The sun had barely crested over the rooftops of a quiet town tucked away in the vast and vibrant land of Indra. Golden light poured into narrow alleys, brushing against the stone walls and sleepy windows of old houses. Morning had arrived gently—except for one corner of the town where peace had been shattered.
There, a blur of motion darted through the street—arms flailing, breath short, shoes slapping the pavement with reckless urgency.
Zorion was late. Again.
---
Zorion (Inner Monologue):
Name's Zorion. I work at a local fruit shop—well, "work" is a generous word at this point. I'm currently sprinting down this cursed road because if I'm late one more time, I'm pretty sure my manager will launch an orange at my skull hard enough to send me into next week.
---
As the day came and went, the sky began to melt into deep shades of amber and rose. In the same small town—now bathed in the soft sadness of dusk—one figure moved far more slowly than before. No longer running. Just walking. Wandering. A shadow trailing behind him, growing longer with each step.
He wasn't headed anywhere in particular.
Just... away.
---
Zorion:
So, yeah. I got fired. Turns out being late ten days in a row doesn't qualify as "dedicated service." Who knew?
He came to a stop under the dim orange glow of a lamppost, the wind rustling through the empty street like it was carrying off the last bit of his dignity. He dug into his pocket with a sigh, fingers brushing against something paper-thin.
Pulling it out, he blinked at the cheap, glossy texture of a small blue-and-gold slip.
"Well," he muttered, lips curling into a lazy smirk, "at least one good thing happened today. I won this random lottery. Only cost me a hundred bronze coins."
He turned the ticket toward the fading sunlight like it might shine with meaning. It didn't.
"But get this—" he said to no one in particular, eyes drooping with satisfaction, "—ten full days of free food, travel, and shelter. Can't say no to that."
The smirk widened. The kind of smirk only jobless men with nothing to lose wore. The smirk of a man with absolutely zero plans, and even fewer regrets
---
Narrator:
What Zorion didn't know—what he was blissfully, comically unaware of—was that the ticket he held wasn't just some throwaway prize.
It was an invitation to the most prestigious sporting event in the history of humanity.
---
Scene Shift – Nighttime, Warne's House
The buzz of cicadas filled the warm night air outside. Inside Warne's modest home, the buzz was more beer-induced.
The front door burst open with a thud.
Zorion stumbled in, bag slung over one shoulder, eyes sparkling with the mischief of a man newly unemployed.
"Waaaarne, my bro!" he declared dramatically, holding up a bag stuffed with snacks and clinking bottles. "Let's party—I got fired!"
Warne blinked, standing barefoot in the hallway, arms crossed.
"You're not supposed to celebrate that."
"I'm not celebrating!" Zorion beamed, already kicking off his shoes. "I'm coping. With beer. And sugar."
Warne sighed, but didn't stop him. He just walked to the kitchen, grabbed two mugs, and set them on the table.
Within minutes, the two were seated, half a bottle down, with crumbs and laughter scattered across the table.
Warne leaned back, nursing his drink. His eyes were calm, but sharp. "You know," he said carefully, "you ought to be more responsible."
Zorion snorted. "Not this again."
"No, I mean it. You've got something in you. Leadership. You've always had it. People follow your lead, even when you're not trying. If you ever stop coasting, I think you'd surprise everyone—especially yourself."
Zorion blinked, lips tugging into a half-smile.
Then he laughed. "Shut up, you romantic drunk. You know what else I got? A ticket."
He fished into his pocket and tossed it onto the table like it was a royal flush.
"Guess who's going to the duo football event, baby!"
Clink.
Warne's glass slipped and shattered on the floor.
He stared at the ticket like it had just insulted his ancestors.
"You're kidding."
"Nope."
"Zorion. That's the Equinox Series."
"The...what?"
Warne stood, mouth half-open in disbelief. "Do you even know what you've won?"
Zorion shrugged. "Ten days of food and a vacation?"
Warne paced like a man trying to calm a volcano. "That's not just any event. It's the biggest sport in the world. It's played once a year. Seven games. Zaherra versus Indra. It's the only time the borders open."
Zorion blinked.
"...That's a lot for a hundred bronze."
Warne ignored him.
