Where did it all go wrong?

It was a question Pinker woke up to every morning, blearily staring at his stubbled face in the mirror, at the sagging cheeks and the mustache like an unkempt lawn. There was a time he’d daubed his face in oils and gels, took daily skin-tightening elixirs—when his face was still on the promotional posters, grinning pearly whites while the brute-of-the-day on the other side snarled and slobbered.

He’d had a fan club then, when he was the prodigy-of-the-day. Slick and quick, stylish and sauve, and undefeated too? There was a time half the women in the city would turn out to watch him fight. There was a time he’d look away from his opponent mid-bout, wink at the prettiest face in the crowd, mouth ‘watch this,’ turn back, knock the fool out the next blow, turn back again, and watch the girl faint in real-time. Oh, how they cheered! ‘Pretty Boy Pink,’ they’d called him!

Where did it all go wrong? It was a question that flitted through his mind each day he went to work. Pinker groaned as he stepped carefully between two columns of flared armpits. It was Taichi Pose 4, Flying Lotus, and the dozen-odd geezers who’d shown up today were huffing and puffing, qi sputtering weakly out of their bodies. “Arms up, Pila!” he cried, clapping his hands and grinning like he meant it. “Force that qi through! Come on now!”

Pila snarled at him. “Don’t you raise your voice at me.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He mumbled. He stifled as sigh.

It was a living, coaching these rich retirees. It was easy. It also made him think long and hard about pitching himself headfirst into the void on a daily basis.

Where did it all go wrong?

At seven he was crowned the genius of Yellowleaf village. A once-in-ten-thousand years talent! Grandpa Thun had held him with tears in his wrinkled face, said he’d finally bring honor to their village, perhaps the province, and even their kingdom!

How naïve…. He chuckled ruefully.

He was a genius in the village. Still a genius when he struck out of the wider province—only one among a handful. When he got to the level of the Kingdom he was only ranked third in his generation. Then, when he’d reached Sky—merely a prodigy.

And then he’d ascended to the Upper Realms, and what a shock that had been! How many tens of thousands of kingdoms, how many hundreds of millions of villages sent folk here? Crowds of prodigies churned in each day, only to find themselves swallowed into the nameless masses—only to watch desperately as the true geniuses surged past…

He’d had a chance to fight one only once, and it was a memory his subconscious seemed to take a sick delight in dredging up once a fortnight, when he was down a few dozen bottles and reaching for yet another.

Yunlong Invitational. Second round. Matched up against that smirking savage Sky Wolf. Back when he was still clinging onto the thought that maybe, just maybe, he was something—that he was still a prodigy, that through grit and sheer stubbornness he would prevail, just like Grandpa Thun always said—

A few hours later he walked out of the arena choking back sobs, tore up his fighter’s certificate, swore off pro fighting forever.

He’d been a personal trainer ever since.

He sighed. He still took virtual fights. One-offs, every so often, only at the Spirit Pavilion. More now, what with that war going in jacking up prices to astonishing heights. Stork flesh cost three low stones!

A notification.

[Incoming bout request.]

[Alias: Fuck me!]

[Rank: 0?]

…What the—

[Wager: 15 mid-grade spirit stones.]

Pinker gaped at it. Fifteen?! For a newbie?!

He bolted out the gym, geezers shouting after him, stumbled over to the Spirit Pavilion on the other side of the street, burst up the stairs and shot into a vacant room.

[Accept!]

He felt a little bad about it. He saw this type all the time—young and dumb, ready to take on the Multiverse, full of big boasts and bigger dreams. Dumb kids gambling it all for a chance to take down a high ranker…

A dream was such a delicate, beautiful thing! You took it into you, let it puff up your head; you called yourself prodigy, let it seem into your identity ‘till it was as deep a part of you as your bones. He knew just how awful it sucked to have it crushed underfoot.

But someone was going to snatch this request. If it had to be someone, he figured it might as well be him. Prices being what they were, and his the state of his investments being what they were…

He felt a little bad about it.

But only a little.

He chuckled ruefully. “Oh, youngster… I will show you that you are but a frog at the bottom of a well!”

***

The field shifted. They were on flat terrain. A forcefield rose up at the edges, inscribing a circle fifty strides across.

And there was his opponent!

