As he waited, sitting on the cold ground of the garden, Michael let memory pull him under. The place was steeped in echoes. There, under the old, now-bare oak, he had learned to ride a bike. He remembered the vibrant feel of the handlebars in his small hands, the mingled fear and excitement, the green, damp grass rising up to meet him again and again. He had fallen so many times that his memory held the texture of the grass and the taste of dirt more vividly than the fleeting instant of balance on two wheels. Yet, a broad, warm feeling washed over him, making him smile a genuine smile, forgetting for a moment the cold and the situation.
"Why are you smiling so much?" Xix asked, his tone one of genuine curiosity, like a scientist observing an unexpected reaction. "Does the prospect of seeing your mother make you that happy?"
"A little, yes," admitted Michael, still smiling. "But it's not just that. I remembered when I learned to ride a bike. Right here, in this garden."
"Ah, yes. The event where you fell so gracefully you knocked out a baby tooth on the handlebars," Xix laughed cheerfully. "It was quite comical. You screamed more from surprise than pain."
Michael blushed, though no one could see. "How do you know that, Xix? I didn't tell you."
There was a brief silence, denser than usual. When Xix spoke again, his voice held a distant, almost empty tone, as if looking through Michael toward something beyond. "I told you, didn't I? I know everything about you. The you of now. The you of the past. And… the you who should have been here tomorrow."
A shiver having nothing to do with the morning cold ran down Michael's spine. "The… one from tomorrow?"
Xix seemed discomforted, a rarity for the normally imperturbable entity. "Don't worry about that. That path is already closed. Erased. But there is something you must remember, Michael. Always. It is important."
"Something important?" Michael tried to take it lightly, rubbing his arms. "Phew… haha, the cold won't let up. Then say it. We're partners from now on, right? No secrets."
Xix hesitated. Michael could almost feel the struggle within the connection. Finally, the words came, soft but terribly clear, like a slab of ice deposited directly in his mind: "Yes. We are partners. That is why I tell you. Do not try to find Dani."
The name fell like a gunshot in the dawn's silence. Dani. His childhood best friend, his partner in all mischief, the brother he chose. An instant, sharp fear, like the point of an ice knife, plunged into Michael's heart. "D… Dani? What's wrong with him? Where is he?"
Xix, sensing the panic spilling over in Michael, tried to soften his tone, to find the words. He was clumsy at comfort. "He… has his own path now. A destiny different from yours, with its own difficulties, its own battles. Crossing that path now would only bring danger. For him and for you. I am sorry, Michael."
Michael wanted to protest, demand more answers, but the words stuck in his throat. The pain of losing Dani, added to everything else, was an almost unbearable weight. He could only nod slowly, swallowing the anguish. Xix maintained a respectful silence.
Meanwhile, on the second floor…
Cami moved through the familiar hallway like a ghost, with an exaggerated stealth that would have been comical under other circumstances. She stepped only on the edges of the floorboards she knew didn't creak, dodging a forgotten younger cousin's toy with the agility of a cat burglar avoiding laser beams. Her target was not her parents' main bedroom; that was forbidden. It was the back room, which had been her grandmother's and, after her passing, had become a disordered, memory-filled refuge where her mother, Amanda, often slept.
There, under the dim light of a salt lamp, Amanda slept deeply, her face etched with lines of worry even in sleep. She was completely unaware that her eldest son had spent three months sleeping on the cold city concrete.
Cami approached the edge of the bed, her heart pounding. With a tenderness that contrasted with her nerves, she leaned in and gently touched her mother's shoulder.
And then, panic betrayed her.
Instead of a light nudge, she shook her roughly, as if trying to start a stubborn lawnmower engine. "Mom! Michael is back!" she whisper-shouted.
Amanda jolted awake, maternal instinct and confusion waging a brief battle in her sleepy eyes. For one glorious second, Cami saw pure, unguarded love directed at her… before reality settled.
SMACK! A soft but firm slap on Cami's arm. "You stupid girl!" Amanda huffed, rubbing her eyes. "This is the third time this week you've woken me up over a nightmare or a noise! My bills won't pay themselves and I need to sleep!"
Cami rubbed her arm, mentally watching her allowance evaporate. But she didn't back down. This time was different. "Mom," she said, with a firmness that surprised even her. "Michael. He's back. He's downstairs. It's time you talked to him."
Amanda closed her eyes, a gesture of infinite weariness. "I already told you, honey, Michael isn't going to… he must be at university, or with Dani. He doesn't want to…"
"Mom!" Cami interrupted, her voice trembling but unyielding. "Go downstairs and face your son!"
