The duel circle felt smaller than it had looked from outside.

Adom stood at one edge, trying very hard not to think about the fact that all those people were currently staring at him. Thirty thousand. That was a lot people.

He could feel their attention like a physical weight pressing down on his shoulders. The Xerkes section was chanting something that might have been his name, but the sound blurred together into a wall of noise that made his ears ring.

Focus. The crowd didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was the man standing across from him.

Captain Whitehall looked exactly like what he was—a twenty-four-year-old military officer who had spent the last six years learning how to break things efficiently.

"Nothing personal, kid," Whitehall said, rolling his shoulders. "Just business."

The referee raised his hand. "Standard duel rules apply. First player forced outside the circle or rendered unable to continue loses possession. No intentional maiming. Fight begins on my signal."

Adom nodded, then...

[Flow Prediction].

The world shifted into that familiar state of clarity. Every micro-movement, every subtle shift in posture, every unconscious tell—it all became visible, predictable, readable.

And what he read made his blood run cold.

Whitehall wasn't underestimating him at all.

The older player's stance looked casual, but it was anything but. His weight distribution was perfect for explosive movement in any direction. His hands hung loose at his sides, ready to grapple or strike. His eyes tracked Adom's positioning.

This wasn't going to be a quick dismissal of an overconfident child. This was going to be a methodical dismantling by someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

The referee's hand dropped. "Begin!"

Whitehall moved first—not the straightforward charge Adom had expected, but a feint that would draw him left before the real attack came from the right. It was subtle, professional, and would have worked perfectly against most opponents.

It's just... it was predictable.

Adom didn't take the bait. Instead, he stepped forward and slightly right, positioning himself exactly where Whitehall would be when the feint converted to the real attack.

Whitehall's eyes widened fractionally as his carefully planned opening suddenly put him off-balance, his momentum carrying him directly into Adom's waiting hands.

Adom didn't try to overpower him. Instead, he used Whitehall's own forward momentum, adding just enough of a push at precisely the right angle to send the older player stumbling.

Move one.

Whitehall recovered quickly, his training kicking in. He spun out of the stumble and came back with a low tackle designed to take Adom's legs out from under him.

Adom had already stepped aside.

The tackle met empty air, and Whitehall found himself on his hands and knees at the edge of the circle.

Move two.

"What the hell—" Whitehall started to say, pushing himself back to his feet.

Adom was already moving. Not an attack—something much simpler. He stepped forward and placed one hand on Whitehall's shoulder, applying exactly the right amount of pressure at exactly the right angle.

Whitehall's back foot slipped half an inch.

Half an inch was enough.

The white line was directly behind him, and physics was not negotiable. Whitehall's arms windmilled as he fought for balance, but momentum had already made its decision.

Move three.

Whitehall stepped backward over the line.

The arena went completely silent for approximately half a second.

Then thirty thousand people lost their collective minds.

"WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The sound was unlike anything Adom had ever heard—a sustained roar of disbelief and joy that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building. Even the neutral sections were on their feet. Even some of the Lireth supporters looked impressed despite themselves.

Whitehall stood outside the circle, staring down at his feet like they had personally betrayed him.

"How did you—" he began.

"Good fight," Adom said, offering his hand.

Whitehall looked at the offered hand, then back at Adom's face, clearly trying to process what had just happened.

"You read the entire sequence," he said slowly. "Before I even started moving."

"Lucky guess," Adom replied.

Whitehall shook his head, accepting the handshake. "That was..." He paused, searching for the right word. "It was a good fight. Thank you."

From the sideline, Coach Viriam was having what appeared to be a complete emotional breakdown. "THAT'S MY ACE!" he screamed at no one in particular, his voice cracking. "THAT'S MY SPEAR!"

The referee jogged over, looking slightly dazed. "Duel victory to Xerkes Academy. Free shot, standard rules."

Adom looked back toward his teammates. "Hugo," he called. "Could you please do it?"

Hugo shook himself back to awareness and jogged toward the penalty zone, the Krozball materializing in his hands as the crowd continued its celebration.

The Lireth keeper—the same lanky kid from the first half—looked like he was having an existential crisis. His teammates were offering encouragement, but their voices carried the hollow ring of people who were beginning to suspect they might be in trouble.

Hugo took his position at the penalty line. This time, he didn't hesitate, didn't calculate, didn't overthink.

