Chapter 13 – Sweat and Silence
The glowing blue screen shimmered faintly in the back of his mind, as sharp and vivid as if it had been burned into the inside of his eyelids. No one else could see it. No one else ever should.
He grit his teeth.
"Just two more quests to go…" he muttered under his breath, his voice low, nearly drowned by the laughter across the yard.
To them, it looked like a joke. A fat, round-faced loser deciding to randomly start exercising in the middle of gym class like he'd had some sort of spiritual awakening.
But for Zack… this wasn't a joke. It was survival.
He remembered that night. The darkness of his room. The hunger in his stomach. The silence of a world that never cared if he vanished. The whisper of a single truth that had cut deeper than anything Jace Pollard or Samantha McPherson could ever throw at him:
If he didn't change his life, no one would.
The system was real. His only chance. His last and only ally. It didn't laugh. It didn't mock. It gave him rules. It gave him structure. It gave him something solid to grip onto when everything else felt like smoke.
A breath. Then another.
Push-up number five. Six.
He collapsed on the seventh, chest heaving, elbows shaking violently as he knelt on the warm ground, wheezing like an old man. His sweat made a small puddle beneath him. His shirt clung to his back.
His mind itched with a bitter memory — Samantha's voice, sharp and cold, calling him disgusting in front of the entire cafeteria last semester.
He didn't get up for her.
He didn't push himself for them.
He got up for his sister. For the look in her eyes when she handed him her last coin and said, "Make it worth it."
He forced himself up again.
[Progress: 12/100 Pushups Completed.]
Time blurred. His body screamed. But he didn't stop.
He was still at it when Coach Halstrom called everyone to line up. Students drifted into rows, casual, laughing, nudging each other with jokes about the weakest hunter in school trying to train.
Someone behind him chuckled, "Yo, think he's finally trying to impress Samantha again? Didn't learn the first time, huh?"
Another voice snorted. "Man's got the emotional damage stat maxed out."
More laughter.
But Zack didn't respond.
He just sat there, silent and drenched, ignoring the sting in his elbows and the iron weight in his legs. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, then stood, moving to the side of the training mats where no one would notice him.
[Progress: 100/100 Pushups Completed.]
[Progress: 100/100 Situps Completed.]
[Progress: 3km Run Completed.]
[Daily Quest Completed.]
[+1 Extra Mod Point Gained.]
The screen bloomed in his vision like soft blue fire — quiet, efficient, exact.
He didn't smile. He didn't celebrate. He didn't even move. He simply stared at the final line of the message as it faded, one hand still clenched into a fist by his side.
[+1 Extra Mod Point Gained.]
One point.
It didn't sound like much.
But to him, it meant everything.
Power. Freedom. Hope.
He didn't spend it. Not yet.
He had learned the hard way that some things were better kept secret — especially when you had nothing else to your name. No one knew about the system's strange game-like interface. No one knew about the Platinum-rank Spirit Gear still nestled deep inside his soul, like a sleeping storm waiting for a reason to wake.
And no one ever would.
He wasn't strong yet.
But he would be.
If life gave him lemons, he wasn't just going to make lemonade — he was going to sell it, invest the profit, build a factory, and drown this entire broken world in sour juice until they all choked on the taste of underestimating him.
He looked up, face blank, heart hammering.
The others were still laughing.
Zack turned away.
Let them laugh now.
One day, they'd beg just to stand in his shadow.
---
The morning sun spilled over the combat courtyard like a blade of molten gold, its heat clinging to the stone tiles and bleeding into the soles of every student standing there. Dust swirled lazily in the air, kicked up by restless feet and nervous anticipation. Sweat already beaded on foreheads, not from exertion—but from the name spoken in quiet reverence:
Miss Aimee.
She stood at the center of the wide arena, poised like a monument chiseled from obsidian. Her gaze swept over them like a cold wind, stirring silent tremors in the hearts of even the most arrogant students. She was tall, composed, the subtle pressure of her presence dense enough to make lungs tighten. Her simple combat uniform revealed no gear, no enhancements, no Spirit Signature. And yet everyone could feel it—the terrible stillness of a predator so far beyond them, it didn't need to show its fangs.
