The kitchen of the modest suburban home glowed under the soft amber light of a hanging lamp, its warmth a cocoon against the encroaching dusk outside. Charlie moved through the space with a dancer's grace, the rhythmic clatter of pots and pans a testament to his purpose. At eighteen, he was no longer the soft, lumbering boy who'd once shuffled through these halls, his body burdened by excess and doubt. Now, lean muscle rippled beneath his skin, forged by relentless discipline and a constellation of martial arts skills: Boxing at 3 Stars, a precise and punishing art; Taekwondo, Jiu-Jitsu, Kickboxing, Muay Thai, and MMA, each at 2 Stars, a versatile arsenal of combat prowess. His perks—Unbreakable Body at 1 Star, granting him the strength to dent drywall with a fist or leap twenty feet across the yard and ten feet skyward; Agility Spike, boosting his nimbleness by 20%; Stamina Surge, extending his endurance by 30%; and Pumped Up, accelerating his muscle growth—had sculpted him into something extraordinary. Yet tonight, his hands wielded not fists but a spatula, his focus narrowed to a quieter mastery: Cooking, honed to 3 Stars out of 5.
On the counter, ingredients gleamed like treasures under the kitchen's golden light: fillets of fresh salmon, their flesh a delicate pink-orange; spears of vibrant asparagus, crisp and verdant; cloves of garlic, their papery skins rustling as he peeled them; and a medley of herbs—rosemary, thyme, and parsley—releasing their earthy perfume as he chopped. Charlie had settled on pan-seared salmon with garlic-herb butter and roasted asparagus, a dish that balanced sophistication with the comforting familiarity his parents, Marge and Harold, deserved. This meal was more than sustenance; it was a parting gift, a silent vow to care for them as he prepared to chase his destiny.
The salmon hit the hot pan with a satisfying hiss, its skin crackling to a golden crisp as the kitchen filled with the rich, buttery aroma of searing fish. Charlie flipped it deftly, the motion second nature, while the oven hummed behind him, roasting the asparagus to tender perfection, their tips charring ever so slightly. His dark brown eyes flicked to a small glass vial on the counter—a vitality potion, purchased for $800 from the System shop. It shimmered with a faint golden luminescence, its promise of health and vigor a secret he'd weave into the meal. He'd spent $3,000 of his $62,450 savings on a trip to Brazil—an all-inclusive survival challenge, complete with jungle gear, a doctor on call, and a professor to guide him through the wild. Seven days alone in the wilderness could earn him a 1-Star Survival skill, a prize worth the risk. But first, he'd leave Marge and Harold with this enchanted feast and $25,000 to ease their worries in his absence.
With a steady hand, Charlie uncorked the vial, the scent of honeyed citrus wafting up, subtle yet intoxicating. He split the potion carefully—half drizzled into the garlic-herb butter bubbling around the salmon, the other half stirred into a light vinaigrette for the asparagus. The golden liquid melted into the dishes, invisible and undetectable, a clandestine blessing. He plated the meal with an artist's precision, the rosy hue of the fish contrasting vividly with the emerald spears, a feast as beautiful as it was nourishing.
"Dinner's ready!" he called, his voice carrying a note of pride as he ferried the plates to the dining room. The table was set simply—white plates, worn napkins, a vase of wilting daisies Marge had picked from the garden—but it glowed with the intimacy of countless shared meals. Marge looked up from her knitting, her graying hair catching the light, her kind eyes crinkling with a smile that could melt glaciers. Harold folded his newspaper, his weathered face softening with a pride he rarely voiced, his hands still strong from years of labor now resting on the table's edge.
"Smells like we're dining at some fancy joint downtown," Harold said, his chuckle a low rumble as he pulled out his chair. Marge nodded, her fork already hovering with anticipation. "You've outdone yourself, Charlie. This looks like art."
They ate in a comfortable rhythm, forks clinking against plates, the silence broken by murmurs of delight. "This salmon's perfect," Marge said, her voice warm with wonder. "And the asparagus—did you do something different?" Charlie smiled, his secret safe, his heart swelling as the potion worked its invisible magic, threading vitality into every bite. Their laughter washed over him, a balm against the nerves fluttering in his chest. This was home—messy, loud, and achingly dear—and he was about to leave it behind.
Dessert followed, a fruit tart he'd baked that morning, its flaky crust cradling a mosaic of berries kissed with a glossy glaze. As Marge rose to clear the plates, her movements slow and deliberate, Charlie seized his moment. From his pocket, he drew a thick envelope, its edges creased from his grip, and slid it across the table with a quiet thud.
