The night air was cool, a welcome relief against Ryan's burning muscles as he trudged toward home.
His shirt clung to his back, still damp with sweat from the punishing training earlier.
Every step made his calves ache, his arms still trembled faintly from push-ups and pull-ups.
But the thought of cold milk was enough to make him take a short detour toward the small convenience store down the street.
The bell above the door jingled faintly when he stepped inside. The harsh fluorescent lights made him squint.
The place smelled faintly of instant noodles and floor cleaner. He grabbed a chilled carton of milk from the fridge—the cold bit sharply against his fingers—and carried it to the counter.
"That'll be two-fifty," the clerk said without looking up.
Ryan fumbled with his change, slid it across the counter, and nodded in thanks.
The street outside was quiet… almost too quiet.
He was halfway home when movement flickered in the corner of his eye—four silhouettes on the opposite sidewalk.
Their footsteps were slow, unhurried. The boys were all about his age, wearing matching black varsity jackets.
On the back, stitched in crimson thread, was a jagged emblem shaped like a set of dripping fangs. Beneath it, in bold letters: "Crimson Fangs."
Ryan's chest tightened. He'd heard whispers about them. Trouble. Street fights. The kind of people you didn't want to make eye contact with.
He quickly looked away, fixing his eyes on the cracks in the pavement, but the faintest twitch in his neck betrayed him—he'd already been caught staring.
One of them slowed his walk, turning his head with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. He said something under his breath to the others.
All four stopped. Then, like wolves catching the scent of a rabbit, they turned toward him in unison.
A bead of sweat rolled down Ryan's temple. He clutched the milk tighter. His legs moved faster—then faster still.
Just walk. No—run.
The sudden pounding of footsteps behind him shattered his thoughts. His heart slammed against his ribs.
Before he could react, a rough hand clamped down on his shoulder, spinning him around and slamming him into the wall of a closed shop.
"The fuck you staring at, huh?" the tallest one barked, his breath reeking faintly of cigarettes.
Ryan stammered, "I—I wasn't—"
A punch sank into his ribs, forcing the air from his lungs in a ragged wheeze. His milk carton hit the ground with a dull thud.
Another blow clipped his jaw, snapping his head sideways.
"Didn't your mommy teach you it's rude to stare?" one sneered, jabbing a knuckle into his chest for emphasis.
[DING!]
[Quest: Fight back.]
[Reward: New skill move, +3 Strength, -2kg body fat.]
Ryan froze. Even through the haze of pain, the words glowed in his mind like neon.
Fight back.
Something deep in his chest twisted—fear mixing with an odd thrill. His lips twitched into a faint, pained smirk.
He staggered forward, fists curling. "You want me to fight? Fine."
The first jab he threw was sloppy—his small, fat hands barely making contact.
His short arms couldn't generate much force, but he pushed through the awkwardness and threw another. And another.
The gang burst into laughter.
"Look at this guy—trying to box with T-rex arms!"
They shoved him back, their mockery ringing in his ears. But Ryan didn't drop his fists. Each punch felt a little faster, a little harder. His lungs burned, but he refused to step back.
The leader's smirk faded into a scowl. He cocked his fist back—
"HEY! What's going on over there?!"
The voice was loud, authoritative. A beam of light cut through the alley, landing on them. A police officer was jogging toward the group, flashlight in hand.
The Crimson Fangs scattered instantly, disappearing into the night like shadows fleeing the sun.
Ryan slumped to his knees, gasping for breath. The world tilted slightly, adrenaline still flooding his veins.
He glanced at the milk carton lying on the ground, split open and leaking slowly into the gutter.
He closed his eyes for a moment. The ache in his ribs throbbed with each breath.
'I'm still weak… but not for long.'
[Quest complete.]
[+3 Strength.]
[-2kg fat.]
[Skill learned: Hook Strike (E) – A tight, explosive punch thrown in a short arc, ideal for breaking guards and punishing close-range opponents.]
A sudden heat rippled through his body, starting in his chest and spreading outward. His arms felt denser, firmer. The heaviness in his frame lightened. His heartbeat steadied.
[Weight: 80kg]
Ryan grinned faintly, wincing as his split lip stung. The faint glow of determination lit his eyes.