The next day, Kenji felt the familiar ache in his muscles, amplified by the night's virtual fight.
The day progressed slowly, a series of dull classes punctuated by the constant, low-grade friction of school life. The worst of it came during the lunch rush.
Takuya, the rugby club bully, had taken Kenji's usual quiet spot. Takuya was the embodiment of natural, unearned Strength.
"Look who it is, Zero-Run," Takuya sneered, leaning on his impressive arms. "Keep moving, Asahina. This bench is reserved for people who can actually lift something heavier than a chopstick."
Kenji's stomach tightened. He felt the familiar, hot wave of humiliation. He grabbed his bag, intending to leave. But this time, a tiny, unfamiliar part of his mind—the part that had survived the Apex Protocol—rebelled.
He paused, then wordlessly picked up his bag and turned. As he walked past, Takuya deliberately stuck out a heavy boot, ready to trip him.
Kenji didn't consciously see the boot, but his body reacted.
His foot didn't trip. Instead, his ankle adjusted itself by a centimeter, grazing the boot without catching it, allowing him to step right over the obstruction.
He didn't notice the adjustment. He only noticed that he hadn't fallen flat on his face.
Takuya roared with laughter. "Watch your feet, Zero-Run! Too slow!"
Kenji kept walking, his heart pounding. The humiliation still burned, but the failure—the physical, clumsy fall—had been narrowly avoided. He hated the feeling of being unable to defend himself.
That night, Kenji didn't hesitate. The shame of being weak was a powerful motivator. He connected the headset immediately.