Steven's room was dim and quiet, lit only by the pale yellow glow of his desk lamp. The weak circle of light trembled faintly across the wooden surface, barely pushing back the darkness that crowded in from every corner of the room. His desk was littered with open textbooks—history, biology, chemistry, mathematics—all marked with scribbles and underlines, pages softened from constant flipping. Normally, such a sight would have been absurd. Steven Blake, voluntarily surrounding himself with books, deliberately staying up late to study? Anyone at school would laugh at the idea. And yet here he was, his eyes heavy but burning with a determination that felt alien and new.
He leaned back in his chair, arms dangling loosely at his sides, his head tilted toward the ceiling. His eyes were glazed, not out of boredom, but from the exhaustion of focus. He had spent the last several hours doing something that used to feel impossible: immersing himself in study, not because of an exam, not because of obligation, but because it suddenly felt achievable—no, more than that, it felt rewarding.
[Reading History Textbook. Skill Unlocked: Earth History Understanding (Intermediate Level). Proficiency +1. Current Progress: 25/100.]
[Reading Biology Textbook. Skill Unlocked: Biology Understanding (Intermediate Level). Proficiency +1. Current Progress: 30/100.]
The chimes of the system echoed faintly in his head. They no longer startled him. Instead, they brought a peculiar comfort, like the sound of raindrops against a window on a sleepless night. A quiet rhythm of progress, proof that every effort was being measured and rewarded.
Steven closed the last book with a long sigh and rubbed at his temples. His brain throbbed, not painfully, but insistently, reminding him that he had reached his limit. "Even this system can't fix exhaustion," he muttered under his breath.
[The system is enhancing the host's cognitive absorption rate and neural retention. High-efficiency knowledge integration increases energy expenditure. Mild fatigue is expected. Four to five hours of rest is recommended for optimal recovery.]
Steven gave a short, tired snort, amused despite himself. "You even sound like a school counselor," he murmured. But the truth was undeniable. His eyelids were already drooping, his muscles loose and weak. He didn't argue. For once, there was no panic about unfinished assignments, no dread of the next day. Just one thought circled in his head as sleep pulled him under: What's next?
When his eyes opened again, golden sunlight filtered softly through the curtains. The world outside was still quiet, the hush of early morning clinging to the streets like a lingering dream. The alarm clock on his bedside table was dark and silent; it hadn't even rung yet. Still, Steven was awake. Not sluggish, not groggy—awake.
He sat up slowly, blinking against the light. His body felt… different. Not heavy, not dull. Light. Refreshed. As if every cell had been scrubbed clean and rebooted. His thoughts moved sharply, his senses keen. It was a clarity he had never felt before.
"This feels… amazing," he whispered.
Without hesitation, he slid off the bed and lowered himself to the floor. The motion was smooth, natural. He braced his palms against the cool surface and began push-ups.
[Doing Push-Ups. Strength +0.2. Upper Body Strength +0.5.]
He moved faster, curious now. Squats followed, then curl-ups.
[Doing Squats. Strength +0.2. Lower Body Strength +0.5.][Doing Curl-Ups. Strength +0.2. Core Strength +0.5.]
Steven froze for a moment, staring at the notifications in disbelief. "Even exercise gets me stat bonuses?" His lips curled into a grin. Suddenly the fatigue of yesterday meant nothing. He pushed harder, his curiosity feeding his drive. By the time the sun was truly rising, Steven had laced his shoes and jogged outside.
The morning air was crisp and cool, filling his lungs with a sharp freshness that made him feel alive. The streets were empty, only the faint sound of a street cleaner humming in the distance, the occasional bark of a dog behind some gate. He headed to the small park down the block, a patch of green framed by apartment buildings and rusty swings.
He ran laps around the cracked path, the system chiming each time.
[Running. Stamina +1.]
He practiced clumsy boxing combos, copying the moves he had once watched half-heartedly on YouTube. His fists sliced through the air, awkward at first, then steadier as the system adjusted his rhythm.
[Practicing Boxing. Combat +1.][Doing Punches. Arm Strength +1.][Doing Kicks. Leg Strength +1.][Practicing Footwork. Agility +1.]
His shirt clung to his back with sweat, but his breaths came steady, not ragged. Every movement left him not drained but energized. He could feel himself improving in real time, and for the first time in his life, training didn't feel pointless. It felt addictive.
