Ryan stepped onto the treadmill, the digital screen blinking 60:00 in big red numbers.Arthur's voice was flat. "One hour. Don't slow down."
Ryan's eyes twitched. One hour of this? My lungs are gonna pop out halfway through.
Still, he pressed the start button, the belt whirring beneath his feet. The first few minutes felt easy enough, but the hum of the machine seemed to grow louder, like it was mocking him.
His breathing got heavier, sweat dampening his shirt until it clung to him. Every inhale burned; every exhale came out like steam from a broken pipe.
Arthur stood a few steps back, arms crossed, watching him like a hawk. His gaze wasn't casual—it was sharp, weighing Ryan's movements, his posture, his breathing, every bead of sweat.
'This kid's got guts,' Arthur thought, narrowing his eyes. 'Most people in his shoes would've given up already. But he showed up. He's willing to bleed for a way out of this pathetic life.'
The corner of Arthur's mouth lifted into a faint smirk.
Without another word, he walked over to his gym bag, pulling out two black resistance bands. He tied them tightly around his fists, the snap of rubber echoing faintly in the empty gym.
Then, Arthur moved.
His feet slid across the floor like they were gliding on rails—light, controlled, and deadly.
His fists flickered through the air, not wild swings but razor-sharp jabs, hooks, and uppercuts, each snapping back to guard with perfect form.
He'd weave under invisible punches, pivot on a dime, then fire a counter like a bullet through glass.
The sound of his punches slicing the air was different—clean, crisp, and terrifying in its precision.
Ryan caught glimpses of it between labored breaths and the pounding of his shoes against the treadmill.
It was like watching something out of a movie… except it was real, and the guy was right in front of him.
'And I sparred with this guy? Jesus… he's a monster.'
The clock ticked down, seconds dragging like hours. By the time it hit zero, Ryan's legs felt like they'd been dipped in concrete.
He stumbled off the treadmill, collapsing onto the floor, chest heaving like he'd just run from death itself.
His hands pressed against the cool floor tiles, trying to ground himself. "Haaah… haaah… holy shit…"
Arthur's voice cut through his gasps like a blade."No time to rest."
Before Ryan could even lift his head, something smacked against his chest—a pair of bands, the same kind Arthur had been wearing.
"Put them on," Arthur ordered, his tone leaving no space for negotiation. "Punching bag. Now. Strength and accuracy."
Ryan's head snapped up. "Wha—"
"I don't repeat myself."
Ryan's shoulders slumped. "...Fine."
As he dragged himself toward the punching bag, the System chimed in.
[DING! New Quest: Practice your two boxing skills until you pass out.Reward: +2 Strength, +1 Endurance, Boxing Jab Proficiency +20%]
Ryan stared at the prompt, his lips twisting into a tired smile."Of course… until I pass out. My life's just a comedy now."
Still, he tied the bands around his wrists, feeling the faint pressure biting into his skin. He squared up in front of the bag, his breathing slow, his fists loose but ready.
The first jab landed with a dull thud, his whole arm trembling from fatigue. His second was faster, a little cleaner.
By the fifth, his knuckles burned and his shoulders screamed, but something in him refused to stop.
Every punch became less about training and more about… something else.
It was the laughter of those bullies. The cold, dismissive eyes of Sophia. The way people looked through him like he didn't exist.
His breathing turned ragged, but his eyes sharpened. The bag swung slightly with each strike, and Ryan followed its movement like it was alive.
His fists slammed into it again and again—clumsy, imperfect, but each carrying just a little more weight, a little more resolve.
Arthur watched silently from the side, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
The empty gym echoed with the rhythm of punches.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Ryan didn't know when his vision started to blur, or when his arms felt like lead. All he knew was that he wasn't done. Not yet. Not until his body made him stop.