Amanda opened her eyes. They looked at each other, mother and daughter, in the dusty silence of the salt-lit room. For Amanda, it was strange, disturbing. She hadn't seen Cami with this intensity, this desperate, adult seriousness, in a long time. No, that wasn't true. She knew since when, but she had refused to think it, to see it, ever since Michael left and Johan occupied the space he left behind.
A tremor ran through Amanda. Without a word, she got up. Her feet found the old fleece slippers by the bed. With Cami, who now walked with determination, she went downstairs. Every step Amanda took echoed in her own heart like a hammer blow. A slight, insidious fear was building in her chest, a fear of what she would see, of what she would have to acknowledge.
Cami noted the nervousness in the stiffness of her mother's back but said nothing. She thought this confrontation was necessary, a necessary evil to heal something broken.
At the foot of the stairs, Amanda hesitated. Her voice was a weak thread. "C-Cami… where is he?"
Cami, in contrast, felt a wave of guilt mixed with hope. She pointed toward the back patio door, where the gray light of dawn was beginning to filter in.
Amanda walked. Her steps were slow, heavy. Through the glass of the door, she saw first only a dark, hunched silhouette sitting on the ground. With just that shadow, her entire body shuddered with a visceral chill.
She opened the door. The cold morning air hit her. "M… My… Michael…?" she stammered, but the words finally came out, forced by a heart that, despite everything, beat with an unconditional and guilty love.
Michael turned. But instead of looking into her eyes, his gaze dropped to the ground, fixing on his own dirty hands. It wasn't fear or hatred. It was an overwhelming, raw shame, the humiliation of his mother seeing him reduced to this.
"M… My… Michael…" Amanda took a step forward, her voice cracking. "Why… why are you dressed like that? H-have you been… on the street?"
Her mind was a whirlwind. Images of Michael as a child, a teenager, bright, crashed against the reality of the ragged, gaunt young man before her. She wanted to ask a thousand things, hug him, scream, cry. But her mouth seemed paralyzed. It only trembled.
Xix noticed. Within Michael, a wave of calming energy, like a gentle but firm breeze, swept through his being. "Stand up. Do not be ashamed. You are not what they see. You are my champion. The person I chose. Sooner or later, everyone, even them, will see what you are made of. Now, speak to her."
Xix's voice was an anchor in his inner storm. Michael slowly raised his gaze, meeting his mother's eyes, eyes filled with a pain and confusion that broke his heart.
"M… mom. It's me. Michael," he managed to say, his voice hoarse from emotion and disuse. "It's… been a long time since I've seen you."
Hearing his voice, seeing those eyes that, despite everything, were still her son's, something broke inside Amanda. The worry about appearances, the fear of her husband, the comfort of denial… all faded. With a choked sound, she lunged at him, wrapping him in a hug so tight that Michael was surprised by the strength she still had. She didn't care about the dirt, the smell, the rags. Only the lost and now found son mattered.
"Michael!" she cried against his shoulder. "I missed you so much, my son! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry for not being a better mother, for not being stronger!"
The hug unleashed something in Michael. A torrent of emotions pent up for months, years, burst forth in a silent, convulsive sob. When was the last time his mother had hugged him like this? Before Johan. Before everything went wrong.
"M… mom," he managed to sob.
"Michael, don't worry," Amanda said, pulling back just enough to look at his face, her hands stroking his dirty cheeks. "I'll do what's necessary. I'll talk to your father. I'll do whatever it takes. You'll come home with us. I promise."
"Mom, I…" Michael started, but Xix's voice resonated, clear and final.
"Michael. That will not be possible. You know it."
Michael fell silent, the pain of the truth clashing against the infinite desire to yield, to surrender, to accept the forgiveness and home offered to him. A flash of that conflict passed through his eyes.
Amanda, taking his hesitation as refusal, hugged him tighter, as if she could hold him by sheer force of will. "My son, no! I don't know what you've been through, but give me a chance. Let me make this right. Let's be a normal family again. Please."
"Mom…" Michael said, his voice now firm, decisive, though each word cost a piece of his heart. "I… am going on a journey. A journey very far away."
Amanda pulled back, confused. "A… journey? Where to, Michael? What are you talking about? Who are you going with?"
"It's a journey I have to go on," he explained, avoiding the impossible details. "I can't turn back now. It's… important."
"Why, Michael?" Amanda pleaded, her eyes searching for a reason, a logic. "What's forcing you? Are you in trouble? Tell me, I can…"
"Mom," Michael interrupted, taking her hands. His gaze was now clear, serene, filled with a determination she had never seen in him before. "I am going on a journey to discover who I really am. To forge who I want to be. I need to. Truly."