He just put the ball through the three-point hoop like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Three points.

20-25.

Five points down with thirty-seven minutes left to play.

*****

The next twenty minutes were pure chaos.

Lireth Academy, apparently deciding that subtle military tactics were for people who weren't currently being embarrassed by teenagers, abandoned their methodical approach in favor of what could charitably be described as controlled violence.

Their Blockers started hitting harder. Their Runners moved faster. Their Spear, Fletcher, began challenging anyone who looked at him wrong to duels.

It almost worked.

"Shit, shit, shit," Coach Viriam muttered from the sideline as Davies bulldozed straight through Lorn like he was made of paper. "They're adapting. They're actually adapting."

The score ticked up: 23-25, then 26-25, then 26-28. Back and forth like a pendulum, neither team able to establish control for more than a few minutes at a time.

But something had changed in the Xerkes players. Maybe it was watching their new Spear casually dismantle the opposing captain. Maybe it was the crowd, which had somehow gotten even louder and was now chanting things that probably violated several decency laws.

Or maybe they'd just stopped being intimidated.

"Mira!" Hugo bellowed as the Lireth Runners tried to overwhelm the left side. "Switch with Jace! They're targeting your size!"

Mira, all of five-foot-six and built like a particularly determined bird, looked at Jace—six-two and approximately the width of a small building—and nodded without question.

The switch happened mid-play. Lireth's Torres, expecting to run over Mira again, instead found herself face-to-face with Jace, who had apparently decided that personal space was a myth.

Torres bounced off him like a tennis ball hitting a wall.

"Sorry!" Jace called out cheerfully as Torres picked herself up off the ground. "Nothing personal!"

The crowd loved it. Even some of the Lireth supporters were laughing.

Meanwhile, Adom was having the time of his life.

[Flow Prediction] didn't just show him where players were going—it showed him where they should be going. Every gap in the defense, every opportunity his teammates were missing, every weakness in Lireth's formation that could be exploited.

He fed Damus through a hole between two Blockers that shouldn't have existed. He redirected Serena's charge into the exact spot where Fletcher wasn't expecting her. He somehow got the ball to Hugo at precisely the moment when three defenders had committed to other positions.

"How does he do that?" Davies asked Fletcher during a brief break in play, both of them staring at Adom.

"I have no idea," Fletcher replied. "But I'm starting to think we might be in trouble."

They were.

28-30. 31-30. 31-33.

With fifteen minutes left, Lireth made their final push. Captain Whitehall, apparently deciding that pride was less important than victory, began involving himself directly in every play. He challenged Hugo to three duels in five minutes, winning two of them through sheer experience and stubborn refusal to give ground.

"Come on, Hugo!" Serena called as he returned from the third duel, nursing what looked like a genuinely sore shoulder. "You've got this!"

"Getting old," Hugo muttered, but he was grinning.

33-36.

Three points down with ten minutes left.

That's when Talef decided to remind everyone why he'd made the team.

The kid was fast—not Damus fast, but fast enough to be dangerous when people weren't paying attention. And with everyone focused on the tactical battle between the Spears and the physical confrontations between the Blockers, nobody was paying attention to Talef.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

He scored twice in three minutes. Both times through the three-point hoop, both times on passes from Adom that threaded through defensive formations like they were standing still.

39-36.

Xerkes in the lead with seven minutes left.

The arena had moved beyond noise into something approaching a religious experience. People were crying, screaming, praying to gods both known and unknown. Someone in the Xerkes section had apparently achieved enlightenment and was glowing faintly.

...No, really. It was crazy.

Lireth's response was immediate and ruthless. They scored once through their traditional methodical approach, then challenged Serena to a duel and won when she got overconfident and tried to repeat her earlier tactics.

39-39.

Four minutes left.

"This is it," Coach Viriam said, though whether he was talking to his team or to himself was unclear. "This is actually happening."

The final four minutes felt like four hours.

Every possession mattered. Every pass, every tackle, every split-second decision carried the weight of everything they'd worked for. Adom found himself reading not just what players were going to do, but what they were thinking about doing, what they wanted to do, what they were afraid they might do.

It was exhausting and exhilarating and completely overwhelming.

Lireth scored: 39-40.

Damus answered thirty seconds later: 42-40.

Torres equalized with a brilliant individual effort: 42-42.

