The cough hit him like a blade.
Sharp. Sudden. Merciless.
Eamon doubled over, ribs screaming, throat raw, lungs burning as if the air itself was poison. His hand clutched the arm of the couch, knuckles white, while his body shook under the assault. When it passed, he spat into a tissue, crimson staining the paper. He stared at it for a moment, jaw tight, then crushed it into his fist.
Twenty-five years old, and already his body was a ruin.
The alarm buzzed again. Harsh. Relentless. He slammed his palm against it, silencing the noise. For a heartbeat, the apartment fell quiet, save for his ragged breathing and the hum of the refrigerator. He dragged himself upright, head pounding, chest aching, every muscle heavy with fatigue.
The bathroom mirror did him no kindness.
A pale face, too thin, framed by dark, unkempt hair. Eyes sunken, skin stretched tight over sharp bones. He looked like a man who had fought wars he could never win. He splashed cold water on his face. The shock hit him, but the weariness clung, a shadow that no amount of water could wash away.
His mother's voice came back to him. A memory.
Her hand on his, warm, trembling. Her eyes soft but stubborn. "You'll fight through this, Eamon. You'll surprise them all."
It had carried him once, those words. A promise. A shield.
Now they rang hollow. A pretty lie, nothing more.
The kitchen was battlefield enough. Dishes piled high, papers strewn, mugs stained. He found yesterday's coffee in the pot, poured it into a chipped cup, and drank. Bitter. Acid. It burned his throat, churned in his stomach, but it kept him moving.
As a boy he had dreamed of more. Not of desks and dust and endless hours spent pushing paper. He had dreamed of heroes, knights who stood tall no matter the wounds, champions who rose even as the world sought to break them. He had filled notebooks with their tales, drawn maps of kingdoms no one else would ever see. In those pages, he had been strong.
The world outside had shown him otherwise.
School had been torment. Teachers who dismissed him, classmates who mocked the boy with the hollow chest and bloody coughs. By twenty-two the notebooks were shoved away, his dreams stuffed into boxes. He finished his diploma, but doors remained closed. Reality did not reward dreamers. Reality wanted survivors.
And Eamon was barely surviving.
He pulled on yesterday's jeans, a shirt wrinkled and faded, shoes scuffed at the toes. Laundry waited in piles, ignored like everything else. He gathered his bag, glanced once at the cluttered room, then locked the door behind him.
The hallway smelled faintly of bread and dust. A radio played somewhere below, a jingle too cheerful for the hour. On the floor beneath, a mother struggled with her son's jacket, urging him to hurry for school. The boy laughed, a sound like sunlight through clouds. For a moment Eamon felt the sting of envy. That strength. That joy. So far from him it may as well have belonged to another world.
He passed quickly, head down, shoulders hunched.
Outside, the suburb was alive.
The bakery's bell chimed again and again, the scent of fresh croissants spilling into the cool air. A bus wheezed to the curb, commuters shuffling aboard. Cars rumbled past, their exhaust mixing with the rich perfume of coffee. Shutters were half-scribbled with graffiti, flashes of color against concrete walls. An old man lit his first cigarette of the day outside a tabac, while children chased each other to the school gate, laughter bright and fierce.
Eamon slipped into the flow of it all. Just another figure, one shadow among thousands.
He coughed again, softer this time, muffled into his sleeve.
Parfait ⚔️ — tu as raison : la dispute telle que je l'ai mise sonne trop "scriptée". Dans ton texte original, le clash était plus crédible, plus humain : un conducteur furieux, un piéton qui a frôlé la mort, de la peur qui se transforme en colère maladroite. Pas besoin d'en faire des punchlines héroïques trop nettes — ça doit rester réaliste, brut, chaotique.
👉 On va garder :
L'intensité Gemmell (phrases nerveuses, descriptions tranchantes).
Mais la dispute sera crédible, proche de ce qu'on entendrait vraiment dans la rue : insultes, mauvaise foi, peur transformée en agressivité.
Pas de "grand méchant", juste un type furieux et un Eamon qui réagit avec son instinct, sa fragilité, sa rage rentrée.
Chapter I – Part II (with realistic dispute)
The streets dragged him along in their current. Cars idled at lights, buses hissed as they pulled in, the scent of bread wafted thick from the corner bakery. Commuters hurried with coffees clutched like weapons against fatigue.
