Twenty-seven years ago, an eleven-year-old boy entered the Wind Field Tournament and lost to Turbo Pro Tatro in the semi-finals, who went on to become champion. A year later, Turbo fell in the first bracket when paired against that same child. However, he then fell to the next champion, Daphne the Virtual, again in the semi-finals. A year later the child, now a teen, defeated Daphne in the second backet and reached the finals against the Mark: The Puck Monarch, whose reign lasted for five years before the boy returned from college for the summer. The match ended with the Monarch’s rhinestone striker cracked beyond use. There his name was given, Lord Odin.

From that summer on, a legend was born. Much speculation was made of the man once becoming champion. It was common knowledge his family had moved to Hayner the same year he first entered the Tournament, but where he came from has been lost to memory. Some say Boston, others Florida, sometimes a tossup between Sparta and the ninth circle of Hell. Many believe that Odin never went to college, but spent those four years living in Bremgarten, Switzerland, training with a table on a mountain. The most seen photo of the man is with professional champion, Colin Cummings, leading to the rumor that Lord Odin trained Cummings himself. For fourteen years, the man stood uncontested with only a handful of contenders holding the honor of scoring a single point. All this and more were exposited to Riley while trapped in traffic to the beach for an hour. Their regular bikes would have only taken them half the time.

“Riley!” Kevin shouts as the boy stares off at the fighting game blinking, Deadly Takedown. Completely fossilized under the weight of this disconcerting lore. “Come back to your body guy, we’re building a line at the coin dispenser!”

He drags Riley away holding a paper cup of coins, his heels nearly adding deeper scratches into the arcade’s aged wooden floor. Kevin props the living statue next to a fortune teller box with a certainly dated animatronic. Riley flutters the color back to his opaque corneas while his lips quiver in tandem to make his reply.

“W-why me?” he asks, finally able to see again. “If he’s this good, then why was he trying to scare me?”

“I already told you,” Kevin turns his back to face his own obscured reflection in a display window of prizes. “That wasn’t a threat, it was a warning, an invitation. Odin knows you only just became local and was giving you a gauge of his skill. To show you the bar and where to aim.”

“How did he know I’m new?” Riley wails. “Does he know everybody or something?”

“He doesn’t bother,” he answers while parallel to a giant duck stuffie. “The only people worthy to appear on his radar are strikers who show promise. Trust me, I know.”

Kevin breaks his concentration to continue on to the main floor, leaving Riley behind and back by the entrance. The fresh sodium enriched air invites the boy to escape for a greasy box of fries and a clear blue sky to enjoy before being hunted by his mailman. He takes a step forward while struggling to move his lead weight toes. This isn't the first time Riley has encountered beings who carried an aura like Lord Odin, but only in pages and behind screens. All around he watches carefree patrons delve deeper into Imagine, free of any competitive spirit. So envious Riley is of those families and friends, aimlessly strolling the aisles of cabinets for skill cranes and sides scrollers from the 80s. Not even an ember from them. Just as Riley was before the day his mother introduced him to Kevin.

The two were meant to go for an autumn walk on the boardwalk before it got too cold for anything to stay open, but Riley was invited. The moment he set foot through the entrance; the tween was entranced. The tickets were nice, and the prizes were sadly as expected, but the moment Riley heard the echoes of a dozen skirmishing circles, it was the closest he would ever get to clashing blades. The speed, the power, the determination pouring from every player. This simple game painted endless pictures within Riley’s imagination, and all he wanted was to experience it himself. So here the child stands two years later, facing a light his body refuses to pursue. It's been magical on his terms. Waiting on the bench, playing the winners and have a fun fight. Now though, it was getting complicated. However, is that so awful? The wind carries itself through the entrance, gently cooling his anxious skin, and Riley’s heels move along with it like a guiding push. He turns to the crowd, gazing at the roaring fire of spirit coming from the Wind Field and follows it as his North Star.

