where they must fight, survive, and, for the most part, kill each other. It's a competition of will, power, and above all, adaptability and survival."
"How sadistic," Michael murmured, but there was more curiosity than horror in his voice. He finished his warm-up, feeling the blood pumping with clean force. "So, basically, it's a cosmic-scale battle royale."
"Yes! Exactly," Xix confirmed, and Michael could almost see the child-god's satisfied smile. "A battle royale with very, very high stakes."
"And the prize? What is it, exactly, Xix? For the gods, you said it was authority or power."
"For humans, the prize is… a Wish. Formulated within the limits of the winning sponsor's power, but essentially, whatever the champion desires."
Michael stopped dead. "Really… whatever? Like… world domination? Reincarnation somewhere else? …Becoming a god?"
Xix's response was immediate, loaded with a gelid warning. "Do not choose that last one."
Michael blinked. "Only that last one is forbidden?"
"It is… highly inadvisable. For you and for me." Xix's voice lost its playful tone for a moment.
"I see," said Michael, and a low, almost conspiratorial laugh escaped his chest. "So, everything but that. Well, I'll start running."
And without further warning, he took off.
It wasn't running. It was a shot. His legs, fueled by a muscular power his brain didn't yet understand, propelled his body forward with brutal acceleration. Wind whistled in his ears, buildings became blurry smears. A savage euphoria seized him. He was *fast*! He was *strong*!
It lasted five minutes.
Distracted by the new sensation and unable to control his trajectory, he slammed face-first into the brick wall of a low building at a corner. The impact sounded like a ripe melon being crushed. Michael fell onto his back, seeing stars, a dull pain announcing itself in his shoulder and forehead.
A girl passing on the sidewalk with headphones startled and ran over to him.
"Hey! Hey, my God! Are you okay?" Her voice was young and full of genuine concern. "Do you need an ambulance?"
Michael, dazed, managed to sit up, leaning against the wall. "No… it's not necessary," he mumbled, touching his forehead where a bruise was already forming. "But… thanks."
The girl looked at him suspiciously, her eyes traveling over his dirty clothes and disheveled appearance. "Okay… I'll leave you then, all right?"
"Yeah. Thank you," Michael repeated, embarrassed.
The girl nodded and walked away, glancing back over her shoulder. Michael heard her mutter to herself, "Is he drunk at this hour?"
In his mind, a clear, mocking laugh erupted. "Hahaha! Look at that! Crashed from just running! What a clumsy champion I have!" Xix couldn't contain its amusement.
"I didn't think I'd be that fast," Michael admitted, rubbing his face with a groan. The shame burned hotter than the bump.
"Don't mention it," Xix boasted. "Oh, right. Make sure you exercise from now on. Specific training."
"Exercise?" Michael frowned, confused. "I don't think it's that necessary, is it? You said my physique was like an Olympian's."
"Of course it's necessary!" Xix retorted, exasperated. "That's your foundation, your starting point. An Olympic athlete doesn't win medals just by being born with the right body; they train it to the limit. A fighter with great physique and technique will have far more advantages than one who relies on brute strength alone. You have the engine of a Ferrari, Michael. Now learn to drive it."
"Fine… I guess I'll have to," Michael accepted, resigned but understanding the logic.
He resumed his run, this time more carefully, aware of his new body. Twenty minutes later, now on the city's outskirts, a sharp whistle cut the air.
"You there! Stop! What's with the running?" A police officer, from his parked patrol car, shouted at him.
Michael, startled, tried to stop on a dime. His feet tangled and he tripped spectacularly, rolling across the ground until he came to a stop beside the lit window of a convenience store. A man was coming out, holding a little girl's hand.
The girl, eyes like saucers, pointed at Michael. "Look, Daddy! It's a superhero! He fell from the sky!"
The father, a man with a weary gaze, looked at Michael—who was getting up covered in dust, his clothes now even more ragged—and let out a short laugh. "No, honey. No hero dresses like that."
"But Hank…!" the girl protested, referring to a character from a movie.
The father took her hand and hurried away, murmuring gently but firmly, "Hank wasn't a hero until after a good bath and a lot, *lot* of rehab. Let's go."
"They called you dirty, hahaha," Xix laughed in his head.
"Can't really argue, you know?" Michael admitted with a sigh, brushing dust off his arms.
