The dull thuds of fists hammering into the heavy bag echoed through the wide hall. The air was dry—almost dusty—and carried the thick smell of sweat, old leather, and something faintly moldy, like damp concrete that had never fully dried.
At the far end, someone skipped rope to a steady rhythm, earbuds trailing from his ears, plugged into a scratched-up MP3 player clipped to his waistband.
"Sam!" a rough voice rang out, bouncing off the high ceiling. "Get in the ring! The newbie needs a sparring partner!"
The tall boy stopped mid-skip and looked toward the source of the voice.
"What did you say, Coach?" he called, his voice deep and casual pulling one side of his buds out.
"I said stop jumping and get your ass in here. You're fighting the newbie!"
"Hah! You told me I wasn't sparring today!" Sam shot back. "Why not let William do it? That's more his level. I'm just trying to stick to my training plan!"
He grabbed his water bottle, took a long sip, then unzipped his track jacket, revealing a soaked tank top stretched over a lean, muscular torso. His skin glistened slightly under the overhead lights.
"I gotta stay on weight, Coach."
The coach's thick eyebrows furrowed into a single line as he stomped the ground in frustration; „Don't think I don't know where you fought last night!"
Sam sighed dramatically and shook his head. He wiped sweat from his face with a towel, tossed it aside, and walked over with slow, heavy steps.
Next to the coach stood a boy —maybe sixteen—tall for his age, with clean styled copper-red hair and blue eyes that burned with excitement. He stared at Sam like he was always ready, as If he had fought his whole life.
Even though the redhead had some height, Sam still towered a head over him, with broad shoulders and the unshakable posture of someone who lived in the ring. He looked at the coach, clearly unimpressed.
"This the guy?"
The coach nodded. "The kids new in da city, wants to join the gym. You know how it works."
Sam scratched the back of his head, dark brown hair damp and pushed back from his forehead, combed to a Dutt on the back.
"What's your name?"
"Jan!" the boy said calm. His voice clear and confident, and he clearly tried to hide a smirk. One of his teeth was golden near the back of his jaw, giving him a slightly wild look.
Sam nodded slowly, crossing his arms.
"Did the coach tell you what you need to do to join?"
"Sure did!" Jan grinned and threw a punch into the air. "I gotta fight the strongest guy in the gym!" He pointed his clenched fist right at Sam.
Sam let out a short snort and glanced at the coach.
"Looks like he's serious." He rolled his shoulders. "Fine. Let's go."
The coach clapped his hands once and grinned like a man about to watch something entertaining.
Sam sighed again, grabbed his towel drying his face, and began wrapping his hands with the practiced speed of someone who'd done it a thousand times.
Then he pulled out his MMA gloves and a worn pair of plain red boxing gloves, the manufacturer's name faded from years of use. Now both laying beside him.
Jan disappeared for a moment and returned with a large gym bag. He unzipped it and pulled out a pair of flashy blue boxing gloves with white tigers printed across the knuckles.
"What style you want to fight?" Sam asked, putting his stuff to the side.
Jan grinned like a kid who'd been waiting for this moment his whole life. "Boxing."
Sam nodded, already lacing up. "Boxing it is."
The coach stood watching with arms folded across his chest, his windbreaker half unzipped, the late-afternoon sunlight casting harsh lines over his rugged face. His big, crooked nose threw a long shadow across his lips, and he smirked without saying a word.
The two fighters stepped onto the mats in the center of the gym—the only space even remotely close to a ring. Scuffed red tape marked the boundaries.
"The red lines are your ring," the coach muttered.
Jan nodded, slipped in his mouthguard, and started bouncing in place. He threw a few light test punches into the air, rolled his shoulders, and shook out his arms.
Sam stood still, watching him. Calm. Relaxed. Focused. Rising an eye brow too the clean hits into the air.
"Both ready?" the coach asked.
They both nodded.
The coach pulled a stopwatch from his pocket, raising it slightly.
"One round. Five minutes."
A tense beat passed.
"Three… two… one… Fight!"
*Creak*
Jan and Sam hoped on their places, looking with sharps eyes what the other one was going to do. After a few moments launched Sam forward, at a high speed and gave Jan some clean jabs, and a shallow hook.
He blocked of but jumped back, near to the rings out.
*creak*
"You can—"
Rumble.
The faint creak in the ceiling beam turned into a deep, metallic groan, and interrupted Jan.
Every head snapped upward, as if even time held its breath.
Then the beam broke.
"Sam, MOVE!" the coach roared.
Sam reacted on instinct—no thought, only muscle memory. He threw himself sideways.
The steel crashed down with a deafening KRAAANG, landing exactly where he had stood a heartbeat ago.
Dust exploded upward.
Someone screamed.
The coach sprinted toward him.
"Sam! Are you—"
*creak*. Another sound. Higher up but much closer.
Still crouched, Sam lifted his head, pupils blown wide.
A stage light tore free.
He saw it falling.
Straight at him.
No time to jump.
A blunt impact—white light—and then nothing.
…
Chirp.
Wind rustled softly through leaves.
Not stale gym air.
Fresh forest air.
Under a small oak tree, a young boy slowly opened his eyes—chocolate-brown, confused, startled. He lay on grass. Soft moss beneath his fingers. No gloves. No training burns— Just a rough potato sack hanging loosely from his shoulders.
"…Where the hell am I?" he muttered, groaning and holding his head while gritting his teeth.
He lifted his other hand. A child's hand. Thin and Weak.
A stabbing pain ignited along his side. Sam yanked the coarse cloth aside—and found an deep scar that looked as if a knife had carved straight into him.
Then—
DING.
A blue screen appeared before his eyes, cold and mechanical:
[System Initialization: ERROR]
[Primary user: deceased.]
[Selecting next compatible host…]
[New User Profile: Samuel]
With the notification came a surge of foreign memories.
A small boy, also named Samuel from A slum in a abandoned fortress city.
Memories of Disobedience. Him being Punished. Stabbed to Death.
Sam gasped, bracing himself against the tree trunk as the visions faded.
"So… you died."
His gaze drifted to the scar.
"And now I'm… you? Or you're me…?"
The system blinked again.
[To unlock full system functionality, complete the first mandatory task.]
[Task 1: Secure property: Buy a suitable plot of land to shape your future.]