I could feel my pulse hammering in my ears as the game drew to an end. The weight of loss crushed me like a choking cloak. My breath was laboured, and before I could stop myself, I grabbed my phone and hurled it at the wall.
The plastic casing split against the hard surface, the dull thud lost under the roar of frustration in my head. With pure fury, my hands clenched into fists. Screaming—a long, muffled wail of pure agony—I pushed my face into my pillow.
"I had it. I had it!"
That was the last match I needed to win. The Thigh-High Zord Girl was within reach, just waiting for me to claim her. Then she vanished.
Ripped away in the last seconds of that battle.
Turning onto my back, I gazed at the ceiling, frustration bleeding into hopelessness. My fingers sank into the blankets. Before now, I had been perfect. My approach had worked against everyone else. Everyone apart from him?
What made him so special?
Minutes passed. Maybe more. I didn't know. All I knew was the terrible, soul-crushing sensation of being so agonizingly close to my goal, only for it to slip through my fingers at the last moment.
Finally, the anger dulled, sinking into something heavier. A severe, aching disappointment. I groaned, rubbing my face, then pushed myself up.
My phone lay face-down on the carpet. I stretched for it and turned it over to see the damage. A thin crack ran through the corner, but the screen still worked.
I pulled up the match playback.
I had to know... where did it all go wrong?
The fight replayed before me: the sandstorm raging, the frantic dance between my MegaMech and Farlig's abomination of arms. The same movements, the same strikes, the same desperate battle to land a blow on something that never stopped.
I watched him encircle me, constrict me, strike from angles I couldn't counter.
But now, something else caught my attention, something I had completely missed during the fight.
The chat.
Farlig had been chatting the entire time.
I skimmed through the messages, watching them flash across the screen. I had been too preoccupied to notice before.
But now? It gnawed at me.
I copied one of his messages and pasted it into a translation app.
For a moment, my fingers hovered over the search button. Then, I pressed it.
The results loaded.
Farlig had been chatting to me in Norwegian.
-----------------------------
"Wait, so you're telling me that I died and got transported... to Norway?
"How the hell does that make any sense?
"So the reapers didn't take me to some cool magical nation, but just to another place on Earth... This can't be real."
As the child hung his head in despair, a new realization dawned on him.
"Wait! If this is just Earth, then how the hell do I have my powers, and how the hell was I transported here by my demonic high-jumping mother?
"No... no, this isn't Norway, but somehow, someway, the two are connected."
-----------------------------
I scrolled back through the match chat, my grip on my phone tightening as I copied Farlig's words one by one, pasting them into the translator.
Farlig: "Hahahaha! Hva er dette? En mann som stoler på lår? Patetisk!"
Translation: "Hahahaha! What is this? A man who relies on thighs? Pathetic!"
My eyebrow twitched. I frowned, copying the next message.
Farlig: "Hvorfor skulle jeg trenge lår? Armer er overlegne i alle aspekter."
Translation: "Why would I need thighs? Arms are superior in every way."
A slow, creeping heat built in my chest. Arms? Over thighs?
I swallowed the frustration bubbling up inside me and kept going.
Farlig: "Låret er en pervers' redskap og intet mer. Det er den svake mannens valg. Bare se på dem! Hva kan de egentlig gjøre? Armene har evnen til å kontrollere, gripe og angripe. Lår er ingenting sammenlignet med armenes overlegenhet."
Translation: "The thigh is the instrument of the pervert and nothing more. They are a weak man's choice. Just look at them! What can they even really do? Arms have the ability to control, grasp, and attack. Thighs are nothing in comparison to the superiority of the arms."
I took a sharp breath through my nose and felt my knuckles whiten as my fingers curled.
I forced myself to keep translating, but the words were starting to blur together in a haze of pure, unfiltered rage.
Farlig: "Vi vet alle hvorfor han kommer til å tape mot meg – det handler enkelt og greit om evne. Ingen som bygger hele Zord-en sin rundt noe som lår, vil noensinne ha ferdighetene som trengs for å slå meg. Denne kampen var over før den i det hele tatt begynte."
Translation: "We all know why he's going to lose to me, its a simple matter of ability. No one who would build their entire Zord around something like thighs would ever have the skills needed to beat me, this match was over before it even begun."
