As the days passed, Sander's routine grew more intense. The small clearing near the abandoned court had become his training ground.
I was a Legend, he thought as he wiped his brow, I commanded the court, saw plays before they happened, and turned games around with a single pass. That hasn't left me. It's still here.
His breath steadied, and a faint smile tugged at his lips.
It was mid-afternoon when the sound of laughter broke through the stillness of the clearing. Sander paused mid-push-up, his body hovering inches above the dirt, and glanced toward the treeline.
A group of boys emerged, their voices loud and full of mischief. There were four of them, all around Sander's age, though slightly larger in build. Their clothes were worn but clean, marking them as village kids who hadn't yet tasted the hardships of survival.
"Well, well," one of them said, his voice dripping with mockery. "Look who's out here."
Sander didn't reply immediately. He finished his push-up, his arms burning, and stood slowly.
The leader of the group—a broad-shouldered boy with a shock of reddish-brown hair—stepped forward, his hands on his hips. "What's the matter, Visione? Too busy getting dirt on your noble hands to say hello?"
The others snickered, their laughter echoing through the clearing.
Sander met the boy's gaze, his blue eyes steady and unbothered. "Hello," he said evenly, his voice calm but firm. "Anything else?"
The red-haired boy frowned, clearly thrown off by the lack of reaction. "What are you even doing out here?" he asked, gesturing to the abandoned court. "Training for what? You think you're gonna be a player or something?"
"Something like that," Sander replied, his tone smooth.
One of the other boys—a wiry kid with a crooked grin—snorted. "Players are strong. You don't look like much, Visione. Just a pale little noble trying to play tough."
Sander's lips curved into a faint smile as he grabbed the rag hanging from a nearby branch and wiped the sweat from his body, revealing the faint but growing definition in his muscles. His training over the past weeks was starting to show, his muscles no longer thin and wiry but lean and functional.
"Looks can be deceiving," he said simply, tossing the rag over his shoulder.
The boys exchanged uncertain glances, their initial bravado faltering. The leader scowled, stepping closer. "You think you're better than us, don't you?" he said, his voice rising.
Sander shook his head, his calm demeanor unwavering. "No," he said. "I think I'm better than I was yesterday. That's all I care about."
The red-haired boy opened his mouth to retort, but one of the others nudged him, whispering something. Sander couldn't hear the words, but he could see the unease spreading through the group.
His steady gaze, his calm responses, and the visible results of his hard work—all of it seemed to unnerve them.
"Whatever," the leader muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Waste your time out here if you want. It's not like it'll change anything."
The group turned to leave, their laughter quieter now, their footsteps crunching against the dirt path as they disappeared into the woods.
Sander exhaled slowly, his body relaxing as the boys' voices faded.
I could have embarrassed them, he thought. I could've put them in their place with a few words or actions.
But he didn't need to. Their reaction had said enough.
Sander sat down on the edge of the court, the cool stone pressing against his legs. He placed the ball beside him and looked out at the woods, the faint rustling of leaves a soothing backdrop to his thoughts.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Sander stood and returned to his training. Each push-up, each lap, each swing of his arms brought him closer to his goal.
The next day. The morning air was crisp as Sander returned to his usual training routine in the clearing. His movements were steady and deliberate—push-ups, sit-ups, and laps around the perimeter of the abandoned court. The ache in his muscles had become a familiar companion, one that he welcomed as a sign of progress.
The faint sound of footsteps and hushed whispers drew his attention. Pausing mid-push-up, he looked toward the treeline where the boys from the day before emerged. Their leader, the red-haired boy, wore a smug grin as he approached, flanked by his group.
"His at It again." the boy said, his voice laced with mockery. "You must really think you're something special, huh?"
Sander didn't reply immediately. He stood, brushing dirt from his hands, and met the boy's gaze with his usual calm expression.
"What do you want?" he asked evenly.
The red-haired boy spread his arms in an exaggerated gesture of friendliness. "Relax, Visione. We're not here to bother you. In fact, we came to invite you to a game."
Sander arched a brow, his expression unreadable. "A game?"
"Basketball," the boy clarified, his grin widening. "We've got a court set up on the outskirts of the village. Nothing fancy, but it works. Thought you might want to show us what all this training is for."
The invitation was unexpected, but Sander didn't flinch. His blue eyes remained steady as he studied the group, noting the mischievous glint in their eyes and the barely concealed smirks on their faces.
"Why do you invite me?" Sander asked, his tone calm but sharp.
The red-haired boy shrugged, his grin never faltering. "Let's call it curiosity. You've been working so hard out here, we figured you'd want to put those muscles to good use. Unless, of course, you're scared."
The word hung in the air, a clear challenge. The other boys snickered, their laughter carrying a faint edge of malice.
Sander's lips twitched into a faint smirk. "I'm not scared," he said simply. "Lead the way."
The boys led Sander through a winding path that skirted the edge of the village, their voices a mix of chatter and quiet whispers. Sander followed in silence, his calm demeanor masking the wariness building in his chest.
Eventually, they reached a small clearing where a crude basketball court had been set up. The "court" was little more than a flattened patch of dirt with two rickety hoops fashioned from bent iron and frayed rope. The lines marking the boundaries were faint scratches in the earth, barely visible beneath the morning light.
A handful of other boys were already waiting there, some sitting on overturned crates while others practiced weak, awkward dribbles with a worn leather ball.
