Mikhail’s heart pounded with a mixture of anticipation and defiance as the solar rotation dragged on. His excitement had been building steadily, threatening to burst from his chest like a wrestler leaping off the top rope. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced since the bloodfeud match tournament In Zeta Prime during his seventh year of pupation. That legendary event had consumed his imagination for cycles, leaving an indelible mark on his young mind.
The bloodfeud tournament was born of an ancient rivalry between the Gaulix and the Lithorn clans, two species whose interstellar disputes spanned generations. Their bloodfeud culminated in this brutal, no-holds-barred competition, where honor and vengeance intertwined in a spectacle that captured the attention of the entire galaxy. In Zeta Prime, the matches unfolded in a coliseum built to reflect the grandeur of the event, its towering spires glinting in tidally locked orbit with the system’s three suns.
Mikhail could still picture it vividly: the roar of the crowd as warriors clashed in arenas tailored to their species' strengths. There were electrified fields for the Lithorn, whose hardened exoskeletons absorbed the energy, and gravity-altered zones for the Gaulix, masters of aerial combat. The final match was seared into his memory—a Gaulix champion named Arktar, whose wings shimmered like molten gold, against a Lithorn warrior clad in gleaming obsidian armor. Their blows shook the coliseum, each strike a testament to their unyielding resolve. When Arktar leapt from a gravity spike and delivered a mid-air strike that shattered his opponent’s defenses, the crowd’s deafening cheer sent shivers down Mikhail’s spine.
But just as the Lithorn warrior crumpled to the ground, seemingly defeated, chaos erupted. The referees had declared no additional run-ons, yet two figures emerged from the shadows and stormed the arena. The crowd’s reaction was a mix of exhilaration and confusion, their cheers mingling with cries of alarm. The commentator’s voice boomed over the chaos, frantic and disbelieving.
“The ref said no run-ons! The ref said no run-ons! How did they get past the DNA scanners?”
Mikhail remembered leaning forward, his four eyes wide with disbelief as the camera zoomed in on the intruders. The coliseum erupted into pandemonium as it became clear that these weren’t just random attackers. The commentator’s voice reached a fever pitch.
“Look! They’re genetically identical! Clones! Three genetically identical clones! This technically isn’t a run-on!”
The clones were a perfect match, their movements synchronized as they converged on Arktar. One clone tackled the referee, silencing the official with a swift blow, while the other two joined the fallen Lithorn in a coordinated assault. The crowd’s energy surged as Arktar, once mere seconds from victory, found himself fighting a three-on-one battle. The shimmering golden wings that had carried him to triumph now struggled to fend off the onslaught of fists and coordinated strikes.
Mikhail could still hear the commentator’s desperate cries. “This isn’t regulation! Somebody stop this! But wait… technically, it’s within the rules! The clones have found a loophole!”
The chaos unfolded in a blur of motion and sound, the clones’ strategy both brutal and methodical. Arktar fought valiantly, his golden wings a flurry of strikes and parries, but the odds were overwhelming. The crowd’s roars swelled to a crescendo, their reactions divided between outrage and exhilaration. For young Mikhail, it was a moment that cemented his obsession with the spectacle and unpredictability of the bloodfeud tournament.
Even now, the memory of the tournament ignited a spark within him. But today, this test, this challenge, would eclipse even that. Today, he wasn’t just watching. He was the competitor.
Despite the surging excitement, a bitter edge of determination sharpened his thoughts. Yeltrik’s words during the Communion of Families had been steeped in a calculated sternness. It was as though his father expected failure, anticipated it as an inevitable lesson in the dangers of rebellion and the virtues of Shorebraxian patience. Yeltrik’s tone, his posture, all of it had been deliberate, carrying the weight of expectation. But Mikhail refused to be a cautionary tale.
