The storm never returned where it began.
They spoke of legends overseas.
The untouchables.
Tiger Woods. Usain Bolt. Ali. Jordan.
Names carved into time; myth disguised as memory.
Jordan once said— "I've missed over 9,000 shots in my career. Lost almost 300 games. Twenty-six times, I was trusted with the game-winner… and failed. And that's why I succeed."
But me?
I barely missed.
I won everything they let me touch.
And that's exactly why I'll never be great.
Because failure never built me.
It never even tried.
Trophies.
Accolades.
Cups and medals.
There are two kinds of players:
Those who chase greatness,
and those greatness chases.
One plays to matter.
The other plays because nothing else does.
They called me the future—
the best of a generation.
But I never felt like part of it.
If the world only made sense through a lens, then the blind would be the innovators.
And in that chaos,
I found peace.
—————
The rain didn't fall after the match.
It broke.
Not water—punishment. Judgment.
Like the sky had held it in too long and now it wanted to drown the world for asking.
Kaviar sat waist-deep in the cold tub.
Lights low. Room empty.
No noise but the slow drip of melting ice and the hiss of steam rising from his skin.
His body still hadn't realized the match was over.
No one would blame it.
Four goals.
A masterclass. Another one.
They said his name like a psalm.
Chanted it.
Posted it. Replayed it.
He felt none of it.
The water trembled as he sank lower—not to drown.
Just to vanish.
He stood.
Dripped silence onto tile. Got dressed in a locker room built to praise gods.
Two hours post-final whistle, Coach waited.
Didn't speak at first.
Then a nod. A pat.
A lukewarm line about playing for the team.
The usual.
He always looked like that after wins.
Proud. But never with me. I play for AS Tressa.
Top of Ligue 1, six seasons straight.
System football. Ruthless.
Choreographed destruction.
I'm twenty-three.
Olympic gold.
World Cup tucked behind old scarves in my closet.
"He's not even in his prime yet."
They love that one.
But Coach? He watches me like I spit on his tactics.
Says I'm selfish. Arrogant.
Says I play like it's scripted.
Like I'm bored.
He calls it Neymar's flair, Messi's touch, Pele's eyes. And he means it as an insult.
My teammates?
Puzzle pieces.
Movable. Predictable. Replaceable.
I don't pass the ball.
I rewrite the board.
The dugout was dead as I passed through.
Cleats cracked against damp concrete.
Sweat dried cold on my collarbone.
I peeled the jersey off, pressed it to my face.
Breathed.
No adrenaline.
No rush.
No pride.
Just motion.
My phone buzzed. Over twenty notifications.
Muted. Still alive.
Agents. Sponsors. Hype pages.
"You're incredible."
"You're unreal."
I've heard it all.
They said my eyes lit up on the fourth goal.
Like they saw something holy.
Like the game meant something to me.
It didn't.
The figure on the field.
They didn't see him.
But I did.
He was there before the pass. Before the net rippled. Before the world snapped to applause.
Far side of the pitch.
Dressed like rain.
Black coat. No face. Still.
Watching.
I've seen him before.
Childhood. Sidelines. Corners of locker rooms. Upper rows at matches that didn't matter. Always distant. Always watching.
He never moved.
Until today.
When I scored, he smiled.
Walked straight through me.
And vanished.
The camera didn't catch it.
The fans missed it.
But I felt it.
Like static over my ribs.
Like déjà vu wearing a funeral suit. And for the first time in years,
My heart raced.
Not from winning.
Not from joy.
But from the sense that something bigger had finally caught up.
Something that had been waiting.
Something I hadn't earned.
But was always meant for.
I showered. Dressed. Left.
No interviews.
No celebration.
Just air.
And the weight of a shadow I could no longer pretend wasn't real.
—————
Three days after the match, the world spun quieter.
He still trained. Still played. Still won.
But something had shifted.
Not around him.
In him.
Fame had weight, but now it felt weightless.
The cheers, the headlines, the endorsements. They drifted past him like smoke that refused to stick.
Kaviar Ka'eli stood on the practice pitch long after everyone left. The floodlights overhead hummed.
The grass smelled like chlorine and earth.
His jersey clung to his back, soaked in sweat, but he didn't move.
A ball rolled to his feet.
He juggled it. One touch. Then another. The rhythm found him without effort.
Then the lights dimmed.
Not a flicker, a slow, deliberate fade.
And in that dimness.
The figure returned.
Not across rooftops.
Not on the far side of the pitch.
Closer now.
Walking. Toward him.
Kaviar didn't flinch. He didn't blink.
He stopped juggling.
The ball dropped, landed softly in the grass.
The figure raised a hand.
And pointed.
Not at him.
Behind him.
Kaviar turned.
A ball had bounced across the street from the neighboring rec center.
A child, maybe seven, maybe eight.
They chased after it.
Didn't see the car.
Didn't hear the engine.
Kaviar ran.
No thought. No hesitation.
Just movement.
He reached the boy.
Threw him clear.
Light. Horn. Steel.
The sound wasn't cinematic.
Just sharp. Final. Bone and metal and silence.
The streetlamp above flickered.
Rain began to fall.
Not heavy.
Just enough to blur the scene.
No pain.
Just white.
Not hot. Not cold. Just... gone.
Then nothing.
I don't know why I did it.
Why I gave up everything for a child I didn't know.
Why I didn't even blink.
Time froze. The world stopped moving.
He turned to face me before I hit the street. Calm, steady, eyes locked on mine. No fear. No shock.
Like he knew.
Like he expected this.
And when I hit the ground, everything vanished.
No lights. No sirens.
No road beneath my feet.
Just white.
Endless.
Silent.
Like the world had exhaled for the last time and forgot to breathe again.
A shadow knelt beside me.
Umbra.
Darkness given form. Not cruel. Not kind. Just true.
"Your game's not over."
He spoke. A pause. Then a whisper that thundered through my chest:
"Just moving to a new field."
I opened my mouth—but another voice answered first.
"He's right."
It came from the light.
Pure. Still. Towering.
A woman emerged. Not walking, but unfolding from the white. Hair like dawn. Eyes like twin suns.
Gold bled from her skin in quiet halos. Lux. Not a name. A force. A star given choice.
She looked at me the way one might look at a burning city with sorrow, with reverence, with resolve.
"You saved him because you still remember who you are, Kaviar Ka'eli."
She said my name perfectly.
Like she'd known it before I did.
"What is this?" I asked. Or thought I did. The words didn't echo. They existed.
She stepped closer. Her coat dissolved into mist. The weight of age vanished. She wasn't old anymore.
She never was.
"You weren't meant to stay," she said.
Her voice didn't deepen. It expanded.
"Not yet."
Something cracked inside me. Not pain. Purpose. Like my soul turned to face something it had always ignored.
"There is a world that needs you," Lux said. "A world stitched from oaths and lies. A world that burns those who disobey."
Her eyes changed.
Not eyes anymore.
Galaxies behind gold.
"You're going to be taken. Stolen.
But not broken. Remember that."
Light swelled around her.
Not warmth. Truth.
It didn't burn.
It revealed.
And then she was gone.
The ground fell away.
I wasn't falling.
I wasn't floating.
I was taken.
The white peeled back.
Ash filled my lungs.
Stone scraped my skin.
Chanting surrounded me. Low, guttural, wrong.
Glyphs ignited beneath me. A ring of light. Symbols carved in fire.
My knees struck stone before I realized I had knees again.
Then a voice.
Female. Calm.
Cruel in the way still water is.
"A limb without a voice... for now."
Another pause.
"Let's see how you prosper, summoned warrior."