Ryan's fists were no longer punching the bag. They were dragging themselves through the air, each strike feeling heavier than the last.
His form was crumbling. Shoulders hunched. Hips stiff. Wrists bending in ways that made his knuckles sting.
But he kept swinging.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The sound wasn't crisp anymore—it was dull, like hitting wet sand. His arms screamed for him to stop.
His breathing turned into a series of gasps that scraped his throat raw. Sweat dripped from his chin and splattered on the floor, making dark dots on the mat.
'Why the hell am I still doing this?'
Because every punch wasn't just a punch anymore. It was the smirk of those idiots in the locker room. The way Sophia's eyes had slid past him like he was invisible.
The long list of times he'd stayed silent because he was too small, too weak, too nothing.
He hit the bag harder. His shoulder popped. The pain was sharp, but he didn't care.
He hit it again.
His vision began to dim at the edges. Every blink lasted longer than the last. The world narrowed to the sound of his labored breathing and the faint sway of the bag.
Then, mid-swing, his knees gave out. His right fist only brushed the canvas before his whole body collapsed forward.
He hit the mat and lay there, chest heaving, cheek pressed to the cool floor. A few more shallow breaths… and darkness pulled him under.
When Ryan's eyes fluttered open, everything felt… slow. His tongue was dry. His muscles pulsed with a deep ache that made even breathing feel like work.
Something was draped across his face—a handkerchief, faintly damp and smelling faintly of fabric softener.
He peeled it off and blinked up at the gym ceiling. The lights were dimmer now, humming softly. He shifted slightly and immediately regretted it. Pain flared in his shoulders, his ribs, his thighs.
'Where's Arthur…?'
Before he could sit up, a loud, sharp BANG! rang out from somewhere behind him. Then another. And another.
Ryan turned his head—slowly, like his neck was full of rusted gears—and froze.
Arthur stood on the far side of the gym, in front of what had once been a heavy punching bag.
Now it was shredded. Leather hung in limp, ragged strips, stuffing scattered around his feet like snow. The chain above it swayed slightly, clinking against its hook.
Arthur's knuckles were bare, his breathing calm, as if ripping apart a hundred-pound bag was just a casual warm-up.
He unscrewed a water bottle, took a long, deliberate drink, then set it down. His eyes flicked over to Ryan.
"You woke up, huh." His tone was flat, unreadable. Then, a faint curve at the corner of his lips. "Good work today. Meet me tomorrow too."
No sympathy. No "are you okay." Just that. He grabbed his bag and walked out, the echo of his footsteps fading into silence.
Ryan sat there for a while, trying to summon the will to move. Eventually, he managed to push himself upright, his joints protesting with every inch.
A chime echoed in his skull.
[DING! Quest Complete: Practice with punching bag until you pass out.]
[Reward Available: +2 Strength, +1 Endurance, Boxing Jab Proficiency +20%]
He squinted at the glowing text. "Uh… how do I… claim this?"
[Host… seriously? You don't even know that?] The System's voice was a mix of disbelief and irritation. [You've never read a single fiction novel?]
Ryan gave a weak laugh. "I'm poor, remember? Fiction's a luxury I couldn't afford."
[Unbelievable. There's literally an 'option' button at the bottom of the screen. Click it.]
Ryan's gaze shifted down. Sure enough, a faintly glowing button pulsed at the bottom. "…Oh. Uh… thanks, I guess." He tapped it.
[Quest: Practice with punching bag – Claim reward]
[Rewards Claimed.]
[Boxing Jab mastery increased to D+]
[Boxing Cross mastery increased to D–]
Ryan leaned back against the wall, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. "Well… at least something's getting better."
The gym was silent again, but deep down, a strange spark had lit in his chest—a stubborn, flickering thing that wouldn't die.