Ethan stepped outside and took a deep breath.
The evening air was cool and refreshing.
A welcome relief from the oppressive summer heat that had baked the city during the day.
The roads were still wet from the rain that had fallen an hour ago.
The pavement glistened under the soft glow of streetlights.
Small puddles reflected the neon signs of nearby shops, creating a mosaic of colors across the ground.
He was in a good mood.
The kind of good mood that made him want to hum.
So he did.
A tuneless melody escaped his lips as he walked with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, his footsteps splashing lightly against the damp concrete.
"Good evening, Ethan. Where are you going at this hour?"
Ethan looked up and saw Uncle Lucas standing outside his small convenience store.
The old man was in his seventies, with a hunched back and a white beard that had earned him the nickname "Grandpa Santa" among the neighborhood children.
He was sweeping the front of his shop, though the rain had already washed away most of the dirt.
"Good evening, Uncle Lucas," Ethan replied with a warm smile.
"I am going to the dojo."
Uncle Lucas chuckled and shook his head.
"At this hour? You young people work too hard. When I was your age, I spent my evenings chasing girls and causing trouble."
Ethan laughed.
"Some things never change, Uncle. I am still chasing something. Just not girls."
The old man studied him for a moment, his eyes crinkling with affection.
"Alright, alright. Go carefully. And give my regards to your mother. Tell her I have some fresh vegetables saved for her. She works too hard, that woman."
"I will tell her," Ethan promised.
Uncle Lucas waved him off and returned to his sweeping.
Ethan resumed walking, his mood lifting even higher.
The journey through the slum was a familiar one.
Narrow streets lined with cramped houses.
Clotheslines strung between windows.
The distant sound of children laughing somewhere in the maze of alleyways.
Despite the poverty, there was a warmth here.
A sense of community that the wealthy districts could never replicate.
"Good evening, Ethan!"
"Evening, Ethan. How is your father?"
"Ethan! Make sure you eat properly. You are too skinny!"
He was greeted by nearly every person he passed.
The elderly women sitting on their doorsteps.
The young mothers carrying groceries.
The old men playing chess on makeshift tables.
Ethan had lived in this slum his entire life, and he had made it a point to help whenever he could.
Carrying heavy bags.
Fixing broken chairs.
Reading letters for those who could not read.
His popularity among the elder generation was earned through small kindnesses.
And those kindnesses had made him beloved.
After exiting the slum, Ethan broke into a run.
His body felt different now.
Lighter.
More responsive.
His legs pumped with a strength that had never existed before.
The ground flew beneath him as he sprinted through the streets, passing cars and pedestrians alike.
He could feel the wind against his face, cool and invigorating.
Twenty minutes of running brought him to the Inwood District.
The buildings here were taller, cleaner, more modern.
The streets were wider and better lit.
This was where the middle class lived and worked, far removed from the poverty of the slum.
The Iron Fist Dojo stood at the end of the main street.
A three-story building with a red brick exterior and a wooden sign that creaked gently in the breeze.
The windows glowed with warm yellow light, and Ethan could hear the distant sound of fists striking training dummies.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door.
The hall was spacious and brightly lit.
Polished wooden floors gleamed under overhead lamps.
The walls were covered with photographs of past students.
Several training dummies stood in neat rows, their surfaces scarred from years of use.
About twenty students were practicing the Iron Fist Technique, their movements synchronized and precise.
At the far end of the hall, a cleaning cart stood abandoned.
The mop lay forgotten on the floor.
Ethan spotted his friend Cris near the entrance.
The cleaner man was in his late twenties, with a thin build and a perpetually tired expression.
He had worked at the dojo for five years and had been kind to Ethan since the day he started.
"Ethan, what are you doing here?" Cris asked, frowning.
"Your shift is over, right? Or are you doing overtime? Are you short on money again?"
"No, Brother Cris," Ethan said, standing a little taller.
"I have come here to register as a Junior Martial Student."
Cris nodded absently.
"Oh, so that is what it is."
Then he froze.
His head snapped toward Ethan with such speed that his neck cracked audibly.
"Huh? What did you say? There is too much noise here. I didn't hear clearly."
Ethan felt a twitch in his eye.
He knew Cris had heard him perfectly.
The man just refused to believe it.
"I said," Ethan repeated slowly and clearly, "I have come here to register as a Junior Martial Student."
Cris stared at him for a moment.
Then he burst out laughing.
"Hahahahaha! You can joke. I almost believed you. You are telling me you comprehended the technique to the Minor Completion Stage in just two months?"
He started slapping Ethan on the shoulder, his laughter echoing through the hall.
But then he looked at Ethan's face.
The laughter died in his throat.
The slapping stopped.
The smile faded.
