The days that followed were an unsettling blur of discovery and revelation for Mikhail X’Cen. Each moment felt like a thread unraveling a tapestry he hadn’t realized existed, his memories of Earth blending and interweaving with the ten years of his current life. At first, it was disorienting—snatches of Michael Caine’s days as an overzealous WWE superfan clashed with the strange yet oddly nostalgic recollections of alien spectacles. He remembered vividly the thrum of excitement as wrestlers ascended steel ladders in Earth’s chaotic ladder royales. But now, those memories were joined by visions of the Laxion Death Cube, a brutal, shimmering cube where gravity shifted at random, and the only escape was pinning your opponent while avoiding a crushing collapse of the arena’s walls. Or the Snarx Pit Wire Walker matches, where competitors balanced on razor-thin wires suspended over a pit of howling, carnivorous beasts. Those matches had been all the rage in the classic Xenon Cycles, long before his current “pupation.”
The term “pupation” echoed in his mind, a piece of Shorebraxion biology that made Michael Caine, the human, shudder. Pupation. As if his life, all ten years of it, had been some kind of larval stage. The memories of this life surfaced with increasing clarity. He could recall his parents’ expressions—the joy and trepidation when he emerged from his first pupation phase, his wiry, multi-limbed body too frail to withstand the rigors of their world. His parents had coddled him, fussed over his health, and kept him confined to a life of bed rest and small comforts. They had no idea, of course, who he truly was, or the tenacity that burned within him. Michael Caine would’ve never stood for such constraints, and neither would Mikhail X’Cen.
Still, even that frustrated him. His parents weren’t entirely wrong. This body had been weak. Sickly. For as long as he could remember, fever had gripped him with unrelenting cruelty, leaving him bedridden for weeks on end. But now? Now, he felt... different. Better. His body, alien though it was, thrummed with energy, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he could move without pain or exhaustion dogging his every step. The first morning he’d realized this, he’d nearly burst into tears, though he wasn’t sure if it was relief or some leftover human sentimentality.
That morning, his mother’s relief had been evident. Her joy was painted in every word she spoke and in the way her four hands lingered on his shoulders as she murmured about how glad she was to see him up and active. But it was her next words that brought him back to the present.
“No more GEWF VR feeds,” she had said firmly, her voice tinged with worry. “You’re still too young, Mikhail. Those matches are too intense for a Shorebraxion your age. Your father and I have decided it’s best you stick to the highlights and analysis vids.”
Too young? The words rankled, clawing at his pride like the raking talons of some long-forgotten beast. Mikhail had barely managed to keep his expression neutral, though inside he seethed. They didn’t understand. How could they? How could anyone who hadn’t lived his lives? Wrestling wasn’t just a spectacle. It wasn’t even just a dream. It was survival. In a galaxy teeming with monsters, cybernetic brutes, and psychic gladiators, Mikhail knew that the only way to stand a chance was to train—to be ready. And he couldn’t do that by watching sanitized highlight reels. Besides, she was only worried about how he had reacted last time.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
And then there was Shorebraxion culture, with all its aquatic grace and ancient traditions, was cautious, deliberate, and endlessly frustrating for someone like Mikhail. This new body had its advantages, though. He was learning its quirks. The way his four arms moved in perfect synchronization when he concentrated. The uncanny flexibility in his limbs, the wiry strength hidden in his sinews. Even his semi-aquatic heritage, something his people had abandoned eons ago, stirred in him like an instinct waiting to be tapped. Mikhail couldn’t ignore the potential.
He threw himself into research, diving headlong into the Galactic Empire Galaxy-Wide Web. The GEGWW was a chaotic, sprawling network of data streams and AI curators that spanned countless civilizations and systems. Its vastness made the internet of Earth seem like a child’s toy. But Mikhail navigated it with an intensity born of desperation, sifting through articles, forums, and instructional feeds. The paths into the Galactic Empire Wrestling Federation were manifold, but one route stood out: the scholarship matches.
Every cycle, the GEWF held a series of matches across various systems, offering promising young wrestlers a chance to earn sponsorships and training at some of the galaxy’s most prestigious wrestling schools. It was the opportunity of a lifetime—and Mikhail’s best shot. Yet, the more he researched, the more daunting the task appeared. The competition was brutal. Participants ranged from bioengineered prodigies to psychic combatants who’d spent years immersed in VR training. Mikhail’s frustration grew with every piece of information he uncovered.
The rules forbidding him from VR matches burned brightest in his mind. It wasn’t fair. His competitors had access to years of combat simulations, honing their instincts in ways he couldn’t match. If he was going to stand a chance, he’d have to find a workaround. What his parents didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them, he decided. It was a thought that stirred an unfamiliar pang of guilt, but he pushed it aside. Sacrifices had to be made.
Beyond that, there was the question of training. His newfound health gave him freedom he’d never had before, and he wasn’t about to waste it. Mikhail started small, testing his limits in the confined space of his home. Push-ups, pull-ups, and stretches that strained the limits of his wiry Shorebraxion frame. At first, it was awkward. His balance wavered. His limbs flailed. But with each day, his movements became more fluid, his muscles responding with a strength he hadn’t expected. He could feel his body adapting, growing stronger, and for the first time in either of his lives, he felt truly alive.
The idea of a job came later, almost as an afterthought. He’d need funds if he was going to pull this off. Wrestling schools weren’t cheap, and neither was the equipment he’d need to train properly. The thought of defying his parents still made him uneasy, but he reasoned that it was for the greater good. They’d understand eventually. Maybe.
As Mikhail lay in the pod that night, staring at the strange, bioluminescent patterns that danced across the ceiling, his mind raced with possibilities. The GEWF was more than a dream. It was a calling. He could see it so clearly—the roar of the crowd, the dazzling lights, the thrill of victory. It wasn’t just about fame or glory. It was about proving to himself, to the galaxy, that he could rise above the odds. That he could be more.
The scholarship match was the first step. And Mikhail X’Cen, once and to be again Michael Caine, was ready to take it.