The streets of Minneapolis unfolded before Michael like a concrete and glass maze. After hours of walking, fatigue began to settle in—not as a disabling exhaustion, but as a constant friction, a reminder that his body, though enhanced, still had limits. He found refuge on a bench in a small park, where the last autumn leaves danced in the cold air. He slumped down, his back against the cold wooden slats, and gazed at the leaden sky.
It was strange. He was exhausted, sweaty, yet a low-level energy, like an idling engine, kept his muscles loose, without the sharp pain or stiffness he remembered from his teenage escapades. For a moment, the similarity transported him: afternoons after high school, running through the park with Dani and Janise, laughing, competing, feeling invincible. A nostalgic smile touched his lips, but faded as quickly as it had come. Dani and Janise were gone. One lost to a dangerous fate, the other… well, Janise was probably in college, living the life denied to him. There was no joy in that memory, only the echo of loss.
"Hey, Xix," he said quietly, wiping his brow with his forearm. "Your map wouldn't have a… mistake, would it? We've been walking for hours." He tried to laugh, but it came out sounding tired.
Xix's response came with a suspicious calm. "Yes… it's just that… I wanted to see a bit more of the city. It's not often we can come to a place like this, so… orderly in its chaos."
Michael lowered his head, a gesture of resignation rather than anger. "You can always tell me, you know. You don't have to do things like this. We're a team, right?" He paused, looking at his own hands, the knuckles already less bruised. Something intrigued him. "Hey, Xix, I don't know if it's just me, but with all this movement, my feet don't hurt. I don't feel that crushing fatigue that tells you not to take another step. It's… weird."
"That's the physical enhancement working on a subconscious level," Xix explained, his tone didactic. "The Munkai Tournament isn't held in a stadium. It takes place in real, often hostile environments: devastated cities, alien jungles, dimensional deserts. Your body must adapt quickly, recover with superhuman efficiency. Pain is a signal, and in the tournament, you cannot afford to listen to too many signals of surrender. Your body now prioritizes function over comfort."
"That is… incredibly useful," Michael murmured, flexing his toes inside his worn sneakers. "So, will I gain muscle in the process? I guess a lot of people would be mad at how easy it seems."
"It's to make things less unfair!" Xix chided, a hint of exasperation in his tone. "Of course, there will be people like you, chosen for raw potential, tenacity, adaptability. But there will also be warriors forged in a thousand battles, mages who have studied for centuries, beasts with innate power. Basic physical enhancement levels the initial playing field a little. It's the potential that matters. Now, are you going to sit there admiring your metabolism, or are we going to find your teacher?"
Michael smiled. "I see. So I have to learn everything else… fast."
He sprang to his feet, an explosion of energy that surprised even himself. He consulted the map Xix projected in his vision, now corrected and showing a direct route. Without further ado, he took off running, his footsteps echoing with new purpose.
"Yes… fast," Xix whispered to himself, and in his tone was a shadowy urgency Michael didn't catch. "Faster than you think."
After another stretch of running, he arrived in a neighborhood that contrasted starkly with the downtown bustle. Tree-lined streets, well-kept houses with spacious porches, a silence almost oppressive in its tidiness. Everything was… orderly. Too orderly.
"Hey, is it always like this?" Michael asked, slowing his pace.
"Like what?" Xix asked, distracted.
"So… quiet. So clean. It looks like a set, not a place where people live."
Xix seemed to ponder. Michael could feel the sensation of the entity reclining in the void of his mind, one hand on his chin, like a classic thinker. "It's just that… while scouring this world for a champion, I observed other regions. In the south, in Argentina, Uruguay, Chile… and in Central America, Nicaragua, Costa Rica… even in places with hardships, there was a… warmth. A liveliness in the streets, a unity in the chaos, life bubbling even in the poorest corners. This…" He made a mental gesture encompassing the neighborhood. "…this is different. It's a bought calm, a silence paid for with distance."
"You looked around quite a bit, huh," Michael commented, impressed despite himself as he walked along the immaculate sidewalk. He doubted Xix's romanticized view, but had no basis to refute it. "Well, I guess there's life here too once the Super Bowl comes around."
"What is that?" Xix asked, genuinely intrigued.
Michael stopped short, almost stumbling. "Are you serious? You really don't know the most important, sacred, and commercialized sporting event in this country?"
Xix sounded offended. "I admit I barely know this world in detail. It's inevitable; I only scoured it enough to find a champion. But I do know about football. The sport. The most important and massive on the planet. The one that unites continents."