At the fifth table in the Wind Field, the young girl, Ruth, finishes a game as Kevin enters alone. She peers at him quizzically while her opponent takes advantage and clacks the puck straight ahead. Reacting on instinct, Ruth makes a wide backhand swing to intercept, sending the puck halfway up the wall before bouncing into the goal.

“Seven,” Ruth says without looking at her challenger. “Good game.”

Step by step she gets closer, watching her future teacher scanning the area and continuously looking back at the passage into the field, waiting. Suddenly, Ruth becomes still as a young man approaches Kevin from behind.

“Mr. Saylor?” The boy calls out.

Kevin spins a perfect ninety degrees to meet a stout young man with short neat black hair, which stands out prominently against his open seafoam shirt and bright white tank top. His round cheeks bending to the ends of his smile.

“Sol! Good to see you!” Kevin sincerely shouts with a handshake and pat on the back. "Is your mother here?"

"I took my bike," he answers. "What are you doing over here? Dancing begining to bore you?"

"Never," Kevin chuckles. "Actually..."

Riley is next to enter, immediately spotting Kevin speaking with a kid who looks completely enthralled by whatever he's saying. Like Ruth, he quizzically watching in wonder of who and why. However, in Riley's periphery stands Ruth, now with full attention on him. Her eyes slowly puncturing his temple until Riley can't help but meet her gaze. This sends a wave of regret up his spine as the girl begins marching intently towards him, skull beanie first.

Oh god, he panics inside. It's that girl from yesterday! Why does she look angry? I just gave her a quarter!

Desperately, Riley jaunts to Kevin in hopes his pursuer is only crazy and not rude.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Hey!” rudely interrupting the two. Ruth halts ten feet away, scowling in frustration and not a single blink to break it. “I just needed a minute. I'm sorry Kevin.”

“Not necessary,” easing Riley. “I had a feeling you'd be over here soon.”

“Mr. Saylor was telling me about your morning,” The kid chimes before a hello. “It's gotta feel intimidating being approached by Lord Odin. Hey, does he wear his cloak delivering mail?"

Odin wears a cloak? Riley questions internally. He glances back over at Ruth, who has not moved an inch and maintains her death stare. Why is everyone I'm meeting lately a weirdo?

“Introductions,” Kevin announces. “Riley, meet Sol Bai! My student from last year, and veteran contestant of the Wind Field tournament!”

"I guess I'm alright," Sol’s arms cross, “But does two years make me a veteran?”

“Anyone is a veteran compared to someone else with less experience.” says Kevin with a pointer finger at Riley.

“Where'd that come from?” Riley asks with a smidgen of pain in his self-esteem. He looks back at the angry girl, now with nostrils flared and eyes wide enough to darken her retinal veins. Is she holding her breath?

The champion is interested in this guy. Ruth ponders. He weighs twenty pounds and sweats a gallon! Who is this dude?

"I've got an idea!” Kevin takes his arm back to deliver a punch to his other hand. “How about you two have a match?”

“Say no more!” chirps Sol, already pointing at a vacant table. He skirts around the short-circuiting Ruth with thought or notice of her. “You gotta have some skills if Odin actually talked to you! This table here!”

“Kevin,” Riley sighs. “Are you sure I’ll do well against-”

“Yes,” he responds stoically, voice nearly sinking an octave. “The qualifiers are in four days, and you still haven't given a straight answer on whether you really want to compete. A game with Sol will help you get ready.”

Without strength, Riley lets his head drop.

“I just feel like it’s all happening so fast. It sounded fun before, but everybody seems way too intense compared to me; too good. I want to play, but…”

“Will it be fun?” Kevin asks to finish his sentence. He looks back and glances at Ruth, ready to approach. He sidesteps to block her from his stepson, leaning down at Riley to erase the world around them. “You have talent Riley, I tell you that every day, but you still have obstacles you need to overcome. Firstly, yourself. I know you’re scared, and I know it seems useless, but do you remember what I said about Odin?”

“That he made his striker by hand in a vat of boiling plastic?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “That he had been undefeated for fourteen years. He's been champion eighteen times, someone else won against him four years ago.”