"You're going to see duo football live. That's football, Zorion—but with two balls on the field at the same time."
Zorion blinked. "...Is that legal?"
Warne's eyes lit up like a preacher at revival. "It's glorious. Two balls. One game. Same field. Teams have to score and defend both simultaneously. Strategy? Insane. Chaos? Weaponized. Watching it live? Spiritual experience."
Zorion grinned. "So... two goals at once?"
"Or two blunders at once. It's mental gymnastics on grass. Players lose track of which ball is which. Defenders tackle the wrong guy. Goalies have panic attacks. And when both balls end up at the same goal? The crowd loses its mind."
Zorion leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head, and smirked again. "Well, guess they'll just have to watch me eat free pizza from the stands."
Then his eyes lit up—wide and sparkling like a kid on festival night.
"Wait… does that mean people might see me on live TV!?"
Warne slapped his forehead.
"Zorion. That's exactly why this event is so prestigious."
He stood and paced, the way someone does when they're trying to explain fire to someone who's never seen heat.
"It's not live telecasted. That's the whole point. The stadium is the only place it can be watched. It's sacred. Traditional. Tickets are like relics. No recordings. No streams. Just the arena, the game, and the crowd."
Zorion blinked.
"…So you're saying no one will see me eat the pizza?"
Warne groaned.
"And that ticket you've got?" He picked it up gently like it was a divine relic. "Judging by the golden edge and watermark... that's a VIP box ticket. One of the highest-class seats. That thing's probably worth a million gold coins."
Zorion froze. His jaw slowly unhinged.
"…Wait, a million?"
The bag of snacks fell from his lap.
Then he sprang up like a madman, jumping across the room, arms flailing.
"We can sell it! I can sell it! Forget ten days—I can live ten decades! My grandkids can live off that thing!"
Warne didn't move. He just calmly asked:
"Does the ticket have your name on it?"
Zorion stopped mid-air, eyes twitching. He yanked the ticket from the table, squinted—and his soul evaporated from his face.
"…Yes. Yes, it does."
He let out a sound that was somewhere between a cheer and a death rattle.
"I WON THE LOTTERY!!"
Warne still didn't smile.
"It's not something to celebrate. It's something to mourn."
Zorion stared.
"You can't sell it," Warne explained, voice firm. "Every seat is matched to a verified citizen from either Zaherra or Indra. If someone else uses your identity, they'll have to forge border clearance. And anyone caught faking ID between Zaherra and Indra? Oh boy."
He drew a finger across his neck.
"He must really hate being alive."
---
Scene Shift – Past Midnight, Zorion's Room
The town had gone silent. Stars blinked above like confused witnesses to Zorion's madness.
He stumbled into his dark apartment, shut the door, turned the lock, and faceplanted into his bed like a man struck by divine punishment.
"Million gold... MILLION GOLD COINS…"
He groaned, fists buried into the pillow. For ten whole minutes, he just groaned, rolled, kicked, and wallowed in financial despair.
Eventually, he sighed—long and hard.
"…No. I shouldn't be greedy," he muttered, barely audible in the dark. "I didn't even know it was worth anything. I was happy with ten days of free food and travel."
He turned to the ceiling.
"I just have to forget what Warne said."
He closed his eyes.
Then bolted upright and screamed:
"WHY AM I SO UNLUCKYYYYYYYYYY!"
And collapsed again—this time, finally, passing out.
---
Narrator (softly):
Little did he know... the ticket in his pocket was not just a pass to the stadium.
It was a ticket to a better world—
and a better half.
---
AUTHOR'S NOTE
CHARACTER DESIGNS FOR ZORION AND WARNE
Zorion – Age: 20
He had the kind of messy black hair that looked like it had opinions of its own, and eyes wide with mischief, curiosity, and occasional panic. A walking contradiction—clever but chaotic, timid but talkative—wrapped in a loose T-shirt and ambition stitched with poor timing.
---
Warne – Age: 21
With stubble he never bothered shaving and a hoodie that carried more secrets than receipts, Warne had the air of a man who'd seen too much and remembered too little. But behind that lazy smirk was a mind sharper than a courtroom knife—especially when sober, which wasn't often.