Michael couldn't help but laugh. "I see! Even far-off cosmic entities know about it! My university buddies, the soccer purists, would be slapping each other on the back."
Xix was puzzled. "Hey, you…"
"Yeah? What is it, Xix?"
"What are you proud of? If you've never played it."
This time, Xix's observation didn't go unnoticed. It struck a nerve. Soccer wasn't just a sport to Michael; it was Sundays in the park with his grandfather, the smell of freshly cut grass, the worn ball that was his treasure. It was one of the few pure memories of his childhood.
"I played as a kid," Michael retorted, his tone defensive. "You said you knew everything about me. How can you be wrong about that?"
"You played?" Xix doubted, his skepticism palpable. "I don't think so."
"I played with my grandpa!" Michael insisted, frustration growing. "I know it was a long time ago, but I can't be wrong about that. It was soccer."
"Michael…" Xix said, with a condescending patience that was infuriating. "That wasn't football."
"What are you talking about? Of course it was!"
A mental impasse. Both were certain of their position. "Let's say it at the same time, then," Xix proposed, a hint of challenge in his voice. "Name the club, the most prestigious and decorated team in the history of that sport. That will settle it."
Michael nodded, confident. Xix was equally sure. He had researched the three most popular sports on the planet. Being wrong was statistically impossible.
"On three!" said Xix.
And they shouted in unison, with the absolute conviction of someone uttering a universal truth:
XIX: "REAL MADRID!"
MICHAEL: "GREEN BAY PACKERS!"
The silence that followed was so deep that the faint whisper of wind through the trees seemed like a roar. Michael could feel Xix's perplexity emanating like waves of cold.
"Hey, Michael… what the hell are you talking about?" Xix asked, his voice a whisper of utter confusion.
"That's my question!" Michael replied, equally bewildered. "We were talking about the most important sport!"
"Yes! And that's football! The one played with the feet!"
"Yeah, but you said soccer!"
"No, Michael! Only you in this corner of the planet call it soccer! For the rest of the galaxy, and apparently the rest of this world too, it's football!"
The argument stretched on for several more blocks, an absurd and heated exchange about sports terminology that only served to distract Michael from his growing nervousness. Finally, they stopped in front of a particular house. It wasn't the largest, but it was the most… peculiar. The plants in the garden seemed to have slightly geometric shapes, and the front door was painted a deep indigo that seemed to absorb light.
"Hey, Michael…" Xix said, breaking the post-soccer argument silence.
"Yeah? What is it, Xix?"
"Shouldn't we… knock on the door?"
Michael stared at the indigo door. "Yes. We should."
"Then… why aren't you doing it?"
"Xix…" Michael lowered his voice to a whisper. "Yeah? Don't you notice that… old man at the house next door?"
On the porch of the neighboring house, in a motionless rocking chair, sat an old man. He was wrapped in a blanket, reading a newspaper. But he didn't move his eyes. He didn't move at all. He was simply there, and his presence was like a block of ice in the tranquil atmosphere.
"Yes. I notice him," Xix admitted, his tone now cautious.
"And what about him?"
"I don't want to sound alarmist, but… he looks like someone who, if you give him a reason, could put a few holes in your body without even getting up from his chair."
Xix hesitated. "Don't worry. Vivian won't allow it…" But even his voice sounded less certain than usual.
With his heart pounding against his ribs, Michael approached the indigo door. The air smelled of damp earth and something else, ozone, like after a storm. He raised his hand and pressed the doorbell. The sound was abnormally clear, like a crystal chime.
A moment of absolute silence. Then, light footsteps from inside.
The door opened.
And Michael was left breathless.
Before him stood one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She had hair of jet-black that fell in soft waves over her shoulders, eyes of an intense, penetrating violet, and fine, aristocratic features. She wore a simple linen tunic that, nonetheless, seemed made of woven light. She was like the embodiment of all the teenage fantasy heroine dreams Michael had ever had.
His mouth opened to greet her, but before a sound could escape, Xix's voice, filled with a deadly solemnity, resonated in his head:
"It's a man."
Michael blinked. What?
"It. Is. A. Man."
Michael's mental procession ground to a halt. The pieces didn't fit. The ethereal beauty, the delicate features… and Xix's statement.
"He can't be!" Michael screamed internally, his fantasy world collapsing in real time.
