Chapter 78. Grasshopper
"This is him? The Spear you've been raving about?" Coach Viriam squinted across the pitch, voice pitched just low enough that he probably thought it wouldn't carry. "He's barely taller than the Krozball posts."
Hugo shifted uncomfortably, his massive frame making the weathered bench beneath him creak in protest. "I know he doesn't look like much, but—"
"Doesn't look like much?" Viriam interrupted, scratching at his salt-and-pepper beard. "He looks like someone's little brother who wandered onto the field by mistake. Are you sure we're looking at the same kid? The skinny one with the white streak in his hair?"
"That's him," Hugo confirmed.
"God preserve us. I could snap him like a twig with one hand."
The murmurs rippled through the gathered players. Adom kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, pretending not to hear any of it while strapping on his right gauntlet. Next to him, Sam winced.
"They're not exactly being subtle, are they?" Sam whispered.
Adom said nothing, tightening the gauntlet with perhaps more force than necessary.
"Hey, mini-Spear," called Talef from a few feet away, his tone light and teasing. "Don't worry—if someone charges you, just duck. They'll fly right over you."
Several players laughed, not unkindly.
"Or you could run between his legs," added Mira, grinning. "Tactical advantage of being fun-sized."
More laughter.
Children, Adom thought. All of them. Playing at competition with absolutely no concept of real battle. In his first life, by their age, most would have already faced genuine life-or-death situations.
"Look," Coach Viriam continued, "I'm sure he's a nice enough kid, but this is Krozball, not storytelling hour at the library. People get hurt. Badly. Remember Galen Nox? Shattered his entire arm cage on that bad fall last season."
"Rib cage," Hugo corrected. "And yes, but—"
"My point exactly! We're talking broken bones as a matter of course. And now you want me to put—" Viriam gestured vaguely in Adom's direction, "—that on the field?"
Again.
"Coach," Hugo said, lowering his voice slightly (though not nearly enough), "I know this sounds crazy, but you have to see him play. He's got the best spatial awareness I've ever seen in a third-year. Maybe in any year."
"The dungeon hero, right?" Viriam's tone made it clear exactly what he thought of that title. "Look, I'm sure the stories about him are very exciting, but they're probably exaggerated. Kids that age tend to—"
"I watched him take down Serena in a duel," Hugo cut in. "Clean win. No tricks."
That caused a moment of silence. Even Viriam seemed to hesitate.
"You told me already, but are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
"Probably a fluke," Viriam muttered, but with less conviction now. "Or she was going easy on him."
"Serena doesn't go easy on anyone. You know that."
From the bench nearby, Serena herself looked up sharply. Her eyes found Adom, measuring him silently. Unlike the others, she wasn't laughing. Her jaw tightened, and she scoffed loudly enough for everyone to hear.
"It wasn't a fluke," she said flatly. "And I wasn't going easy." She returned to adjusting her gauntlets, adding under her breath, "Won't make that mistake again."
Sam leaned closer to Adom. "You okay?"
"Fine," Adom replied flatly.
"You don't look fine. You look like you're plotting someone's violent demise."
"That's just my face."
Sam snorted. "No, your plotting-violence face has more of a squint to it. This is your I'm-too-dignified-to-acknowledge-I'm-annoyed face. Very different."
Despite himself, the corner of Adom's mouth twitched upward. "The difference is smaller than you'd think."
Sam snorted. "Your sense of humor gets really dark when people underestimate you."
"It's not the underestimation," Adom said quietly. "It's the tedium of it. Eighty years, and I still have to deal with the exact same nonsense."
Across the field, Coach Viriam was still expressing his reservations. "And what about his parents? You think they'd be happy to learn we've put their precious boy on a collision course with some fifth year's fist?"
"He's Commander Sylla's son," Hugo reminded him.
"Oh, even better," Viriam threw up his hands. "So when he gets his arm broken, I'll have one of the Empire's top military commanders on my doorstep. Fantastic."
"Coach," Hugo said, with the patience of someone explaining a simple concept to a particularly stubborn child, "just watch him. One practice. That's all I'm asking."
Viriam stared at Hugo for a long moment, then let out an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. One practice. But if he gets flattened, that's on you. You saw what his father did last semester. I want none of that."
"Deal."
Adom finished adjusting his gear and stood up.
"All right," Viriam shouted, suddenly shifting to his full coaching voice. "Everyone on the field! Let's see what we're working with!"
Adom caught Hugo giving him an encouraging nod. He returned it with the barest inclination of his head.
"Remember," Sam said as Adom prepared to join the others on the field, "no magical death spells if someone laughs at you."
"I'd never," Adom replied with feigned innocence.
"Uh-huh. I saw your face when Talef made that height joke. Pure murder."
"Not murder. Just mild maiming."
Sam grinned. "Show them what you've got, old man."
Adom allowed himself a small, genuine smile. "Oh, I intend to."
Coach Viriam moved to the center of the field, Krozball tucked under one arm. His expression shifted from skepticism to something almost like concern as his eyes found Adom among the players.
"Sylla," he called, beckoning Adom forward. "A word."
Adom jogged over, aware of the eyes tracking his movement.
"Coach."
Viriam's weathered face creased into a frown. Up close, Adom could see the thin scar that ran from his left eyebrow to his temple—an old Krozball injury, most likely.
"Listen, kid," Viriam said, voice pitched low. "Hugo tells me you've got talent, and I respect his judgment. But Krozball isn't just about talent—it's about staying in one piece." He glanced around at the larger players. "These fifth-years hit like battering rams. You sure you want to do this?"
"I'm sure, Coach," Adom said firmly. "I can handle it."
Viriam studied him for a moment longer. "Your father know about this?"