Hugo put them ahead again with a penalty shot that somehow curved around the keeper's desperately reaching hands: 45-42.

The crowd was beyond description. The sound had transcended normal human vocal ranges and achieved something approaching the music of the spheres.

Two minutes left.

Lireth, showing the kind of calm professionalism that military academies were famous for, scored twice in ninety seconds. Both through teamwork so precise it looked choreographed, both unstoppable once they'd committed to the play.

45-46.

Thirty seconds left.

Adom had the ball. [Flow Prediction] showed him a dozen possible plays, most of them ending in failure. Lireth's defense had tightened to the point where even perfect positioning might not be enough.

But there—a gap. Small, temporary, requiring exact timing and a pass that would have to thread between three defenders while one of his teammates made a run that nobody had practiced.

He looked at Serena.

She looked back.

Somehow, impossibly, she knew exactly what he was thinking.

She started running before he even moved, cutting across the field at an angle that made no sense unless you could see exactly where the gap was going to be.

Adom threw the ball.

For a moment, it looked like the most catastrophically bad decision in the history of Krozball. The ball sailed through space toward what appeared to be empty field, while Serena sprinted toward what looked like certain collision with two Lireth defenders.

Then everything clicked into place.

The defenders, committed to their angles, couldn't change direction fast enough. Serena arrived at exactly the right spot at exactly the right time, plucking the ball out of the air just as she reached the three-point hoop.

She didn't hesitate. The shot left her hands with five seconds left on the clock.

The ball spun through the air in a perfect arc, carrying with it the hopes and dreams of everyone who had ever been told they weren't good enough, weren't big enough, weren't expected to succeed.

It went through the hoop with two seconds to spare.

48-46.

The arena exploded. Not figuratively—several windows actually shattered from the sound pressure, and somewhere in the upper deck a section of railing gave way under the enthusiasm of the crowd.

But Lireth Academy had two seconds left, and two seconds was enough for desperation.

Their Keeper, the same lanky kid who had looked so overwhelmed earlier, launched the ball toward the opposite end of the field with everything he had.

It sailed through the air in a high arc, carrying the kind of desperate hope that only came from having absolutely nothing left to lose.

Captain Whitehall was there to meet it, catching the ball just inside the three-point zone with one second left on the clock.

He didn't think. Didn't calculate. Didn't doubt.

He just threw.

The ball left his hands as the final whistle sounded, spinning end over end toward the smallest hoop, carrying the weight of military precision and professional pride and the stubborn refusal to accept defeat.

It hit the rim. Bounced once. Twice.

Hung in the air for what felt like an eternity.

Then dropped through.

Final score: 48-49.

No wait.

The referee was consulting his timepiece, frowning at the crystal display. He raised his hand, and the arena fell silent.

"Time expired before release," he announced, his voice carrying clearly across the suddenly quiet field. "Shot does not count."

A pause.

"Final score: Xerkes Academy 48, Lireth Academy 46."

The silence lasted exactly half a second.

Then the world ended.

Not literally, though it was close. The sound was indescribable—thirty thousand people simultaneously achieving enlightenment, despair, joy, and complete vocal cord failure.

On the field, players from both teams stood in various states of disbelief, exhaustion, and what appeared to be mild shock.

"Holy shit," Hugo said quietly. "We actually did it."

"Language," Coach Viriam said automatically, then immediately added, "Holy shit, we actually did it!"

Magistrate Harris was back on the field, his amplification crystal gleaming as he prepared to address the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" his voice boomed across the arena. "What a magnificent display of Krozball! Both teams have demonstrated the skill, determination, and heart that makes this sport truly great!"

The crowd roared its approval.

"By virtue of their victory here today," Harris continued, his voice carrying clearly across the arena, "Xerkes Academy advances to the elimination rounds of the Inter-Academy Championship!"

The Xerkes section exploded into fresh celebration, while the Lireth supporters applauded respectfully despite their disappointment.

"Furthermore," Harris announced, raising his hand for quiet, "it is my honor to announce the Player of the Match—chosen by unanimous decision of the officiating panel—Adom Sylla of Xerkes Academy!"

The arena went absolutely insane.

From somewhere in the crowd, a chant began to build. It started in the student section, spread to the faculty, and within moments had taken over the entire arena:

"GHOST! GHOST! GHOST! GHOST!"