My breathing was slow and heavy, nostrils flaring as I glared at the screen. This bastard.
Every word was a direct insult. Not just to my build. To my very beliefs.
I gritted my teeth as I translated the last message.
Farlig: "Du forstår nå? Armer er alt. Lår er meningsløse. De er kun dekorasjon."
Translation: "Do you understand now? Arms are everything. Thighs are meaningless. They are only decoration."
Only decoration?
I threw my phone onto the bed, barely able to contain the sheer rage coursing through me. Meaningless? The very thing that had guided me through life, the one pure truth that had remained unwavering, that had led me to this point, and this fool thought he could reduce it to nothing?
My nails dug into my palms as I clenched my fists.
It was no longer just about the banner.
I was going to crush Farlig.
I was going to destroy his abomination of arms and show him the power of thighs firsthand.
This wasn't just about winning. This wasn't just about climbing the leaderboard.
This was about pride.
My pride.
My belief in thighs.
-----------------------------
"What a despicable person" Finnian thought to himself as he fast fowarded the memory
"I'm looking forward to watching past me whoop this guys ass!"
-----------------------------
Two weeks had passed since my bereavement.
Two weeks of grinding. Two weeks of perfecting every movement, every counter, every possible flaw in my former plan. Two weeks of anticipating this precise moment.
I had learned Norwegian in that time, surpassing mere game training. I wasn't just here to fight. I was here to make sure Farlig understood me when I beat him, in his own language.
I had sent Farlig a message. It was brief, straightforward Norwegian.
Me: Jeg vil ha en omkamp.
Translation: "I want a rematch."
Farlig had responded almost immediately, startled.
Farlig: Vent... du skriver på norsk? Intensiv.
Translation: "Wait... you're writing in Norwegian? Interesting."
It was enough to make him accept the challenge.
Now, as the game loaded, there was no last-minute planning. No lingering uncertainty. No distractions.
This was it.
Map: The Dune Grave
Before us, the sand stretched on forever, rolling dunes shifting with the breeze. The weight of two undefeated legends facing off once more hung in the air, taunting. Except now, only one player remained without a mark-down.
And I was here to change that.
Farlig arrived first.
His MegaMech was a monster.
The mass of metal and floating arms was even more than it had been in past matches. From his core, nearly a hundred massive, expressive limbs extended, each one armed with something designed to destroy me. Some carried heavy plasma weapons, others razor-sharp blades, and the rest? Grabbers.
Many, many grabbers.
Constantly stretching and retracting, the arms moved through the air like a hideous steel centipede.
It was a monument to sin.
And he wasted no time making that clear.
Farlig: "So you came back for more?"
His text cut across the chat. Right now, we were both speaking Norwegian.
Me: "Of course."
Farlig: "And what, you're bringing back that ridiculous 'bottom-heavy' build? Nobody uses that anymore. You do realize that, don't you?"
I ignored him. I was still waiting to spawn in.
Farlig: "It's dead. Extinct. The future is found in my arms. Since our last game, I've crushed everyone who's dared to challenge me. You're just another—"
He hesitated.
His camera swung across the battlefield. He searched for me.
And then—
He saw it.
A small shadow, half-buried in the sand. A tiny frame compared to his monstrous construct.
My former MegaMech.
But this wasn't the same as before.
Gone were the thirty separate Zords. Gone was the overbuilt, too-heavy weight.
This was something entirely different.
Five Zords.
One for the arms and body.
Two for each leg.
A design that should have been completely outclassed.
Farlig: "That's it? That's your new build? Oh! I thought you were smarter than this. With that, you'll never win."
I ran my fingers over the controls.
Me: "We'll see about that."
The screen flashed.
HP Display:
My MegaMech: 20,500 HP
Farlig's MegaMech: 98,000 HP
The announcer's voice exploded across the battlefield.
"TWO PLAYERS. ONE FINAL BATTLE."
The difference was staggering.
Farlig's HP was almost five times mine.
On paper, this fight was already over.
But I wasn't here to play by the rules.
The countdown began.
3...
Farlig's arms flexed, shifting in the air like a writhing mass, poised to tear me apart.
2...
I felt my new MM adjust beneath me. Lighter. Faster. Better.
1...
My heartbeat pounded.
"BEGIN!"