Tom glanced around the isolation room. He had an hour to kill now before his next lecture. Mostly, the sessions he got into with the two open competitors depended on their real-world responsibilities. Unless it specifically clashed with his dodge or obstacle course training, Tom made it to every open slot he had been offered.


    His eyes fell on the smallest war hammer intended for ten-year-olds, resting in its usual place. That was what he was here to do, but his thoughtful mood made him drag his feet.


    Soon, he decided, but not yet. He knew his drive was not going to let him procrastinate for more than a few minutes, but self-reflection was important, and a lot had happened in the last two weeks since he had won the spot in the Divine Champions’ trial. Life had been a whirlwind of frenetic activity with barely any time to breathe, and his sleep had been compromised badly.


    It was so oppressive that he had almost drifted off during a lecture.


    “Get more sleep,” he told himself furiously. Between his nightly tempering, lair fighting, and squeezing in extra study sessions, he had been reduced to the point of only receiving an average of six hours per night. It was nowhere near enough for this body. “I’ll slow down and look after myself,” he told the empty room.


    Mentally, he made the correction to his outlook. Going forward, he would enforce sleep time and, if he failed, he was going to skip the nightly sessions until the issue was corrected. Tom did not like the decision he had come to, but he was going to stick to it, because he didn’t want to risk his efficiency dropping. To be at his best, he knew he had to get sufficient sleep.


    Especially in this body.


    Two weeks, and four embarrassing losses in official battles. It was what logic had told him was likely, but his pride still stung a little. Corrine’s lessons on the risks of partial shields had been borne out, as he couldn’t remember anything from his encounter with the FAMES representative, an enemy that had six prior incapacitations to its name. It had been his second fight, and, for days after, he would catch himself wondering what had been done to him. What had been so horrific that it had forced the GOD’s shield to completely suppress the memories of the entire experience?


    Tom couldn’t even remember what it had looked like and he could only imagine what would have happened if he had gone in without a shield. It really highlighted how dangerous these encounters were.


    With the help of all the practice, he had forced himself to stop thinking about it. The others he had fought had been far more accommodating, and he had even been offered the chance to surrender by a giant four-armed ape-like creature. Given that it had three incapacitations and three kills, it clearly did not fight with a GOD’s shield. That had been an example of their gentlemen’s agreement in action. The WADOR fighter had extended him the deal, as per the unofficial rules.


    Tom, with his full GOD’s shield, could have fought, but he recognised it was pointless. That particular opponent had been way too strong. He had taken the offer and conceded the match.


    Then there was the crafting.


    He was devoting everything he could to it, but it was not going stellar.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    At the end of the first week, Throm and Vturalta had decided he had sufficient basic knowledge to push hard into practical exercises.


    Those tests had been a debacle. A six-year-old, even one with an adult mind, did not have the same capacity as the masters with hundreds or thousands of years of experience like they were used to teaching.


    April  had almost fallen off the stool laughing when he had whinged at her. Her response had been simple:


    “They’re just not Tomifying the information enough.”


    “That’s not a word.”


    She had laughed. “No, it’s a depressing concept. The bane of my existence.”


    “I’m not that bad.”


    “That’s debatable, Tom. Listen, I think I can help.”


    “Really?”


    “Yes; can you promise to pass on a message for me?”


    Tom had considered that for a moment. He had known that it was going to backfire somehow, but, if whatever message she sent cut a week off his training time, it was worth it.


    April had smirked. “I want you to tell Throm something for me. ‘Imagine Tom as a wormling that swims down and teach him accordingly.’ Those exact words, Tom. Tell him those. It will help.”


    When he had passed on the message to Throm, the centipede’s reaction had literally broken what, until that point, he had considered to be an unbreakable floor. The massive creature had shattered all the stone under every one of his legs as a result of vibrating so quickly. Then he had been unable to form words for almost a minute afterward.


    Tom couldn’t comprehend the humour, but he was damn sure he was the one being laughed at.


    “Is it really that funny?” he asked.


    “Wormling swims down.” Throm had chortled in response, and the already-broken stone was ground into a finer dust. After that Tom had tried to keep to a strategy of not reminding anyone.


    They had thankfully taken the message seriously, and the way they were training him had shifted again in response. Instead of giving Tom practical exercises, Throm decided he would get him to build the ritual he needed out of wire. Only once it was correct was he going to take the next steps to minimise it and engrave it within a wooden disk.


    The sessions went from lectures to him creating different sections under their watchful eyes. The flood of information didn’t stop - it just came in an alternative form. They would notice something minor, like what degree of bend was best, and then interrogate him about whether he was certain that he was making the right decision. Pro tip, he was never in the right; then, having established the problem, they would willingly spend an hour debating the risks and benefits of his method against the alternatives. Tom would work while the argument occurred, and only switch his hands to building something that was less controversial for a while. Then, worn out, he would change the amount of bend slightly, so it was one and a half degrees less than what it had been like, the lecture had concluded, was the optimal amount.


    Tom hoped the revisions were working, but he was unable to estimate how long the entire effort was going to take. The current construction might turn out to be the template he needed - or they might tell him to start again from scratch. He just didn’t know.


    The whole thing sucked.


    “But the fruit,” he reminded himself out loud, “And the rest of the power.”


    He remembered the other items on the curated list, and the additional goodies that might appear once he worked through them. All the current ones were great. They were all things that he wanted - starting with the spatial storage, a trait which was going to open up lots of interesting options in the real world. For example, he would be able to carry poisons and weapons around with him, which would be amazing.


    As for the ones in the future, he expected them to be just as good. Hopefully, there would even be discounted tier-five and -six items to really kickstart his title acquisitions.


    “And a grand total of zero wins,” he said wryly. As much as it hurt him to admit it, his combat strength wasn’t going to get him what he wanted.


    Once more, he glanced around the room, then decided he had delayed enough. Almost two minutes of training time had been wasted due to his procrastination.


    His eyes slid to the war hammer and then, because he wasn’t ready for that yet, they went to the small folder of information on the current state of the world. A couple of minutes refreshing his knowledge of what was happening in the rest of Existentia couldn’t hurt.