Tempest: The Champion

Phase 3, part 3

Swiftwind lowers her eyes. "You're probably right. Sorry."

Blackbolt pats me on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Zoya. We were all beginners at some point. Some had a better starting position, some had worse. You look like a child who got proths by some mistake, but we can still do something with it if you work hard enough."

"Valkyries," Swiftwind remarks. "Those are some good proths."

I look at Ryan standing aside, observing my socialization. Blackbolt also looks at him, letting out a snicker. "Hey, Doc," he calls him. "A pro tip. If you want to infiltrate a Neoclash community, maybe try to... look less like a phony university motherfucker? Seriously, dude. You look pretty awkward here."

"I'll keep it in mind," Ryan replies prissily.

"So... are you going to train me or not?" I ask.

"First, I should decide if you're worthy," a mighty voice resonates through the room. The crowd parts and makes a way for the Champion that slowly approaches me.

...

I hope that the dim lights can hide how pale my face went. I can judge that the Champion is something like a boss here. When he spoke, everyone went silent. Other Champions look at him with respect. Maybe it will change with time, but right now, I feel only fear.

The Champion is huge, probably about two meters tall. His figure is rather lean, yet muscular. He's dressed in a simple white T-shirt, black jacket and jeans, like he didn't need to flaunt an eccentric style. His artifical part is a right arm, almost twice as thick as his left arm which is mighty enough by itself. The proth is toned into gold and silver. There is a crest engraved on his hand, big enough to fully embrace a football with ease. It looks like three interocked triangles.

It's surprising for me to see his face. That Castaway is old, in his late fifties at least. His sharp, weather-beaten face already has wrinkles and both his full beard and long, fair hair are getting grizzly. However, it would be a grave mistake to consider his advanced age a weakness. His gray eyes under bushy eyebrows radiate strength and willpower.

I think about whether I should continue playing hard or show some respect. I decide to go halfway. "And who are you to decide about my fate?" I ask, but I don't make it sound like a challenge. I look him in the eyes, but temper my body language.

The Champion smiles - and it looks surprisingly warm. The wrinkles around his eyes give away he actually smiles a lot, even though he doesn't look like it. "You can call me Odin," he replies. I'm the Champion of Champions of the years 106, 107, 110 and 115. Nice to meet you, greenie."

"Odin?!" Ryan exclaims and rushes to the elderly Champion. "Odin!" he cheers. "You are... my hero! When I started watching Neoclash as a child, you were my favorite. I was always rooting for you, I have all your trading cards... and now, I get to see you in person! Incredible!"

A few people from the crowd laugh, but Odin's roar is the loudest. "It's great to see a fan," he says. "If your Champion passes my test, I'll consider giving you an autograph."

"Test? What test?" I wonder with a strange gut feeling.

"Fight me," Odin says in blunt terms.

I leave my mouth open for a while. "F...fight?" I voice. "A quadruple Champions of Champions who's three times as big as me and had years to train...?"

"Calm down," he tries to soothe me. "You don't need to defeat me. And I'll go easy on you. I just need to know if you have what it takes to be a Champion. During my life, I've come across more Champions than you can imagine. And I think I can tell someone's worth pretty easily. So just do your best and I'll tell you whether you have future in Neoclash or you should seek a different job."