[Pinker Caldez]

[Rank: 8891]

8891? It had been so long since Dorian had been that weak that he genuinely had no clue what the number meant. He shrugged. Ah, well. Top ten thousand in a Multiverse of hundreds of millions of Gods is still no mean feat! He should be able to make me break a sweat.

Dorian rubbed his hands.

…What’s that moron smiling about?

****

…What’s that moron smiling about? Pinker wasn’t the man he used to be. Hardly a shadow even—he could hardly argue that front, the evidence being clear as it was. But an old lion was still a lion, wasn’t he? He was ranked in the top ten thousand!

Surely he deserved some respect. Yet this—this drakekin, not yet even ranked—scarcely past sucking his mother’s teat, far as Pinker was concerned—wore his disdain plain on his face!

Pinker’s lips pressed tight together. This little… The thought of taking it easy on the kid was quickly evaporating. Some newbies, he decided, bright-eyed, pure-hearted, needed coddling. Like a younger version of himself. But one glance at this fellow’s smug face and Pinker knew he’d never gotten a proper spanking. Someone would give him one eventually,and it might as well be him. He didn’t even feel a little bad about it.

“Begin!” said the spirit.

Pinker sprang forth.

His was a simple style: rush in and clobber. He had big hands, heavy hands, and with his Earth-attribute fist techniques every punch could end a fight. It’d served him well since his time in the Lower Realms, and it’d done a bang-up job here too—save for against those true geniuses.

Only this time as he sprinted in, the strangest thing happened.

That was—nothing.

No panicked flight. No widening of the eyes. No screaming, and those trousers looked very much un-shat. Pinker was starting to wonder if the kid was right in the head. Or maybe simply young and dumb, never got a real smack in the face before. Judging by his horns and tail he couldn’t be more than Second Form—so less than a century old!

And now, as his fist extended into an [Earth Smash], that niggling twinge of guilt wormed its way in again. This was was no cocksure brat. He saw it so clearly now. This was simply a young, dumb kid way out of his depth. Pinker winced. Beating up kids for money was hardly a thing to be proud of. But the match was taken, and the punch was thrown, and he could hardly put a stop to it now. And all of a sudden he’d flip-flopped yet again. He was back to feeling pretty shit about the whole thing.

Damn it! I’ll make this fast.

The poor sod had finally been clued in. The boy’s eyes widened as he saw the fist. He moved, dipped his head back—but too slow! Pinker’s fist made a beeline for his chin— —and missed.

He stumbled over himself, fist slamming into the ground and splashing manic qi everywhere.

…what just happened?

He whirled back around to find the boy regarding him curiously. He scrubbed at his memory, playing back the last few moments in flashes—the fist had been on track— arching, arching—the head moving back, the tip of the chin lifting up, still at that slow pace, nearly leisurely, just enough—

He’d missed by the width of a finger. At most. The boy had barely made a move. Fate smiled on that surprised jerk of his head. Pinker shook his head. Unbelievable.

He dashed in again and threw. Right for the nose. No lucky dodges this time.

Except yet again he missed by a hair’s sliver, and this time he was baffled. Again—the boy’d barely moved! Just… tilted his head back, a slight shift of the upper body, a half-step away. Pinker threw again. Miss. Yet again. This time he whiffed wide.

What the Hells is going on?!

Pinker had a sneaking suspicion he was being played for a fool. He gritted his teeth. So maybe the boy had some reflexes, but he was nothing special, nothing he hadn’t seen before—hardly worth looking that smug about, dodging some big telegraphed swings like that! He’d come in swinging thinking the kid couldn’t do a thing about it!

Pinker had flip-flopped again. He decided he didn’t feel bad about what was about to happen in the slightest. You brought this upon yourself, kid…

Time to get serious.

This time he entered with probing punches. Rat-tat-tat. And the kid dodged and stepped back, and bent over and ducked, letting each sail by. But Pinker hadn’t meant to land them.

No. He was observing the boy’s habits. That sideways half-step he took when backtracking. The little subtle mistakes in how far off-balance he threw himself when he leaned, the side he favored slipping to, the way he left his chin high up in the air after a dodge.

In moments Pinker knew exactly what to do.

This was the difference between a beginner and an expert. A beginner might cobble together a few moves here and there. But an expert like Pinker was methodical. Tactical. He saw, he thought.

And then, and the right moment, he struck!