Sander took in the scene with a quiet confidence, his gaze sweeping over the group. It didn't take long to piece together the setup: the red-haired boy's team consisted of his closest friends—bigger, stronger kids who looked like they had played before, at least casually.
And then there was the team they'd assigned to Sander
The red-haired boy gestured to five scrawny kids standing off to the side, their clothes ill-fitting and their postures uncertain. They ranged in age from barely ten to twelve, and none of them looked like they had ever touched a basketball, let alone played a game.
"This is your team," the boy said, his grin widening. "Should be a fair match, right?"
The other boys laughed, their voices filled with mockery.
Sander glanced at his "teammates," who shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. They looked nervous, their eyes darting between him and the opposing team. One of them—a lanky boy with thick glasses—pushed his hands deep into his pockets and mumbled, "We're not very good…"
Sander's smirk deepened, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Don't worry about it," he said calmly.
The red-haired boy stepped forward, dribbling the ball lazily as he addressed Sander. "Here's how it works, Visione. First to eleven wins. And since we're feeling generous, we'll let you take the ball first."
Sander met his gaze, unfazed by the obvious setup. "Fair enough," he said simply.
The group gathered around the center of the makeshift court, their voices rising in anticipation. The red-haired boy's smug grin widened as he produced a rolled-up parchment from his satchel, its edges frayed but faintly glowing with a faint silver light.
Sander's calm expression didn't waver, but his sharp blue eyes studied the parchment intently. The shimmering aura that danced around it was unmistakable—this wasn't just a simple piece of paper. It was magic.
The boy held it up for everyone to see, his movements theatrical as he turned in a slow circle. "This," he said loudly, "is a magical contract. Stole it—uh, borrowed it—from my father's office in Carna."
The other boys gasped, their eyes wide with awe.
Sander tilted his head slightly, masking his curiosity with a faint smirk. "A magical contract," he said evenly. "And what exactly are we signing for?"
The red-haired boy stopped in front of him, unfurling the parchment with a flourish. The text glowed faintly, the letters shifting and shimmering as though alive.
"Simple," the boy said, pointing at the contract. "Losers agree to grant the winners anything they demand. No backing out, no excuses."
Sander stared at the contract, his mind racing. This was the first time he had encountered magic in this world. He had heard snippets of rumors about enchanted shoes and accessories, but seeing something magical up close was different.
The way the text seemed to pulse with life, the faint hum of energy in the air—it was both fascinating and unsettling.
Magic, he thought, his smirk deepening. So it really is a part of this world.
The other boys watched him closely, their expressions ranging from nervous to eager. The scrawny kids on his team looked uneasy, shifting uncomfortably as they exchanged uncertain glances.
"Anything they demand?" one of them whispered, his voice trembling. "That's… that's a big risk."
Sander glanced at his team, noting their fear and hesitation. Then he turned his attention back to the red-haired boy, his smirk never faltering.
"So," Sander said calmly, "you're confident you're going to win, then?"
The red-haired boy barked out a laugh. "Of course we are. Just look at your team."
The others laughed, their voices echoing through the clearing.
Sander stepped forward confidently with a smirk, his movements slow and deliberate as he reached for the quill attached to the parchment. His fingers brushed against the glowing surface of the contract, and a faint warmth radiated from it, sending a shiver up his arm.
He didn't hesitate.
"I'll sign," he said, his voice steady.
The red-haired boy faltered slightly, clearly not expecting such calm confidence. "You sure about that, Visione? Don't want you crying later when you lose."
Sander's smirk widened, his cool demeanor unwavering. "I don't plan on losing."
The other boys fell silent, their laughter fading as they exchanged uncertain looks. Even the red-haired boy seemed momentarily thrown off, his smug grin faltering.
"Well… fine," he said, trying to regain his composure. "Suit yourself."
Sander dipped the quill into the small vial of ink attached to the parchment, the motion smooth and deliberate. He could feel the eyes of everyone around him, their gazes heavy with expectation and disbelief.
The glowing text shifted as he brought the quill to the parchment, reshaping itself to accommodate his name. The moment the tip of the quill touched the surface, the ink flowed unnaturally, forming letters with a precision that felt almost alive.
"Sander Visione," he said aloud as he signed, his voice calm but steady.
The contract flared with light as his name appeared, the glow intensifying for a brief moment before fading back to its steady shimmer.
The red-haired boy grinned, stepping forward to sign as well. "This is going to be fun," he said, scrawling his name with exaggerated flair.
One by one, the others followed suit, their signatures lighting up the parchment until the contract pulsed with energy, its power sealed.
With the contract signed, the parchment rolled itself up, the glowing letters fading into the material as though absorbed. The red-haired boy tucked it back into his satchel, his grin smug as he turned to face Sander.
"You've got guts, Visione," he said. "But guts won't win this game."
Sander crossed his arms, his smirk unwavering. "We'll see about that."
His teammates looked at him nervously, their postures tense and uncertain. One of them—a lanky boy with dirt-smeared cheeks—whispered, "What do we do if we lose?"
Sander turned to face them, his voice calm but firm. "We're not going to lose. Just stick with me."
The boys hesitated but nodded, their fear giving way to a flicker of hope in the face of Sander's quiet confidence.
On the other side of the court, the opposing team was already warming up, their laughter echoing as they passed the ball between them.
Sander picked up the worn leather ball from the ground, its surface rough and uneven. He turned it over in his hands, his grip steady.
Im back again, he thought, his smirk deepening.