The cameras flashed incessantly, each burst like a silent thunderclap. Ibeler stood at the podium, his newly won trophy gleaming under the harsh lights. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Mr. Olowaili, how does it feel to be the first Guna golfer to win a major tournament?" a reporter shouted.
Ibeler's mind raced. Krauss's words echoed in his head. The ledger. The threat. The impossible choice. For a moment, he was back on the 18th green, facing that crucial putt. The stillness before the strike, the perfect balance required for success.
"It's... a dream come true," he managed, his voice steadier than he felt. "But like any great golf shot, it's not just about the final moment. It's about all the preparation, the support, the perfect alignment of elements. I couldn't have done it without my family, my people, and..." he hesitated for a fraction of a second, "...the tournament organizers."
From the corner of his eye, he saw Krauss nod approvingly. The noose tightened a little more.
As the questions continued, Ibeler felt like he was in a sand trap, each answer potentially sinking him deeper. Suddenly, a commotion at the back of the room caught everyone's attention. A man pushed his way through the crowd, his weather-beaten face a stark contrast to the polished journalists.
"Ibeler!" he called out in Guna. "Your grandfather—"
Security quickly moved to intercept him, but not before Ibeler recognized him. It was Onagoidiben, his father's friend from the village.
"Wait!" Ibeler said, his heart racing. "He's family."
As Onagoidiben was escorted out, he managed to press a small object into Ibeler's hand. A carved wooden amulet – his grandfather's.
The press conference dissolved into chaos. Krauss quickly stepped in, his smile never wavering as he announced the end of the session.
---
Later that night, Ibeler sat alone in his hotel room, the amulet heavy in his hand. His phone buzzed incessantly with congratulatory messages and interview requests. But all he could think about was his grandfather. Why had Onagoidiben brought the amulet? Was it a warning? A message?
A knock at the door startled him. He opened it to find Sarah, her face grim, a laptop tucked under her arm.
"We need to talk," she said, slipping inside. "I've been doing some digging. The Nineteenth Hole... it's worse than we thought."
Ibeler's stomach clenched. "How bad?"
Sarah opened her laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard. "They're not just fixing games. They're laundering money through fake charities. The ones Krauss wants you to donate to? They're all fronts."
She turned the screen towards him, showing a complex web of shell companies and financial transactions. "See this? It's a pattern. Every major winner in the last five years has made significant 'donations' to these charities. But the money doesn't go to help anyone. It just... disappears."
The implications hit Ibeler like a wayward drive to the head. His victory, his future – it was all built on quicksand.
"What do I do?" he whispered.
Before Sarah could answer, Ibeler's phone rang. An unknown number.
"Hello?" he answered cautiously.
"Ah, our champion," Krauss's voice oozed through the speaker. "I hope you're ready for your first official appearance tomorrow. The children's hospital is eagerly awaiting your... generous donation."
Ibeler's free hand clenched around the amulet. "And if I refuse?"
A pause. "Then perhaps the press would be interested in some... irregularities in your immigration status. It would be a shame if you couldn't return home, wouldn't it?"
The call ended, leaving Ibeler in stunned silence.
Sarah watched him, concern etched on her face. "Ibeler?"
He looked up, his eyes haunted. "I... I need some air."
---
The hotel gym was deserted at this late hour. Ibeler stood before a punching bag, his grandfather's amulet hanging around his neck. With each punch, memories flashed through his mind.
*Thud* – His family's burned hut.
*Thud* – The ledger with his name.
*Thud* – Krauss's smiling threat.
*Thud* – The fake charities.
He hit harder, faster, sweat pouring down his face. In his mind's eye, he saw the life he'd dreamed of slipping away. The new home for his family. The improved school for the village. The medical clinic they desperately needed.
All turning to ash, just like their hut.
As he paused to catch his breath, a memory surfaced. His grandfather, teaching him about the game of golf, using the wisdom of their people.
"The golf ball is like the wind, Ibeler," his grandfather had said. "You cannot control it entirely. But you can learn to read it, to work with it. The key is to bend like the reed in the storm, not break like the stubborn oak."
"Impressive form," a voice said, snapping Ibeler back to the present.
He spun around to find Ruiz leaning against the wall, a towel draped over his shoulders.
"What do you want?" Ibeler growled, breathing hard.
Ruiz shrugged. "To give you some advice. From one puppet to another."
"I'm no one's puppet."
"No?" Ruiz raised an eyebrow. "Then why are you here at 2 AM, punching your problems away instead of celebrating your win?"
Ibeler turned back to the bag, throwing another punch. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know more than you think, wind boy," Ruiz said softly. "I know about the ledger. The threats. The impossible choice."
Ibeler froze. "How?"
"Because I've been where you are," Ruiz sighed. "Five years ago, I was you. Young, talented, hungry. And they used that hunger against me."
For the first time, Ibeler saw beyond Ruiz's arrogant facade. He saw a man haunted by his choices.
"What did you do?" Ibeler asked.
Ruiz's laugh was bitter. "What they told me to. And it cost me everything that mattered." He met Ibeler's gaze. "Don't make my mistake."
As Ruiz turned to leave, Ibeler called out, "Wait. Why are you telling me this?"
Ruiz paused at the door. "Maybe I'm trying to save my soul. Or maybe..." he smiled sadly, "I just want to see if it's possible to beat them at their own game."
With that, he was gone, leaving Ibeler alone with his thoughts and the rhythmic thud of fist against leather.
---
Dawn broke over the city, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. Ibeler stood on his hotel balcony, his grandfather's amulet in one hand, his phone in the other. Sarah sat inside, her laptop open, ready to act on whatever decision he made.
On the screen, a draft email to the tournament committee. His finger hovered over the send button.
In his mind, he heard his grandfather's voice: "The wind does not break the reed that bends."
But how far could he bend before he broke?
Ibeler thought about his perfect drive on the 18th hole, how he had read the wind, worked with it instead of against it. Perhaps that was the key here too.
With a deep breath, Ibeler made his choice. He pressed send.
"It's done," he said to Sarah. "I've agreed to make the donation."
Sarah's face fell. "Ibeler, no—"
He held up a hand. "But I've also requested a full audit of the charity, citing my 'deep commitment to transparency and accountability.'"
Sarah's eyes widened as she understood. "You're using their own game against them."
Ibeler nodded, a grim smile on his face. "Like reading the wind on a difficult shot. We bend, but we don't break."
As the sun rose higher, Ibeler knew the real game was just beginning. The fairway ahead was fraught with hazards, but for the first time since his win, he felt a glimmer of hope.
He was no longer just playing golf. He was playing for his future, his people, and the very soul of the game he loved.