"Mom, Dad," he said, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest, "this is for you. Twenty-five thousand dollars."
The air stilled. Harold's fork froze mid-bite, a strawberry tumbling to his plate. Marge's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening, a sheen of tears gathering at their edges. "Charlie," Harold rasped, his voice thick with shock, "what in God's name—where did you get this kind of money?"
Marge reached for the envelope, her fingers trembling. "Honey, what's going on? You're scaring me."
Charlie stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the hardwood, his backpack already slung over one shoulder. His heart hammered, words tumbling out in a rush. "I'm not going to university. I'm traveling for a year—starting with Brazil. I've got it all planned, and I'll be fine. I promise." He met their stunned gazes, his dark brown eyes fierce with resolve. "I love you both."
Before they could respond, he turned and bolted, the screen door banging shut behind him like a gunshot. He sprinted into the twilight, the cool air stinging his lungs, his sneakers pounding the pavement. Halfway down the block, he glanced back, the house's warm glow a beacon in the gathering dark. Guilt gnawed at him, but excitement surged stronger—a wildfire in his veins. Marge and Harold sat frozen at the table, the envelope untouched between them, their faces a gallery of pride, fear, and unspoken pleas.
---
Hours later, Charlie sat wedged in a narrow plane seat, the cabin cloaked in the muted hum of engines cutting through the night sky. Outside, clouds drifted past the window like ghosts, the world below swallowed by darkness. His destination: Brazil, a land of untamed jungles and uncharted trials. The $3,000 package promised gear, guidance, and a shot at survival—a crucible to test the man he'd become. But now, as the plane soared at thirty thousand feet, his mind churned not with anticipation but with dread.
Since hitting 10% evolution toward his body's full potential—a distant, tantalizing 100%—the Sleep Fighting had returned, a nightly gauntlet he couldn't escape. In a dreamlike ring beyond reality's edge, a faceless man awaited—towering, merciless, his silhouette a void where features should be. With 5 Stars in every fighting style, he was a god of combat, his fists unyielding, his presence a suffocating weight. Charlie's perks—his leap, his agility, his reinforced frame—meant nothing against this phantom. Each night, the man broke him—fingers snapping, ribs cracking, pain so vivid it seared his soul—yet he woke unscathed, the wounds vanishing with the dawn. Tonight, knowing the fight loomed, his nerves were a live wire, sparking beneath his skin.
The passenger beside him, a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit, his face creased with kindness, noticed his tension. "First flight, huh?" he said, patting Charlie's arm with a paternal grin. "It's okay, young man. Just a few hours. Sleep it off—you'll be fine."
Charlie forced a smile, his dark brown eyes flickering with a shadow the man couldn't see. "Yeah," he murmured, "I'll sleep it off." But his thoughts roared. *If only you knew.* Sleep wasn't refuge; it was a battlefield. The Sleep Fighting wasn't mere torment—it sharpened him, honed his Battle Instinct, now lingering at a fragile 1%. If he pushed it to 100%, he could claim a 1-Star rank, a milestone in his ascent.
He gripped the armrest, his knuckles whitening. "System," he thought, the word a silent summons, "if I fight tonight, my Battle Instinct could level up, right?"
The System's voice cut through his mind, cool and mechanical, a whisper from nowhere. Correct.
A spark flared in Charlie's chest—defiance, raw and unyielding. Good. He wasn't that scared, overweight kid anymore, hiding from the world. He'd shed the shame, built himself anew. I'll show this faceless bastard who I am.
He reclined his seat, the leather creaking beneath him, and closed his eyes, surrendering to the pull of sleep. The world dissolved, and the dream-ring rose around him—a vast, desolate void, its edges lost to shadow. The canvas beneath his feet was rough and blood-streaked, the air heavy with the metallic tang of violence. A harsh, sourceless light glared down, casting no warmth, only judgment. Before him stood the faceless man, his head a smooth, featureless abyss, his body coiled with menace, an aura of power that pressed against Charlie's ribs like a physical force.
A bell tolled, its clang sharp and discordant, splitting the silence. Charlie launched forward, his 3-Star Boxing igniting a jab aimed at where a jaw should be. The punch was textbook—swift, precise, packed with intent—but the man didn't flinch. His arm blurred, a counter-hook slamming into Charlie's cheek with the force of a sledgehammer. Pain erupted, white-hot and blinding, and Charlie hit the canvas hard, the impact jarring his spine.