Amanda looked into those eyes. And beyond the strange words, beyond the disastrous appearance, she saw something: her son's innate kindness had not gone out, but now it was backed by a layer of steel, of resolve. He was no longer the boy who let himself be cornered. Something had changed, something fundamental.
"Do it, Michael," whispered Xix, with unusual compassion. "Stay tonight. It may be the last time. For both of you."
"At least…" Amanda said, her voice now a resigned whisper. "At least stay until morning. Okay? Promise me."
Michael nodded, an enormous lump in his throat. "I will, Mom. Thank you… for letting me."
"You don't have to thank me," she said, stroking his hair. "This will always be your home. No matter what happens, no matter where you go."
They spent what remained of the night talking. Not of uncertain futures or cosmic tournaments, but of the past. Of sweet memories, grandmother's anecdotes, how the neighborhood had changed. It was a truce, a fragile bridge over the chasm separating them.
The next morning, after a bath that made him feel human again and wearing clean (though borrowed and slightly tight) clothes from his father, Michael prepared to leave. The atmosphere in the kitchen was thick, heavy with everything unsaid.
Amanda disappeared into her room for a moment and returned with a thick, carefully handled manila envelope. She held it with both hands, like an offering.
"Son, here," she said, extending it.
Michael looked at the envelope. It was the reason he had come, but now taking it felt like a betrayal of the renewed affection, the tacit forgiveness.
"I don't know…" he murmured, taking a step back.
Xix exploded in his mind. "Idiot! Don't freeze up now! That money is our ticket, our first resource! It's the compensation you need to survive and prepare!"
"Mom, I don't think I should…" Michael tried, but Amanda closed the distance and put the envelope in his hands, closing his fingers around it.
"Son," she said, and her voice was firm, maternal, final. "Let me at least do this for you. It's the only thing I can do."
Michael looked at her, then hugged his mother with all his strength, the envelope pressed between them. "Thank you, Mom," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion.
"You're welcome, son," she replied, stroking his back. "Just… please, try to come back. When you can. Promise me you'll try."
"I'll try," was all he could promise.
Cami then rushed in, hugging him too. "Take care, brother. Please… come back safe and sound. Whatever happens."
"I will, Cami," Michael said, knowing it was another impossible but necessary promise.
With a final goodbye, he left through the back door, avoiding the front of the house and any chance of running into his father or Johan. He did not look back. He couldn't afford to.
He walked several blocks before stopping, the weight of the envelope in his pocket far lighter than the weight in his heart.
"Well, Xix," he said quietly, looking at the road stretching before him. "Where to?"
"Obviously, we begin our journey to Minneapolis. To find the sorceress Vivian. It's time you stopped being just a cockroach with good physique and started learning to bite."
"Then let's take the bus!" Michael exclaimed, trying to inject some enthusiasm into his voice.
What followed were eight hours on an interstate bus that tested the limits of both their patience. The stale air, the endless highway scenery, the baby who cried for three hours straight, the old man talking to himself… Xix commented on every annoyance with hilarious cosmic disdain, while Michael tried, and failed, to sleep. It was a hell of boredom, noise, and strange smells.
"I truly don't understand how humans voluntarily submit to this transport for so long. It is an exquisite form of torture," Xix declared after the fifth hour.
Michael laughed for the first time in hours. "Indeed. A hell without a book or a phone. But it's the way."
Finally, the bus pulled into the central station of Minneapolis. Michael staggered out, feeling the world still moving under his feet. "Finally!" he exclaimed, stretching his stiff muscles.
"Good. Now, Michael, we must go downtown. Vivian has her… studio, so to speak, in a specific area. Get ready. The training begins now." There was a spark of genuine anticipation in Xix's voice.
As Michael got his bearings, feeling the energy of the new city, a wave of… something coursed through the bond linking him to Xix. It wasn't a word, but a sensation, an announcement that resonated on a plane of existence far above his own.
"Attention to all participants and sponsors," transmitted an impersonal, powerful voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. "The preliminary elimination rounds for the Grand Tournament of Munkai will commence in one solar month. All lower-ranked or newly registered champions must participate. The weakest will be eliminated in this phase. The remainder, those who prove themselves worthy, will have two months of preparation before the main tournament begins."
Xix was silent for a moment, then said, his voice now a whisper laden with meaning: "You heard it, right? One month, Michael. You have one month to stop being the weakest. Or all of this will have been for nothing."
Michael clenched his fists, looking toward the urban horizon. Nostalgia, sadness, fear—all were left behind, compressed into the depths of his being. Now, there was only a path forward. One month. The countdown had begun.
"Let's go," he said, and his voice held no trace of doubt. "Take me to Vivian. I have a lot to learn."