With those words, the clicks and clacks become white noise. The bleeps and bloops from nearby machines fade. The cheers and jeers of the passing ramblers become as distant as the seagulls outside these flashy walls. With those words, Riley feels the tightness of his chest slightly ease. A warmth passes from Kevin onto him.

“Odin can be beaten,” the teacher asserts. He grabs Riley's bag and digs his arm inside until retrieving his custom striker with his biological father's surname staring at the kid. “I won't pressure you to be the one to beat him, but I will push you to not be afraid to try.”

The paddle's handle lengthens by nearly half a foot, its plastic warping spirals and gaining the texture of leather. The circular pusher grows in circumference until resembling a guard, and at the end of the handle buds a pommel decorated with the same target on Riley's sweatband. He reaches forward, heart pounding a familiar beat, amplified for Kevin to hear as well. A war drum rallying the young man's spirit, fueling his competitive flame into a raging fire. Riley reels his handle back and sparks flare from the hilt, generating a falchion blade out from the ether that grazes his parent’s still palm.

“Okay,” he answers firmly with an uneven grin and two beads of sweat dangling from both brows.

Sol stands patiently by the coin slots with his half of the dollar fee already placed. Looking back over at the two, their huddle now finished, Sol notices the uncertainty from the kid replaced with objective fortitude, and rising perspiration. Ruth follows behind, joining Kevin at the bench nearby while Riley places his half of the quarters.

“No stakes by the way,” Sol declares, patting what sounds like two quarters in his pocket. “We’ll just be friendly and train.”

Riley nods, dripping some and keeping quiet as not to reveal his relief of the load off his mind. From his bag, he pulls out his headband, securing it to his forehead.

“I remember you from last night!” Kevin snaps his fingers at Ruth, finally addressing her intrusion. “My boy gave you a quarter. Why do you look like you wanna eat him?”

“Gross,” the girl winces. “If he's as good as I'm hearing, I wanna play him before the qualifiers. And if he loses here, then I'll challenge the other guy.”

“I see,” Kevin laughs, raising the girl's eyebrow. “Then I'd suggest a diplomatic approach. You're freaking the guy out!”

Riley punches in the coins, and the two part to their ends of the table. Each step on the hardwood spawning a footprint of sand that spreads across the floor. The smell of the sea thickening as the other players and tables around the two submerge into a rising tide. Soon, a wave crashes high enough to kiss a turquoise sky, swirling with beautiful clouds at an impossible speed. A mythological oasis seated within the daydream of a young man envisioning the true weight of his feelings. Here, Riley stands firm, undaunted, maybe a few inches taller. His outfit now fit for the scene, dressed in a sleeveless white tunic with deep range harem pants carrying two belts meant only for aesthetics. Meanwhile, Sol sports his own seafoam harem pants, wielding a black bladed dirk knife in ox guard position.

“You ready?”

Riley retrieves the puck from his slot and places it on the table. With a mind of its own, the disk lingers towards his striker. The touch sends a jolt through every nerve in Riley's body.

“I’m ready!”

A sharp clap erupts from his wrist, firing the puck up Sol’s left. Riley vanishes in a blinding lunge in tail stance, building momentum for an upward swing at Sol's left arm. Sol zeros in on the target and drags it across the table edge. He curls his right arm and springs fully extended at the puck. The falchion is pinned in the sand under the end of Sol’s obsidian knife while he handstands on the handle. Taken aback, Riley launches a roundhouse kick to his opening. He readies his striker on the right to catch the blitzing rebound heading his way. Just as the puck bounces, Sol’s wrist flicks, changing its trajectory twice in an instant. This time straight down the middle! In a brisk spring, Sol pulls the knife in a flip, dragging it across Riley’s shin. He falls to one knee to grab his sword and swing fast in retaliation. Unfortunately, his left arm is pierced before Riley’s thought could even finish thinking of his plan.

“That’s one,” declares Sol.