He's not feeling my hits, Charlie thought, scrambling to his feet, breath ragged in his throat. Is this guy Unbreakable Body 5 Stars or what? The man advanced, his movements a fluid dance of destruction, every step a promise of ruin. Charlie ducked a haymaker, his 2-Star Jiu-Jitsu flaring as he lunged for a grapple, aiming to lock the man's arm. But the faceless figure twisted free with inhuman ease, flipping Charlie onto his back and pinning him to the ground. An elbow drove into his chest, and his ribs groaned under the pressure, a sickening crack splitting the air.
Ribs cracked, the System intoned, its calm indifference a dagger in his ear.
Charlie gasped, pain blooming like fire across his torso. "You—" he snarled, rolling to his knees, "you always troll me, System! I lost weight, I trained, and you stayed quiet. Now you won't shut up while I get my ass kicked!" He surged upward, adrenaline drowning the agony, and aimed a 2-Star Muay Thai kick at the man's flank. The blow landed, solid and true, but the faceless man absorbed it like stone, retaliating with a knee that crashed into Charlie's side. Another crack—more ribs giving way—and Charlie staggered, vision swimming.
The System spoke again, its voice maddeningly serene. "Success is not the absence of obstacles, but the courage to push through them."
"Stop with the damn quotes!" Charlie spat, blood flecking the canvas as he ducked another strike. "You—argh!" A fist caught his shoulder, spinning him sideways, and his left arm went limp, the joint screaming in protest. Shoulder dislocated, the System noted, as if narrating a mundane chore.
The ring tilted, the light searing his eyes, but Charlie's defiance burned brighter than the pain. I'm not done. He planted his feet, his good arm raised, his broken body trembling with resolve. The faceless man loomed, a titan of shadow and force, his next blow poised to end it. "I'm gonna—" Charlie's shout was severed as the dream shattered, the void collapsing into darkness.
He jolted awake, a gasp tearing from his throat, his hands clutching the armrests. The plane's cabin was dim, the hum of the engines a steady pulse, the window beside him framing a starless sky. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his heart a war drum in his chest, but his body was whole—no cracked ribs, no dislocated shoulder, no bruises painting his skin. The man beside him snored softly, a faint whistle escaping his lips, oblivious to the war Charlie had just waged.
Charlie leaned back, his breathing slowing, a grim smile curling his lips. Next time, you faceless bastard. I'm coming for you. The pain lingered as a phantom ache, but so did the fire—the unyielding will that had carried him from a boy ashamed of his reflection to a warrior clawing toward greatness. Brazil lay ahead, its jungles a proving ground, but this fight, this internal crucible, was where he'd truly forge himself.
He closed his eyes again, not to sleep, but to summon his strength.
---
The plane touched down at São Paulo-Guarulhos International Airport with a bone-rattling jolt, the screech of tires slicing through the engine's hum. Charlie blinked awake, muscles stiff and mind clouded by the phantom pain of last night's dream battle. The faceless man's blows lingered in memory, but as he watched the other passengers shuffle to their feet, he forced the anxiety down. This is it. Brazil. The jungle. Time to prove I'm more than just a fighter in my own head.
He moved through the airport's gleaming halls, the chaos of arrivals both exhilarating and overwhelming. Glass walls soared overhead, reflecting a mosaic of neon signs in Portuguese and English. The air was thick with the scent of roasted coffee and jet fuel, and the buzz of voices in a dozen languages. Charlie's backpack felt reassuringly heavy on his shoulders, filled with System-bought essentials: a multi-tool, compact water purifier, lightweight sleeping bag, and a few carefully chosen rations. His heart thudded with anticipation, not fear. Seven days alone in the jungle. I've got this.
Customs was a blur, his Agility Spike letting him weave through the sluggish line with practiced ease. When he finally emerged into the arrivals hall, he scanned the crowd for his contact. It didn't take long to spot him-a wiry man in his late thirties, sun-baked skin, a crooked grin flashing a gold-capped tooth, and a sign that read "Charlie – Jungle Survival." The man's faded khaki shirt and cargo pants spoke of experience, and his battered baseball cap shaded eyes that missed nothing.
"Charlie, yeah?" the man called, his accent a melodic blend of Portuguese and confidence. His handshake was firm, calloused. "Luiz Mendes. Been running jungle trips for fifteen years. Ready to wrestle the Amazon?"