He got up and approached the officer, who had now stepped out of his car.
"Sorry for the… display, officer. But I was in a hurry," Michael said, trying to sound convincing.
The officer, a middle-aged man with scrutinizing eyes, looked him up and down. "Yeah, I saw. What's your name?"
"Michael Vekoc. I live on Samantha Newis Street," Michael replied, giving the address from his childhood before Johan arrived.
The officer arched an eyebrow. "On Samantha Newis Street? Sorry to say, but your… attire doesn't fill me with confidence about that claim."
"Yeah, I guess not," Michael admitted with a forced smile. "I don't live there currently. My parents do."
"Well, that makes it a bit more believable," the officer conceded, though he didn't lower his guard. "Got any ID?"
"Yeah. Just a moment." Michael fished around in the inner pocket of his torn jacket and miraculously pulled out his intact university student ID. From a past life.
The officer took it and examined it under his flashlight beam. His expression shifted from skepticism to surprise, then to a kind of contained pity. "Yeah. It's real. Michael… can I ask you something?"
"Sure, officer."
"Do you… have problems? If so, I can put you in touch with a foundation, social services… You don't have to be on the street."
The genuine concern in the officer's voice gave Michael's heart a twist. For a second, he saw a different path, one of mundane redemption. He looked at the ID, the photo of a boy with hope in his eyes.
"Thanks for the thought, really," Michael said, and his words sounded more sincere than he'd intended. "But… I'll go home. And I'm going to try to change. Really."
The officer watched him for a long moment, as if measuring the truth in his eyes. Finally, he nodded and handed back the ID. "Okay, kid. I hope you do. And next time I see you, I hope it's as an upstanding citizen." He paused and added, pointing at the ID, "And get back to school. A good doctor is always needed in this world."
Michael felt a lump in his throat. "Thank you, officer. I will."
As the officer walked away and Michael resumed his jog—now more moderate—Xix's voice emerged, cold as steel.
"You lied. You have not the slightest intention of doing that."
Michael hung his head. "Can you really be sure? Maybe, sooner or later, I—"
"No. You wouldn't," Xix interrupted, without a shred of pity, but also without condemnation. It was a simple fact. "Don't worry. I'm sure you made the best decision. The only one you could make, given the paths now open to you."
"No one would blame me for trying to go back," Michael muttered, almost to himself.
"No. Many would," Xix replied, its tone turning philosophical, distant. "They'd say you didn't put in enough effort in your previous life, that you didn't endure enough suffering, that you couldn't bear as much as others. People are experts at judging others' battles from the comfort of their own trenches."
"I…" Michael stopped, an immense weight settling on his shoulders. "It's true."
"But those people do not interest me," Xix continued, and its voice took on a strangely kind quality, like that of a severe but just teacher. "You are the one I chose. I chose the tenacity beneath the grime, the spark of will that didn't go out even in the deepest cold. And I am certain you will manage to surprise me… and everyone else."
"Everyone else?" Michael asked, resuming his walk. "I thought this was a secret."
"Normally it is," Xix explained. "Champions are usually already powerful beings from worlds where the supernatural is common. But when a participant from a low-level world like this makes a notable showing… they are given 'gifts,' little crumbs of attention. And their participation becomes known among the other contenders. It's a way to measure the threat, or to underestimate the newcomer."
"I see," Michael said, looking at the starry sky beginning to pale on the horizon. "But here, in this world, I've never seen or heard anything about this."
"It's normal," Xix concluded. "This world never had anyone notable enough, or rather, no higher being had taken an interest in its inhabitants until now. They are… an ignored seed."
Michael offered a small, genuine smile—the first not born of bitterness or sarcasm in a long time. "I see. Then I'll have to make at least this humanity proud."
Xix made a significant pause. "At least this humanity, yes."
Michael met its gaze in his mind, understanding the implication. "Are you saying that…? Haha, I guess there are many more mysteries out there than I ever dreamed."
"Many more," Xix confirmed, its tone that of a guide before a fascinating and terrible precipice.
And so, under a mantle of stars beginning to fade before the dawn, the two continued on their way. Michael wasn't running now. He walked with a firm, resolute step, heading toward the house of his childhood, toward a theft he considered compensation, and toward the first step of a journey that would take him far from everything he knew. The cockroach, with its new and powerful body, began its slow, implacable climb from the foundations.