A Mythic-rank Hunter.
That alone would have been enough to silence the entire class.
But she was more than her rank.
She had survived the Third Holy Domain.
And returned.
To them—mortals who had yet to even leave the First.
She clasped her hands behind her back and began without flourish, her voice quiet, but so firm it cut through the noise like a blade through silk.
"Most of you still think a weapon is an accessory. Something to amplify your strength. A crutch for your ignorance."
She gestured toward the rack of ancient weapons lined along the courtyard wall.
"But out there, in the Holy Domains, you won't have tech. Guns jam. Explosives dissolve. AI fails. The moment you step past the threshold, you become prey to the oldest law of them all:"
Her eyes hardened.
"Kill, or be killed."
A quiet settled in. Zack Tennyson, standing near the back, swallowed hard.
She moved to the weapons rack, her fingers trailing over spearheads, sword hilts, and archer bows. Each piece was worn, battle-tested—not simulation-grade. Real steel. Real death.
"You will each find a weapon that suits you. Today, we test that bond."
With that, she turned and stepped onto the stone platform at the center.
"Form a line."
And so they did.
The first to approach was Gregor, a brawny second-year with a double-headed axe strapped to his back. He charged like a bull. Miss Aimee didn't even lift her foot. She tilted her shoulder, letting his strike fly past her. Then, with a gentle nudge to his elbow, she sent him crashing to the floor.
The crowd winced.
"Next."
A girl stepped forward. Twin daggers. Light on her feet.
She lasted longer. Two minutes, maybe three.
Miss Aimee didn't move an inch from the circle's center. She simply deflected every strike with the elegance of water flowing downhill. When the girl went for a spinning kick, Aimee caught it midair and held her there—suspended like a puppet.
"Speed without insight is wasted motion," she said.
Then let go.
One by one, they came. And one by one, they fell.
She never attacked. Never pressed an advantage.
She was teaching.
And exposing the hopeless gulf between them and her.
Finally, she paused.
Her eyes flicked to the back.
"Zack Tennyson."
Laughter rippled through the class.
"You sure?" someone muttered. "Might break his bones just by breathing near him."
"Maybe he's here to impress Samantha again."
"Guy's probably praying she goes easy on him."
Zack ignored them.
He walked toward the rack in silence. His hand hovered over the weapons. For some reason, the longbow caught his attention. But then his fingers settled on the dagger. Compact. Balanced.
It felt right.
The moment he stepped onto the platform, the system whispered in his mind:
[You have encountered a formidable opponent]
[Optional Challenge: Defeat Hunter Aimee in Sparring Match]
[Reward if Victorious: +10 Extra Mod Points]
His eyes widened.
Ten?
His last quest had given him one.
This wasn't an invitation.
It was a warning.
Miss Aimee watched him with a blank expression.
"Begin."
And just like that—he moved.
His body blurred forward, enhanced by the hidden strength of ten Platinum Spirit Points. His dagger sliced toward her ribs, low and tight. A strike designed not for show, but for result.
She didn't flinch.
Her hand rose, deflecting the blade with effortless precision. Zack spun with the momentum, aiming for her flank. She stepped aside—barely a whisper of movement.
His feet slid on the stone. He rebalanced. Came in again, faking high and diving for her leg.
No response.
Her elbow nudged his shoulder—just once.
He staggered.
His vision narrowed. Everything in his body screamed.
But he attacked again.
Every move Zack made was calculated. Not perfect. Not even refined. But clever. Creative. Layered with faint patterns, his high Intelligence stat subtly guiding muscle memory and timing. Tricks that shouldn't have worked.
But forced her to adjust.
Once, just once—he saw it.
A flicker.
A slight shift in her footing. A tiny realignment of her wrist.
A moment where her expression sharpened, ever so slightly.
He almost touched her shoulder.
But that was it.
Before he could capitalize, she parried his blade with two fingers. His wrist went numb. The dagger clattered to the stone.