The nickname was perfect. He appeared where opponents didn't expect him, saw plays before they happened, moved through defenses like he wasn't entirely there. The Ghost of Xerkes Academy.

Before Adom could react, Hugo had grabbed him around the waist.

"No, wait—" Adom started to say.

Too late.

His teammates hoisted him into the air, all seven of them working together to launch their Spear toward the sky. He went up about eight feet, arms windmilling frantically, before they caught him and immediately threw him up again.

"GHOST! GHOST! GHOST!" the crowd chanted, and even some of the Lireth supporters had joined in.

When they finally set him down, Adom's hair was sticking up in six different directions and he looked slightly green around the edges.

"That is not like flying at all," he said.

"You loved it," Serena laughed, ruffling his already chaotic hair.

Captain Whitehall approached them, his team following behind.

"Hell of a game," Whitehall said, extending his hand to Hugo.

"You too," Hugo replied, accepting the handshake. "That last shot had me sweating."

"Should have gone in," Fletcher said, shaking hands with Serena. "You played us perfectly in that final minute."

"You made us work for every point," Serena replied. "I've never been hit that hard in a match."

"Sorry about that," Davies said, not looking particularly sorry. "Nothing personal."

"Everything personal," Mira shot back with a grin. "Best kind of game."

The Lireth players laughed, the tension from the match already fading into mutual admiration.

Whitehall turned to Adom last. "Congratulations, Ghost," he said with a slight smile. "That's going to stick, you know."

"I was afraid of that," Adom replied, accepting the handshake.

"Could be worse," Whitehall said. "My academy nickname was 'Crash.'"

"What did you crash?" Damus asked.

"Everything," Whitehall replied solemnly, which sent both teams into laughter.

As the Lireth players began their exit, Torres stopped and looked back at the Xerkes team.

"Win the whole thing," she called out. "If we had to lose to someone, might as well be the champions."

"We'll try," Hugo called back.

"GHOST! GHOST! GHOST!" the crowd continued chanting as both teams made their way off the field.

Coach Viriam was crying. Not sobbing, just quiet tears of joy streaming down his face as he watched his players interact with their opponents.

"Proud of you," he said to no one in particular. "All of you."

The celebration continued long into the evening, and to his suprise, Adom liked this.

He came back in this world with the intention to save it, only because he wanted to live moments like these. Joy, excitement, thrill. Also, the nickname was pretty cool, even if he'd never admit that himself.

More reason to not let this world plunge to chaos.

*****

The tournament circuit had been, if Adom was being completely honest, the most fun he'd had in either lifetime.

Not that he'd admit that to anyone. Hugo already had enough ammunition for motivational speeches without knowing his star Spear was actually enjoying himself.

After the match, Adom had spent his free time exploring Lireth's fortress-academy, marveling at architecture that looked like it had been built to withstand siege warfare. The food had been surprisingly good—hearty military fare that stuck to your ribs and tasted like someone's grandmother had been shouting at the cooks until they got it right.

Verron Institute in Cascadia had been the opposite extreme. Everything was elegant, refined, and probably cost more than most people's houses. Their Krozball team played like they were performing ballet with extreme violence, all flowing movements and perfectly choreographed brutality.

It hadn't saved them.

"Did you see their faces?" Talef had laughed after Adom's game-winning interception in the final seconds. "They looked like we'd just told them their trust funds had evaporated."

The week in Cascadia had been educational in ways that had nothing to do with Krozball. Art galleries, theaters, restaurants where the portions were tiny but somehow left you completely satisfied. Eren and Sam had fallen in love with something called "deconstructed pie" and spent two days trying to figure out how to deconstruct their own desserts.

"It's still just pie," Adom had pointed out. "They're just charging you extra to put it back together yourself."

Now they were here. Northhaven. The final round of the Inter-Academy Championship, hosted by Aelwin Academy in a city that sat at the edge of the world like a dare.

The locker room was nicer than most of the accommodations they'd had during the circuit. Clean, well-lit, with individual storage areas and benches that didn't wobble when you sat on them. The kind of facilities that reminded you this was the big show.

"Everyone ready?" Hugo asked. He was the second authority after Viriam, who had left a few minutes ago to throw up.

Around the room, his teammates were going through their pre-game rituals. Serena shadow-boxed in the corner, working through combinations that would probably be illegal in most civilized countries. Damus was doing something that looked like meditation but might have been sleeping with his eyes open. Jace was methodically checking every piece of his equipment twice, because apparently being built like a walking fortress wasn't enough—you also had to be prepared.