Michael Caine. That was the name that burned in his mind, the name he’d carry to the heights of the GEWF. It wasn’t just a name—it was a promise. A declaration. To Mikhail, it sounded foreign and impossibly cool compared to the heavy syllables of Shorebraxian High Tongue or the clipped cadence of Galactic Common. Michael Caine had a sharpness to it, a flair that stood apart from the drudgery of Shorebraxian cultural names. It wasn’t just a name he bore; it was a banner he’d wave in defiance of everything mundane.
In the Galactic Empire, his name would be shouted across systems, emblazoned on holoscreens, echoing through the arenas of the GEWF. The mere thought of it filled him with a fire that couldn’t be quenched, a drive to ensure that when the universe heard “Michael Caine,” they would think of something—someone—unforgettable.
Several solar and lunar exposures later, the moment arrived. He stood before the Enhanced Planer Cube, its shimmering surfaces alive with faint, kaleidoscopic light. The recreation area seemed to hum with expectation, as though the cube itself anticipated the test. Yeltrik stood beside him, his tall frame radiating an aura of quiet authority. Pride glinted faintly in his lower set of eyes, but it was tempered by the stern lines etched into his features. His father’s voice cut through the air, calm and deliberate.
“This feature of the cube is not to be taken lightly,” Yeltrik said, his tone unyielding. “It is dangerous and only to be used with permission. This is not a game, Mikhail. It is a tool, a challenge meant to teach discipline and resilience.”
With a practiced motion, Yeltrik swiped over the cube’s controls. The mechanisms within began to shift, their inner workings a symphony of whirring gears and faintly glowing conduits. The cube’s surface seemed to ripple, and then, with a final resounding hum, it produced a swirling blue portal that shimmered like liquid light. The sight of it was mesmerizing, its surface undulating as though it were alive.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“This will be your test,” Yeltrik continued, his voice firm. “Inside the maze, large orbs will roll along predetermined paths. Your task is to collect the simulated Gauszebean fruits scattered throughout and exit the maze before the clock reaches zero. Be warned: if an orb touches you, you will be expelled from the portal, and the test will end in failure. You will have three solar exposures to complete the task. The clock inside the arena will count down your time.”
Yeltrik’s lower eyes locked onto Mikhail’s. “Understand this, Mikhail. Many young Shorebraxians attempt the cube’s advanced features too early. Failure is acceptable, but it will mean waiting. No retries, no shortcuts. You will learn patience and readiness, or you will learn nothing.”
The words hung heavy in the air, but Mikhail felt a fierce determination rising within him. He nodded once, stepping forward toward the portal. The shimmering surface beckoned, and without hesitation, he crossed the threshold.
The sensation was surreal. For a brief moment, the world around him dissolved into a swirling vortex of blue and silver light. It wasn’t disorienting so much as overwhelming, as though he were being enveloped by the very essence of the cube. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. He stepped out into a new world, and his breath caught.
The arena was breathtaking. A vast, simulated sky stretched above him, painted in hues of bright azure and streaked with wisps of white clouds. The air was warm, carrying a faint, tropical scent that mingled with the subtle hum of the arena’s hidden mechanisms. Surrounding him was a maze of intricately carved stone, its walls adorned with faintly glowing glyphs that pulsed in rhythmic patterns. The stonework was beautiful, reminiscent of ancient temples from Earth, and yet unmistakably alien.
A floating clock hovered high above the maze, its countdown already ticking. Three solar exposures. That was all the time he had. Mikhail wasted no time, scanning his surroundings and moving forward with purpose. The maze’s paths were wide but winding, their intersections branching off in multiple directions. The glowing glyphs along the walls seemed to shift as he passed, almost as if the maze were alive.
It wasn’t long before he encountered his first Gauszebean fruit. The simulated object was vibrant, its surface a swirl of rich orange and deep purple hues. It rested on a pedestal at the end of a corridor, its glow faint but enticing. Mikhail approached cautiously, his senses alert. As he reached out to grab it, he heard it: the faint, rhythmic thudding of something massive rolling in the distance.