"He taught me how to fall properly when I was six," Adom said. It wasn't exactly an answer, but it wasn't a lie either.
That earned a short laugh from Viriam. "Okay. Okay. No need to be sarcastic kid." He slapped Adom lightly on the shoulder. "Alright then. But you tell me if anything feels off. Pride's not worth a shattered collarbone."
He turned to address the entire group, voice booming across the pitch. "Listen up! For those who need reminding, Krozball has three simple rules." He held up a finger. "One: No magic. Fluid enhancement only." A second finger. "Two: Duels are one-on-one." A third finger. "Three: Intentional targeting of vulnerable areas means immediate ejection."
His eyes swept over the assembled players. "This isn't a brawl—it's a sport. You hit to disrupt, not to damage. Clear?"
A chorus of "Yes, Coach" echoed back.
"Good." Viriam consulted a clipboard. "For today's practice match, we're mixing experience levels. I want to see how you work with unfamiliar teammates."
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He began rattling off names and positions. Adom listened for his own.
"Blue team Spear: Sylla."
No surprise there. What did surprise him was the next assignment.
"Blue team Runner: Damus."
Adom's eyes snapped to Damus, who was adjusting his armor. The taller boy looked up briefly, his expression unreadable, before returning to his equipment.
Great. Just great.
On the bright side, at least they wouldn't be actively trying to flatten each other. For now.
The teams separated, blue and red vests distributed. Adom found himself standing with Damus, Talef, and four others he recognized only vaguely from previous practices.
"Adom," Talef nodded. "Don't worry about Damus. He's fast, but he'll get the job done."
"I'm standing right here," Damus said flatly.
"Exactly my point," Talef grinned. "All speed, no subtlety."
Damus rolled his eyes and turned to Adom.
"Just get me the ball," he said simply. "I'll handle the rest."
"That's not exactly how a Spear works," Adom pointed out.
"Then show me how it works," Damus replied.
This was probably the longest conversation they had in a while.
Coach Viriam's whistle cut through the air. "Positions!"
Adom moved to the defensive half of their side, settling into his stance. Across the pitch, the red team's Runners were already coordinating, planning their attack pattern. The Spear, a fourth-year named Jensen, kept his eyes fixed on Adom with obvious skepticism.
The Krozball gleamed in Viriam's hand as he held it aloft. The sunlight caught its leather surface, highlighting the intricate runes sewn into the seams.
"Begin!"
The ball arced high into the air, and everything else disappeared from Adom's mind.
[Flow Prediction] activated instantly, sharpening his senses. The world decelerated around him, movements becoming telegraphed and readable. The ball's trajectory stretched before him like a glowing path—it would land approximately seven meters to his right, where red team's tallest Runner was already positioning himself.
Adom's mind raced. Standard defensive positioning would put him at least four steps behind the play—too slow, too reactive. He needed something different.
His eyes flickered to the Runner's legs, the way he balanced his weight on the balls of his feet, preparing to leap. There was a pattern there, a rhythm to the movement.
Like a grasshopper.
Oh?
The thought crystalized with sudden clarity.
Grasshoppers didn't rely on running speed—they channeled immense power through their legs, converting stored energy into explosive movement.
Adom dropped lower, shifting his weight back. He channeled Fluid into his thighs, feeling the energy build and compress, muscle fibers tensing under [Silverback's Might].
Five meters from the ball touching down.
Four meters.
Three.
The red Runner's knees bent, preparing to jump.
Two meters.
Adom released.
The stored energy exploded through his legs, launching him forward like a bolt from a crossbow. His body shot across the pitch, covering the distance in a blurred instant. The red Runner was still mid-jump when Adom intersected his path, snatching the ball from the air with one outstretched hand.
He hit the ground in a controlled roll, absorbing the momentum, then pivoted sharply. The red team's defense was still reacting to his unexpected interception, their formation momentarily broken.
Damus had already spotted the opportunity. He was sprinting up the right flank, having slipped behind red's Blocker.
Adom didn't hesitate. He planted his back foot and channeled another burst of Fluid-enhanced strength, launching the ball in a tight spiral. It cut through the air at a speed that made it whistle, curving slightly to lead Damus's run.
Perfect placement.
Damus caught it without breaking stride, spinning past red's desperate Keeper, and slammed the ball through the highest hoop.
Three points.
Twenty seconds from whistle to score.
The pitch went quiet for a beat, then erupted in scattered exclamations.
"What the—"
"Did you see that jump?"
"How did he even—"
Talef jogged past Adom, slapping him on the back. "That," he said with appreciative emphasis, "was not normal."
Damus trotted back to position, tossing the ball to Coach Viriam. He met Adom's eyes briefly, giving him a single, curt nod. Coming from Damus, it was practically a standing ovation.
Adom felt a rush of satisfaction so intense it was almost embarrassing. The technique had worked perfectly—better than he'd anticipated. The grasshopper-leap combined with [Silverback's Might] gave him an explosive speed that nobody would expect from someone his size.
That would be pretty good in a fight.
He could hear Sam whooping from the sidelines, could see Hugo's barely-contained grin. Even Coach Viriam was watching him with a new intensity, his earlier skepticism replaced by calculating interest.
For a moment, Adom was tempted to say something cool, something that would capitalize on the stunned expressions around him. A witty one-liner, perhaps, or a confident declaration. The perfect cue for some edgy remark that would haunt him in his nightmares for decades.
But he didn't.
Thank god he didn't.
Too old for team drama and wannabe protagonist moments, even if his body disagreed.
Instead, he simply readjusted his gauntlets and returned to position, fighting to keep his face neutral even as a warm glow of vindication spread through his chest.