So, it all came down to this.

  Almost the biggest stage. No—the biggest stage I've ever stepped onto. And yet, for some reason, I still can’t believe it’s happening. It’s…surreal.

  My heart pounds—not in steady beats, but in erratic, excited pulses. It’s a controlled chaos, a rhythm I can feel against my ribs. Nothing else feels like this. My body knows what’s coming before my mind does.

  My body is ready. My mind? Still playing catch-up—like watching a match on a five-second delay.

  Match? You thinking football? Me, out there scoring some banger goal? Nah. Different sport. Way more contact.

  I stand up, my legs strengthened. If this were earlier in my journey, my legs would be jelly. But I've leveled up since then. I’ve evolved past some rookie, or some amateur getting their feet wet.

  I’ve taken a liking to this sport, and even saying that feels like an understatement. So, why?

  Why is it coming down to this?

  I head to the bathroom, and a deep exhaled sigh escapes from me. The mirror watches back in return as I look at the uniform. The colors of red, blue, and white were pasted on my shoulder strap.

  The three stripes mean everything. A legacy. A responsibility. Maybe even a weight. One that I’m ready to carry, on the biggest stage yet.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Out there, beyond the tunnel, hundreds—no, thousands—watch, waiting to see if I live up to it. Waiting for even a potential prospect.

  “Calm down Lucien, one thing at a time. Take care of this first, and everything else will follow.”

  This would be the perfect time to give myself a pep talk, talk to myself...but I don’t think I need it. Not because I’m some confident-ridden guy, or just highly arrogant.

  There isn’t enough time for it.

  Outside the walls, muffled even for a slight bit, I can hear the announcer getting ready. Ready for the penultimate round.

  If any nerves or doubt wanted to make their way now, it’s too late.

  It just comes down to action. My action.

  Now, it’s just a moment waiting to be seized.

  Exiting the bathroom, my eyes lock onto an object. Steel. Long, sharp-tipped—museum-worthy. You would probably be apprehended if you ran in an academy with it as it seems like contraband.

  But in here? On that stage? Everyone watches on as if it’s a simple toy—one made for quick hands and sharper minds.

  Well, maybe because it is.

  My fingers wrap around the grip, my left hand tightening instinctively. It’s second nature by now—my weapon, my edge. A lefty in a right-hander’s world. Advantage? Absolutely. But I don’t need advantages. I just need to be better.

  I step out of the locker room, steady, controlled. At the end of the long hallway—pure white light. Funny. Is this the light at the end of the tunnel everyone has always spoken of before?

  Maybe…

  Maybe.

  I roll my shoulder back, stretching out any stiffness. My glove feels snug, my grip firm. No adjustments needed. Not now. I step forward—there’s only action left.

  The bright light swallows me whole. Then, the world sharpens—roaring cheers, the polished strip underfoot, the cold steel in my hand. No more waiting. It's time.

  Time to deliver.

  Time to put on a show.

  A wave of noise crashes over me the moment I step out. It’s not deafening, but it’s alive—filled with murmurs, cheers, anticipation. The massive stadium. The giant screen. And there, right in the center—me, walking out.

  I raise my hand, and the crowd erupts in response. The applause, the screams and the yells, they seem to even vibrate the stadium itself. I have to keep my composure now. If I get rattled by this, then I’ll be toast in endgame.

  I arrive at the stage. The lights shift slightly, and there—just ahead of me—a figure waits. Blade in hand. Waiting for the first move.