Charlie grinned, matching Luiz's energy. "Hell yeah." Luiz's eyes lingered on Charlie's lean build and the quiet determination in his stance, and he nodded approvingly. "Good spirit. You'll need it. Truck's this way."
Outside, the humid night air wrapped around Charlie like a damp blanket, thick with the scents of rain, exhaust, and distant greenery. Luiz's battered green pickup waited in the parking lot, its bed stacked with crates and gear, the paint chipped but the tires sturdy. The cab smelled of old tobacco and engine oil, the dashboard a relic of analog dials and a dangling jaguar-shaped air freshener. Luiz started the engine, samba music crackling from the radio, and they pulled into the city's pulsing traffic.
The drive out of São Paulo was a journey from civilization to wildness. Neon lights gave way to winding roads hemmed by dense foliage. The city's glow faded, replaced by moonlight and the chorus of crickets. Luiz filled the silence with stories-tourists who panicked at spiders, businessmen who tried to bribe jaguars with watches. Charlie laughed, his nerves easing, his Stamina Surge keeping him alert despite the late hour.
"You're different," Luiz said, glancing over. "Not whining about Wi-Fi or bugs. What's your deal?"
Charlie hesitated, then shrugged. "Just want to see what I'm made of." Luiz grinned, gold tooth glinting. "The jungle will show you. Strips you down to the bones."
Eventually, the pavement turned to dirt, the truck's headlights cutting tunnels through the darkness. They arrived at a clearing-a modest base camp of four canvas tents, a fire pit, and a table loaded with maps, compasses, and survival gear. The jungle loomed just beyond, a wall of black and green alive with the pulse of insects and distant animal calls.
Luiz killed the engine. "We're here. Meet the team, then get some rest. Big day tomorrow."
Four figures emerged from the tents, their faces sharpening in the floodlights. Charlie's nerves prickled-not with fear, but with the thrill of the unknown.
First was Dr. Elena Costa, the team's medic. Compact and sharp-eyed, she wore her dark hair in a tight bun, her vest bristling with medical supplies. Her handshake was brisk, her gaze assessing. "I patch you up if you do something stupid. Try not to." Despite her clipped tone, there was warmth in her eyes-a steady reassurance that made Charlie feel safer.
Next was Professor Miguel Ribeiro, the survival instructor. Tall and wiry, his salt-and-pepper beard framed a face weathered by sun and wind. His rolled-up sleeves revealed arms crisscrossed with scars-a living map of jungle battles. He clapped Charlie's shoulder with a hand like leather. "I'll teach you to read the jungle, find water, track animals."
Ana Lopes, the equipment specialist, was a wiry woman in her twenties with a buzzcut and a mischievous grin. Her hands moved deftly over a pile of gear-machetes, ropes, water filters. "Break my gear and we've got problems," she teased, tossing him a headlamp. Her tone was playful, but her eyes were fierce, and Charlie could see the survival knife strapped to her thigh was no prop.
Lastly, Thiago Silva, the tracker, radiated quiet intensity. Broad-shouldered and silent, his eyes rarely left the jungle's edge. His camo jacket blended with the shadows, and a coiled whip hung at his belt. "I find what's lost-people, trails, animals. Stay sharp, and you won't need me." His handshake was iron, his gaze appraising.
Luiz clapped his hands, breaking the moment. "Alright, team's introduced. Charlie, your bunk's in that tent. It's 23:00-sleep now, training starts at dawn."
The team dispersed, their murmurs fading into the night. Charlie stood for a moment, letting the jungle's hum wash over him. Fireflies blinked in the undergrowth, and a distant howl sent a shiver down his spine-a reminder that the wild was alive, watching.
He ducked into his tent, the canvas cool and musty. His sleeping bag unrolled with a soft thump, and he lay back, staring at the lantern-lit ceiling. Tomorrow, he'd begin learning from Miguel, Ana, Elena, and Thiago-how to read the land, wield the tools, patch wounds, and hunt, earning his 1-Star Survival skill.
As sleep crept in, the familiar dread of the dream-ring returned. The faceless man would be waiting. But Charlie's jaw set, his resolve hardening. *I'm here to survive. Jungle, dreams, whatever. Bring it.*
The jungle's pulse lulled him, the distant calls of night creatures a chorus to his defiance. Tomorrow, the true test would begin-not just of his body, but of his will.