Lorn was eating. Again. The kid's ability to consume food before physical exertion defied several laws of biology.

"Where does it all go?" Talef asked, watching Lorn work his way through what appeared to be an entire loaf of bread.

"Fuel for the machine," Lorn replied through a mouthful of carbohydrates. "You'll thank me when I'm bulldozing through their defense."

"I'll thank you if you don't throw up on my shoes," Mira muttered.

Adom adjusted his gear for the final time, running through the familiar ritual of straps and buckles and the satisfying click of the gauntlets engaging their runic systems. The equipment felt like a second skin now, weeks of training and matches having worn away any awkwardness.

He looked around at his teammates and sighed a bit. It was almost a shame that he'd gotten what he came for just by arriving.

Northhaven sat two weeks' travel from the Giant Highlands, assuming good weather and no bureaucratic complications. He had credentials, a valid reason to be in the region, and enough time built into their schedule to make a side trip without anyone asking uncomfortable questions.

The mysterious book that had been burning a hole in his dimensional storage was finally within reach of being decoded. Mission accomplished.

Which made it somewhat ironic that he'd never wanted to win a match more in his life.

"Ghost," Hugo said, settling onto the bench beside him. "You're thinking too hard. I can practically hear the gears turning."

"Just focused," Adom replied.

"Good. But remember—" Hugo's voice dropped to the tone he used for serious team talks "—we've already proven everything we needed to prove. This team, these players? We've beaten military precision, artistic excellence, and raw talent. We can do this."

Around the room, conversations quieted as everyone tuned in.

"Aelwin Academy is good," Hugo continued. "Really good. They've won this tournament more times than the rest of us combined. They have advantages we don't—funding, facilities, tradition, probably better snacks in their locker room."

"Definitely better snacks," Jace confirmed solemnly.

"But," Hugo said, and the word carried weight, "they don't have what we have. They don't have Lorn's ability to eat his weight in protein and still move like a dancer. They don't have Mira's creative interpretation of 'legal blocking techniques.' They don't have Damus, who can thread a pass through a gap most people wouldn't notice existed."

His gaze swept the room. "They don't have Serena, who approaches Krozball like it's a personal vendetta against the laws of physics. They don't have Talef's speed, or Jace's determination to personally relocate anyone who threatens his teammates."

Finally, he looked at Adom. "And they sure as hell don't have the Ghost."

Adom's lips twitched. He stopped himself. Not wanting to give them the satisfaction. But it was such a cool name...

"So here's what we're going to do," Hugo said, standing up and commanding the room's complete attention. "We're going to go out there and play our game. Not their game, not some idealized perfect version of Krozball—our game. The chaotic, unpredictable, occasionally brilliant mess that got us this far."

He paused, letting that sink in.

"And then we're going to win."

The room was quiet for a moment. Then Serena snorted.

"That's it?" she said. "That's your big inspirational speech? 'Let's go be ourselves and see what happens'?"

Hugo grinned. "Pretty much, yeah."

"Works for me," Lorn said, brushing crumbs off his uniform. "I was worried you were going to make us run extra laps for inspiration."

"The tournament's over after this," Hugo replied. "No more laps until next season."

"Promise?" Damus asked suspiciously.

"Scout's honor."

"You were never a scout," Mira pointed out.

"Details."

A knock on the door interrupted their banter. "Five minutes to field entrance!" came the muffled voice of an official.

Adom stood up, feeling the familiar pre-game mixture of nerves and anticipation settling into his stomach. Around the room, his teammates were making final adjustments, sharing quiet words of encouragement, going through whatever personal rituals got them ready to play.

He'd come to Northhaven for the Giants, for ancient knowledge and mysterious books and secrets that might unlock powers he barely understood.

But standing in this locker room, surrounded by people who had become family somewhere between the military precision of Lireth and the artistic pretension of Verron, Adom realized something that surprised him.

He didn't need to win this match. The tournament had already served its purpose, brought him where he needed to be.

But he wanted to win anyway.

The official knocked again. "Time!"

Hugo opened the door, and the sound of thirty thousand people waiting in the arena beyond washed over them like a wave.

"Ready?" he asked.

Adom looked around at his teammates one last time, then nodded.

"Let's go win a championship."