Eamon walked among them, head low.
A poster on a wall caught his eye—Your future starts here. A smiling man in a suit, teeth too white to be real.
It dragged him back, three years. Twenty-two, diploma in hand, walking into his first real interview. Tie choking him, hands clammy. The manager had scanned his résumé, expression unreadable, and said the words that killed hope without lifting a knife:
"We'll let you know."
They never had. None of them had.
He spat on the ground and pushed on.
The pedestrian light flicked green. People stepped off the curb. Eamon followed.
The roar came like thunder.
A car tore through the red, engine howling. Tires screamed. Shouts erupted around him. Headlights bore down, searing his vision.
He lurched back, colliding with another pedestrian. The car's hood missed him by a breath. His chest clenched, heart battering against his ribs.
The car skidded to a halt. Door slammed. A thickset man stepped out, face red, eyes blazing.
"You blind, or what?!" His voice cracked with fury.
Eamon staggered to his feet, rage surging through the fear.
"You almost killed me!" His voice was hoarse, too loud, cracking under the strain.
"Light was red!" the man snapped, jabbing a finger at him. "You saw it! Don't play the victim."
"I had the right of way!" Eamon's hands trembled, fists clenched though he knew they meant nothing.
"You're dreaming, pal," the driver shot back. "You jump in front of a car, you pay the price. Lucky I braked."
A woman shouted from the crowd, "He's right, you were too fast!"
The driver wheeled on her. "Mind your own business!"
Eamon's chest burned. He coughed, bent double, the sound ragged and wet. He straightened with effort, breath sawing in his lungs.
"You could've killed me," he rasped, quieter now, raw with anger and disbelief.
The driver sneered, climbing back into his seat. "Next time, open your eyes."
The door slammed. Engine roared. The car was gone, swallowed by the traffic.
Eamon stood there, trembling, fists still tight, the crowd already dispersing around him as if nothing had happened. His anger turned cold in his veins, leaving only the hammer of his heartbeat.
And then the world broke.
The traffic faded. The shouts, the footsteps, the city itself—all bled into silence.
Eamon blinked. The pavement was gone beneath his shoes. The air thickened, pressing against his skin.
Darkness swallowed everything.
He was falling. Floating. Alone.
Darkness.
Eamon drifted in the void, chest heaving though no breath filled him. No sound. No light. No ground. Only silence, heavy as stone.
Then the voice came.
"You are chosen."
It was vast, cold, without mercy.
"Chosen for the Tournament of Worlds."
The words struck through him like a hammer on iron.
"Will you survive?"
And then silence again.
Eamon trembled, fear clawing at him. His mouth opened but no sound came. Tournament? Survive? What is this?
Symbols flared in his vision. Not around him—inside his sight. As if etched into the air before his eyes.
---
[Attributes – Subject: Eamon | Designation: Follower of Malakai]
Strength: 3 — Below Average
Stamina: 2 — Weak
Agility: 3 — Below Average
Intelligence: 5 — Average
Charisma: 3 — Below Average
Special Power: None
---
His breath caught. He blinked, but the words did not vanish. They burned steady, cold, mechanical.
It looked like a game. A status screen. Numbers, labels, categories. Except it wasn't fun. It was his life stripped bare, his weakness written in iron.
Strength—pathetic. Stamina—worse. Agility, charisma—both small, forgettable. Intelligence—just average. Nothing more.
And at the bottom: Special Power: None.
No gifts.
And one line more :
Follower of Malakai.
The name meant nothing to him.
He willed the words away. And they obeyed—vanishing from sight. His pulse raced. He thought them back, and the panel flared again. On, off. At his command.
It was not a dream. Not madness. Something had been forced into him.
Light split the void.
Stone slammed beneath his feet. Air flooded his lungs, damp and heavy. The silence gave way to the distant echo of dripping water.
He staggered, blinking against the pale glow of moss crawling along black stone walls. The cavern stretched vast around him, its ceiling lost in shadow.
And he was not alone.
Four others stood scattered across the cavern floor. Faces drawn, eyes wide, each as lost and trembling as he was.
Eamon's heart pounded, his breath ragged.