Turning sharply, he saw it. The orb. A colossal sphere of polished metal, its surface reflecting the maze like a distorted mirror. It rolled with unnerving speed, following a set path that intersected with his own. The sound of its movement grew louder, a low, resonant rumble that sent vibrations through the ground.
Panic flared for a brief moment, but Mikhail forced it down. He had trained for this. As the orb barreled closer, he scanned the corridor for an escape. There, just ahead—a crossing pathway. He sprinted toward it, his four legs pumping with adrenaline-fueled precision. The orb bore down on him, its size and speed creating a sense of impending doom. At the last possible moment, he leapt into the side passage, his heart pounding as the orb thundered past, missing him by mere inches.
The sound of the orb faded as it continued down its path, but Mikhail knew this was only the beginning. The maze’s beauty belied its danger. This was no simple test of agility; it was a trial of focus, strategy, and endurance. He clutched the Gauszebean fruit tightly, its faint glow a small victory, and pressed onward.
Each turn of the maze brought new challenges. The orbs followed intricate paths, their patterns designed to corner and trap. Some corridors were dead ends, forcing Mikhail to backtrack and reassess. The clock above ticked steadily downward, a constant reminder of his limited time. But with each fruit he collected, a surge of determination pushed him forward. This was more than a test. It was a proving ground.
The simulated sky above began to shift, its colors deepening into shades of amber and crimson as the solar exposures waned. Sweat slicked Mikhail’s skin as he navigated the maze, his muscles burning with exertion. He pushed forward, his mind narrating every step like the commentary of a legendary match.
“The pain is real. The glory is eternal. The legend is Michael Caine.”
The words echoed in his thoughts, a mantra of defiance and determination. He wouldn’t give up. Not in the ring, not in life, and certainly not here. The orbs loomed like adversaries, relentless and unyielding, but Mikhail moved with purpose. Each step, every leap, was a declaration: he would prevail.
As the final solar exposure ticked away, Mikhail rounded a corner and saw it: the exit. The glowing archway pulsed with a welcoming light, its glyphs shifting in intricate patterns. But between him and the exit was one last orb, its path blocking the narrow corridor. The fruit he carried felt heavy in his hands, its glow a reminder of how far he’d come.
Taking a deep breath, Mikhail timed the orb’s movements, watching as it rolled past the corridor’s entrance. He had only seconds to act. With a burst of speed, he sprinted forward, his legs carrying him toward the exit. The orb shifted, its trajectory adjusting slightly, but Mikhail didn’t falter. As it bore down on him, he dove through the archway, the sensation of the orb’s shadow brushing against him sending a chill down his spine.
And then he was through. The maze dissolved behind him, its simulated walls fading into the familiar glow of the recreation area. The portal shimmered once before closing, leaving Mikhail standing before the dormant cube, the Gauszebean fruit still in his hands.
Yeltrik’s expression was unreadable as he approached, his lower eyes studying Mikhail intently. After a long moment, he spoke, his tone almost cautious. “You’ve done well, Mikhail. Perhaps… too well.”
There was a pause, his words hanging in the air like the tension before the bell of a championship match. Yeltrik’s gaze shifted to the glowing surface of his personal cube monocle, a device clipped over one of his lower eyes, its interface flickering with data only he could see. His bioluminescent patterns pulsed faintly, betraying a rare flicker of unease.
Mikhail watched, his heart pounding again, but not from exertion this time. What was his father seeing? What had he done to evoke such a reaction?
Yeltrik finally broke the silence, his voice firmer now, but with an undercurrent of something that sounded almost like doubt. “You have the day off, Mikhail. Rest. Prepare yourself. We will discuss this further at Communion.”
With that, he turned, leaving Mikhail standing alone in the recreation area, the dormant cube casting long shadows across the room. The words lingered in his mind, a mixture of pride and dread swirling in his thoughts as he tried to decipher his father’s cryptic reaction.