The person at the door, Vivian, tilted their head slightly, one perfectly arched eyebrow raised in an expression of polite concern. "Excuse me? Are you alright?" Their voice was… neutral. Soft, educated, but impossible to assign a specific gender. It was simply a pleasant voice.
"Uhh…" Michael stammered, completely thrown off.
Then, Vivian's violet eyes shifted for a moment, as if looking through Michael, and widened slightly. A flash of recognition, then of professional wariness, crossed their face.
"Vivian. It's me." Xix had spoken directly to Vivian, bypassing Michael.
Vivian gave an almost imperceptible nod, their lips forming a thin line. "You are from…" they murmured, so low Michael barely heard.
"Yes. I am one of those. And we need your help."
After a moment of charged silence, in which Michael felt utterly invisible, Vivian refocused their attention on him. Their expression softened into a professional but not warm smile.
"I have heard you need my assistance," Vivian said, gesturing for him to enter. "Please, come in."
Michael, still stunned by the revelation and the strange interaction, entered mechanically. The inside of the house was even more peculiar. The space seemed larger than the exterior suggested. Furniture was sparse but elegantly lined, and the same ozone smell hung in the air, mixed with a subtle herbal aroma.
"This boy is a greenhorn…" Xix thought to himself, and Michael caught it as a distant echo.
"Please, sit," Vivian said with a wave of their hand toward the center of the room, which was empty.
And then, without any sound or flash, two comfortable armchairs and a low dark-wood table appeared. They didn't rise from the floor or fall from the ceiling; they simply were there where nothing had been before. Michael stifled a yelp.
He sat, feeling the soft but firm fabric of the chair. Vivian sat across from him, crossing their legs with elegance.
"My name is Vivian. I am an Osis," they introduced themselves, their violet eyes studying Michael with analytical intensity.
"Osis?" Michael asked, trying to maintain his composure. "Is that some… kind of preference? Or something like that?" He instantly regretted the question.
Vivian let out a delicate laugh, but their eyes didn't lose their seriousness. "Hahaha, no. I am an Osis. As you will know through Xix, the Munkai Tournament gathers many chosen ones from all existence. I… participated in one of them, a long time ago."
Admiration momentarily drowned Michael's discomfort. "Wow!" he exclaimed, leaning forward, his hands on the table. "You must be really incredible to have survived! But… how are you here? Xix said I was the first human from this planet to be chosen."
"And it's true," Xix affirmed, his tone calm, as if stating an obvious fact.
But Vivian's reaction was immediate. A flash of genuine anger crossed their perfect features. They directed their icy gaze toward the empty space beside Michael, as if they could see Xix.
"You didn't tell him that?" they asked, their voice now an edge of ice. "You know he's new, but… you didn't tell him?"
Michael froze. "He… lied to me?" he asked, looking alternately at Vivian and the space where he sensed Xix. "What do you mean?"
"It's not that I lied," Xix defended himself, and Michael could feel his nervousness through the bond. "I simply… kept it to the basics. The essentials to get started."
"That's why I dislike you all so much!" Vivian exploded, rising from their chair with an angry grace. "Always displaying that petty selfishness, that need to control the narrative! He is a participant, not a pawn!"
"Listen, Michael!" Vivian shouted, turning toward him, their violet eyes blazing with their own light.
"Yes, ma'am!" Michael responded, instinctively straightening in the chair like a recruit before a sergeant.
Vivian took a deep breath, counting to three. When they spoke, each word was clear, heavy, and fell into the room like a hammer blow of truth:
"It is not the Munkai Tournament." They paused dramatically, letting the words resonate. "They are the Munkai Tournaments."
An absolute silence, deeper than any void, flooded the room. The faint buzzing Michael had noticed in the air vanished. The ticking of an invisible clock seemed to stop. Michael looked at Vivian, then toward where Xix was, then back at Vivian. His mind, which had been struggling to keep pace with the new reality, now stumbled and fell into an abyss of implications.
Tournaments? Plural?
Xix said nothing. Made no sound. But Michael could feel, through their connection, something he had never felt from the entity before: deep remorse, and an ancient fear.
Vivian watched understanding begin to flicker in Michael's eyes, mixed with panic. They sat down again, slowly.
"That's right, boy," they said, their voice softer now, but no less grave. "This is not a one-time event. It is a cycle. And Xix, by not telling you that, has pulled you into something much, much bigger and more dangerous than you believed. Now, let's talk. And this time, with the whole truth on the table. Starting with what it means to be an Osis, and why someone who survived a Munkai would end up hiding in a quiet Minneapolis neighborhood."