The stadium breathed.

  That was the only way Tanner Hall could describe it—the way the air expanded and contracted, the way seventy thousand voices rose and fell together like a living lung. The sound didn’t just reach his ears; it pressed into his ribs, vibrated through his cleats, rattled in his teeth. Stadium lights burned overhead, harsh and white, turning sweat into glass on skin and helmets into mirrors.

  The scoreboard loomed above the field, merciless.

  LONGHORN PREP 27 — RIDGEWAY 32

  :08 SECONDS

  Fourth down.

  Sixteen yards.

  No timeouts.

  There was no safe choice. No kick that could save them. No tie waiting at the end of a clean swing.

  Tanner crouched low in the huddle, helmet pressed tight against his chest, fingers brushing the laces of the football as if committing it to memory. The leather was rough, familiar, grounding. He inhaled slowly through his nose—grass, rubber, heat, adrenaline. The good kind of nerves. The kind that sharpened instead of shattered.

  Around him, his teammates vibrated with barely contained energy. Malik Johnson, the tailback, bounced once on the balls of his feet, jaw clenched so tight the muscles jumped. One of the linemen had sweat dripping off his facemask in steady drops, darkening the turf. Across the line, the Ridgeway defense crouched like a wall of coiled wire, eyes locked, fingers flexing.

  Tanner Hall did not get sloppy.

  Built like a running back—thick thighs, powerful hips, balance like a loaded spring—but he was the quarterback. QB1. The kid scouts whispered about in press boxes and argued over in text chains. The Electric Showman when the cameras were on. The Field General when the game slowed down just for him.

  Right now, he needed both.

  Coach Alvarez leaned in, voice low and tight. “This is it.”

  Tanner nodded once. He already knew.

  “We win it here,” he said.

  Alvarez searched his face—fearless, focused, unflinching—and then nodded. “Your call.”

  Tanner dropped fully into the huddle.

  “Wildcat Razor,” he said, clear and steady. “On one.”

  Silence.

  Malik blinked. “You’re serious.”

  Tanner’s mouthguard flashed as he grinned. “You trust me?”

  Malik didn’t hesitate. “Always.”

  They broke.

  The defense shifted, confused by Tanner lining up wide instead of under center. The crowd sensed it—something wrong, something dangerous—and the noise climbed another level.

  The snap went to Malik.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  Time stretched.

  Malik rolled right, defenders biting hard. Tanner sprinted inside, cut across the middle, felt the turf bite under his cleats. The ball left Malik’s hand in a tight spiral.

  Tanner jumped.

  Hands met leather.

  Pain detonated as a safety slammed into him midair, ribs screaming, breath tearing from his lungs. He twisted, fought gravity, and hit hard—shoulder, hip, back—rolling, curling around the ball like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

  He was short.

  The goal line was right there.

  Tanner lunged.

  Muscles burned past sense, past thought. Fingers clawed forward. His body screamed no.

  The pylon scraped his forearm.

  Plastic tipped.

  White line.

  The whistle cut through everything.

  Touchdown.

  For half a heartbeat, the stadium went dead silent.

  Then it exploded.

  Sound crashed over him in a physical wave as teammates buried him, helmets knocking, hands grabbing, laughter and shouting and disbelief all tangled together. Tanner lay on his back, chest heaving, staring up at the lights, a breathless laugh tearing out of him.

  Legend.

  He didn’t see the scouts scrambling for notes. Didn’t notice the cameras zooming in. Didn’t feel the future crack open.

  He only searched the stands.

  Rowan Hall clutched his sketchbook.

  His body didn’t move the way it should. Muscles locked. Words stayed trapped. Doctors used careful voices and long terms—savant, immobilized—like labels could explain everything.

  Tanner never needed labels.

  Rowan’s pencil flew across the page as the final play unfolded. Lines sharpened. Shapes twisted into something massive—broad shoulders, spiraling longhorn horns, a cyclone of light where legs should have been.

  When Tanner stretched for the pylon, Rowan pressed harder.

  When the whistle blew, Rowan smiled.

  The Minotaur watched back.

  The truck smelled like sweat, grass, and victory.

  Tanner sat awkwardly in the back, sideways, knees jammed, helmet half-off and shoulder pads digging into his ribs as he tried to yank free of them. He wasn’t buckled—there hadn’t been time. He didn’t sit up front anyway. He couldn’t reach the steering wheel, not really. Fourteen, still technically a kid, even if the world kept insisting otherwise.

  Rowan sat beside him, secured carefully, sketchbook balanced on his lap.

  “You’re bleeding,” their mom said, twisting in her seat.

  “It’s nothing,” Tanner said automatically.

  His dad laughed, fingers tight on the wheel. “Texas called again. IMG too. Full rides. Both.”

  Tanner snorted. “Told you.”

  Rowan tapped his arm and held up the drawing.

  Tanner’s face lit instantly. “That’s insane. That’s the best one yet. Seriously.”

  Rowan’s eyes shone.

  The road curved.

  The night deepened.

  Then a voice spoke.

  PROTECT YOUR BROTHER.

  Metallic. Flat. Wrong.

  Tanner stiffened. “From what?”

  Thk-thithkat—kthk.

  Gunfire ripped the world apart.

  Glass exploded inward. Blood sprayed the dash. Tires shredded with a screaming hiss. Tanner looked up just in time to see it—a concealed machine-gun nest in the embankment. The gunner smiled.

  And winked.

  Cold recognition hit Tanner’s gut.

  The truck fishtailed, crossed the median.

  Tanner lunged for Rowan, gear snagging, hands slamming uselessly against the seat. The door blew open.

  He threw himself out.

  The world became wind.

  Then fire.

  The truck struck the oil tanker.

  The explosion lifted him.

  Higher.

  Farther.

  For one impossible moment, Tanner hung suspended in the air, watching the highway burn beneath him. Heat rolled over his body. His ears rang. He opened his eyes just enough.

  The gunner stood over him.

  A radio crackled in his hand, choked with static.

  “—copy, Alpha One,” a glitchy voice said through the cackle. “Return to mission control. Mission successful. Take a vacation. After all… you deserve it.”

  A sliver of silver light moved.

  A thread.

  It didn’t fly straight. It weaved through traffic, slipping between cars, curling around wreckage, impossibly deliberate.

  Am I hallucinating?

  The thread slammed into his chest.

  Tanner braced for impact—locked, helpless, expecting the ground to finish what the blast had started.

  Instead, warmth spread.

  Pleasant. Gentle.

  Something wrapped around him and pulled.

  Darkness welcomed him.

  [You have merged with a spirit.]

  [Apocalypse beginning in 15 days.]

  [New Quest: Prepare for the Apocalypse.]

  [New Class Unlocked: Drawshifter.]

  Honest warning: this spoiler will ruin the surprise, its a big one, if I were you I wouldn't

  You were warned this is a pretty big spoiler, get ready: ROWAN ISN'T DEAD