By the time he returned home, he had run ten kilometers, completed a hundred push-ups, a hundred squats, and fifty curl-ups. His muscles trembled with effort, but instead of collapsing, he felt exhilarated. He stepped into the shower, letting the cold water cascade over him. The chill jolted every nerve awake, leaving him buzzing.
[Taking Refreshing Shower. Charisma +0.2.]
Steven chuckled. "Charisma from showering? That's ridiculous. But I'll take it."
When he stepped into the kitchen, towel still draped over his shoulders, the house was silent. His parents, Morris and Natellie, were still upstairs. The restaurant, Heavenly Dine, attached to their home, remained closed, the chairs still stacked on the tables. Steven's gaze drifted across the kitchen counter—the neatly stacked spices, the old chopping board, the pots hanging against the wall.
A thought struck him suddenly. "If the system works with studying and exercise…" His eyes narrowed. "Why not cooking?"
He rolled up his sleeves and set to work.
He filled a pot with water, the metallic clang echoing softly in the quiet kitchen. He moved to the fridge, pulling out what they had: carrots, peas, corn, beans, capsicum. His hands trembled slightly as he picked up the knife. He had never been more than a clumsy helper here and there, but now…
[Preparing Soup. Skill Unlocked: Basic Cooking (Intermediate Proficiency: 23/100).][System Guidance Activating…]
The change was immediate. His grip adjusted, subtle but firm. His movements smoothed as if unseen hands were guiding his wrists. The knife didn't feel foreign anymore—it felt like an extension of his arm. Slice. Slice. Slice. Uniform pieces of vegetables fell against the board, rhythmic and neat.
[Cutting Vegetables. Skill Unlocked: Knife Handling (Intermediate Proficiency: 11/100).][Boiling Vegetables. Skill Unlocked: Temperature Control (Intermediate Proficiency: 13/100).][Deboning Chicken. Skill Unlocked: Deboning (Intermediate Proficiency: 11/100).]
He worked steadily, quietly. The kitchen filled with the bubbling of water and the steady thud of his knife. He deboned chicken carefully, brow furrowed in concentration, before searing it with garlic and ginger. The aroma rose immediately, rich and sharp, filling the air with warmth. He added mushrooms, spring onions, the sizzle of oil loud in the stillness.
The broth simmered golden, vegetables softening gently. He seasoned it carefully—salt, pepper, crushed garlic, just a hint of lime juice. Then came the noodles, half-boiled, lowered into the broth to soak up flavor. On the side, he stir-fried the chicken and mushrooms, finishing with a splash of soy sauce, a sprinkle of chili flakes, a garnish of fresh coriander.
By the time he plated everything, the kitchen was alive with fragrance. Steam curled upward like ghostly ribbons. The broth shimmered. The vegetables glowed bright against the pale noodles. The meat glistened with a perfect sear.
Footsteps creaked on the stairs. Morris and Natellie entered, still in their slippers, rubbing their eyes.
"Steven?" Natellie blinked at the sight. "Are you… cooking?"
Steven kept his voice calm. "Just trying something new."
They exchanged a puzzled glance but sat when he gestured to the table. He placed bowls before them, the aroma wafting stronger.
The first spoonful silenced the room. Natellie's eyes widened. "This is… This is really good."
Morris took a bite of the noodles, chewed slowly, then set his spoon down. His expression was unreadable. Finally, he said, voice thick with disbelief, "Did you follow a recipe?"
Steven shook his head lightly. "Just experimented."
Morris leaned back, staring at his son as though seeing him for the first time. "Steven… this tastes better than half the dishes I used to serve at the hotel."
Coming from a man who had once been sous-chef at one of Charlestown's most prestigious restaurants, that wasn't a throwaway comment.
Steven only smiled. He made another batch, slower this time, demonstrating each step. His parents watched, captivated, as his knife danced, as the broth thickened, as every motion seemed deliberate and sure. When they tried themselves, laughter filled the air, their movements clumsy but lighthearted.
Natellie's eyes sparkled. "Steven, if we added this to the menu…"
"It might bring people back," Morris finished, hope flickering in his tired eyes.
The three of them worked together for the next hour, cooking in rhythm. The clatter of pots, the sizzle of oil, the rising steam—it felt alive again. The kitchen, once silent with frustration and defeat, now rang with laughter and purpose.
Steven glanced toward the dining area. The tables sat empty, the chalkboard menu faded, dust lingering in corners. But something inside him shifted. For the first time in years, the space didn't look abandoned. It looked waiting.
Because today, for the first time, he wasn't just dreaming of change.
He was cooking it.