"Are you for real?" Cris asked, his voice suddenly turned serious.
Ethan nodded.
The mop fell from Cris's hand.It hit the floor with a wet slap.
Then Cris turned and ran toward the back of the dojo like a madman, his footsteps pounding against the polished wood.
"Master! Master!"
The commotion drew attention.
Students stopped their practice and turned to watch.
A few began to whisper among themselves, their curiosity piqued.
Cris emerged a moment later, followed by a burly man in training clothes.
Master Tim.
The owner of the dojo and a Grade 3 Martial Warrior.
He was one of the most powerful figures in the district, a man whose reputation extended well beyond Inwood.
His presence commanded immediate respect.
The students instinctively straightened their postures as he walked past.
"Ethan," Master Tim said, his voice calm but skeptical.
"Is this true? You have learned the technique to the Minor Completion Stage?"
"Yes, Master," Ethan replied, meeting his gaze without flinching.
Master Tim studied him for a long moment.
Then he turned and walked toward the back of the dojo.
"Come with me."
Ethan and Cris followed.
Several students trailed behind, eager to see what was happening.
They stopped in front of a punching machine.
The machine was a sophisticated device that measured impact force in kilograms.
It was used to assess students' progress and determine their rank.
"Punch it," Master Tim ordered.
Ethan stepped forward.
He took a deep breath and positioned himself in front of the machine.
His body remembered the technique instantly.
The rotation of the fist. The angle of the elbow. The coordination of muscles and tendons.The rhythm of his breathing.
He exhaled.
Then he punched.
Boom!
The machine shuddered under the impact.
The screen flickered for a moment before displaying a number.
[105 kg]
Silence.
Cris stared at the number with wide eyes.
His mouth hung open.
Master Tim stood frozen, his face was unreadable.
But his hands were trembling slightly.
He knew that Ethan had received the technique booklet just two months ago.
He knew that Ethan had spent those two months working as a cleaner, not receiving any formal instruction.
He knew that Ethan had no prior martial arts training.
And yet here he was.
A Junior Martial Student.
"Is he really a genius?" Master Tim thought to himself.
The question echoed in his mind.
He turned to face Ethan, his expression shifting to something more serious.
"Ethan, do you want to join the dojo as a formal student?"
Ethan's heart leaped.
"Yes, Master."
"I will give you five months," Master Tim continued.
"If you can reach the Major Completion Stage within that time, I will reward you with one hundred thousand credits."
"I will also teach you personally every day."
"And you will receive ten thousand credits per month."
"You won't have to clean anymore. Only focus on your practice."
Gasps erupted from the watching students. Whispers spread like wildfire.
One hundred thousand credits?
Personal instruction from master everyday?
Ten thousand credits per month?
It was an offer that most students could only dream of.
Their senior brother, Jack Snow, had become a Junior Martial Student at sixteen within a year of joining.
He had reached the Senior Martial Student rank at eighteen.
But Master Tim had never praised him like this.
Had never offered him such generous terms.
Jealousy flickered in their eyes.
But none were more jealous than Jack Snow himself.
Standing in the back, guiding a group of new students, Jack clenched his fists.
His jaw tightened.
A cold fire burned in his chest as he watched Ethan receive the recognition he had worked years to earn.
But he said nothing.
He merely watched with cold eyes.
Ethan, unaware of the silent hostility, was practically vibrating with excitement.
"I agree, Master," he said quickly, as if afraid the offer would vanish if he hesitated.
"Good," Master Tim nodded.
"Tell me if you need anything. Come to the dojo at six in the morning tomorrow. We will begin your training."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Ethan standing in the middle of the dojo with a smile that refused to fade.
Cris walked over and pressed his shoulder.
"Congratulations, Ethan. You have to treat me now."
Ethan grinned.
"Treat you? Why don't you lend me fifty thousand credits, Brother Cris? I will return them later."
Cris's face twitched.
"Go die."
He stormed away in mock anger, leaving Ethan laughing.
But the laughter faded as Ethan walked toward the exit.
The reality of his situation began to settle in.
Five months to reach the Major Completion Stage.
It sounded generous, but Ethan knew the truth.
Without the system, what five months? Even 5 years wouldn't bring any fruit.
The Minor Completion Stage had cost him fifteen thousand credits.
The Major Completion Stage would cost fifty thousand.
And he had exactly zero credits.
He needed thirty-five thousand credits.
And he needed them fast.
His mind raced as he stepped outside into the cool evening air.
The stars were beginning to appear, scattered across the darkening sky like diamonds on black velvet.
If he could go outside the base city and hunt monsters, earning money would be easy.
But the law was clear.
Only registered martial warriors could leave the safety of the walls.
Anyone else who tried would be committing suicide.
"I will think of a way later," he muttered to himself.