Charlie stood before the bathroom mirror, the soft morning light filtering through the small window, casting a gentle glow across his reflection. It was Day 90 of "Hell Summer," the final day before school resumed, and the figure staring back was a stranger carved from his former self. He peeled off his oversized shirt, letting it fall to the tiles, and studied his transformation. Nearly 40 kilograms had melted away since June, the thick fat that once smothered his frame reduced to a flatter midsection, though loose skin hung in soft folds around his waist and arms—a reminder of the rapid change. His shoulders were broader, arms etched with lean muscle that flexed subtly as he moved. His chest, once buried under rolls, now hinted at pecs forged through countless dumbbell presses. His smooth, hairless torso—thanks to the final laser session—gleamed under the light, his legs sturdy from squats and jump rope. His face had sharpened: cheekbones emerging, jawline defined, the Better Genes Potion erasing blemishes and softening rough edges. At 17, he was growing into this new self, his height creeping toward 1.85 meters over the next few years. He wasn't a chiseled athlete, but he wasn't "Sludge" anymore. Standing taller, straighter, his dull eyes sparked with quiet pride. "Not bad," he muttered, smirking faintly.
He flexed awkwardly, the loose skin shifting. It wasn't perfect—it stung to see—but it was proof of every grueling workout, every punch thrown, every healthy meal. "One more day," he said, voice steady. "Then school. Let's see what they make of this."
Downstairs, the kitchen hummed with the sizzle of steak. Charlie had taken over cooking, splurging on premium ingredients—grass-fed beef, organic vegetables, whole grains—beyond his parents' means. Harold and Marge scraped by on $1,600 a month combined, Harold's door-to-door sales and Marge's factory shifts barely covering their modest life. Charlie had changed that. His System rewards—$100 nightly for cooking, plus gym and boxing bonuses—had swelled his savings. "Current savings: $11,250 after expenses," the System reported as he flipped the steak. He'd spent on a punching bag ($150), jump rope ($10), gym membership ($90 for three months), protein powder ($120), and better groceries to nourish his family. He'd slipped his parents $500 a month ago, calling it "gaming tournament winnings." "I've been killing it online," he'd lied, watching their stunned gratitude. They'd cut back work hours—Harold skipping overtime, Marge taking shorter shifts—their faces less haggard, their spirits lighter. The better food helped, and Charlie had signed them up for Muscle Macho's family plan, dragging them to the gym. "You're always tired," he'd said. "This'll keep you strong." They'd grumbled but now loved it—Harold on the treadmill, Marge in stretching classes. Charlie felt a quiet glow watching them thrive.
Plating steaks with roasted potatoes and asparagus, he paused. "System," he said, wiping his hands, "those potions—Better Genes, height—can I get some for my parents? They're worn out from work. I want them stronger." The System's voice hummed, intrigued. Potions are available in the System Store, but access requires 10% evolution progress. Charlie frowned, setting the table. "I'm at 5%, right? How do I unlock it faster?" Complete higher-tier tasks, achieve combat mastery, surpass physical milestones. The store offers enhancements—potions, gear, perks—but demands progress. Charlie's eyes narrowed. "Show me." A screen flickered, listing Vitality Potion ($500, boosts stamina), Strength Elixir ($750, muscle growth), Agility Boost ($600, reflexes), Resilience Tonic ($800, durability)—all locked with "Access Denied." "Damn it," he muttered, clenching his fist. "I'd kill for a Vitality Potion for them." Earn it, Charlie. Your progress aids them. He sighed, nodding. "More work. Got it."
His parents arrived, laughter spilling from the hallway. "Another feast?" Harold called, grinning as he stepped in. Marge followed, apron over her arm. "You're spoiling us," she said, eyes warm. "That's the point," Charlie replied, a tired smile breaking through. They ate, the kitchen alive with clinks and chatter—Harold joking about his treadmill "sprint," Marge praising the steak. Charlie listened, his mind half on the locked store, half on the meal. 10% evolution, he thought. For them.
Night fell, and Charlie retreated to the basement, the stairs creaking under his lighter frame. His punching bag swayed from an earlier session, the jump rope coiled nearby. He'd trained here relentlessly—jabs and hooks against the bag, jump rope until his calves screamed. Nights were spent studying boxing videos—Ali's fluid footwork, Tyson's devastating hooks—moves he replayed in his head. The faceless man in his dreams had mocked him, wielding those same techniques with cruel precision: jabs to his face, hooks to his ribs, uppercuts that snapped his head back. Charlie had analyzed, planned. Tonight, the last night of summer, he'd face that beast again. "I'm ready," he muttered, lying back, eyes closing. "Let's go."
The dream ring rose, ropes taut, lights searing. The faceless man loomed opposite, iron skin glinting, blank visage radiating menace. Charlie squared his shoulders, fists clenched, heart pounding. The bell rang.
The man lunged, a jab slicing toward Charlie's face. He ducked, the wind grazing his cheek, and countered with a wild cross that skimmed the man's chest—a weak tap against that unyielding frame. A hook slammed into Charlie's ribs, pain flaring as he grunted, staggering. He circled back, breath sharp. Round two brought a flurry of jabs, breaking his guard, snapping his head back, dream-blood trickling from his nose. He swung a desperate hook, missing the nonexistent jaw, and took a kick to his thigh that buckled his leg. He hit the mat, gasping, but rolled up, fists raised. "Not tonight," he growled, spitting blood.
Rounds blurred into a storm of pain and defiance. In the third, a jab split his lip; he answered with a shaky cross, clipping the man's shoulder. The fourth brought an uppercut that rocked his jaw, stars bursting, but he stumbled forward, jabbing to keep distance. The fifth saw a knee to his gut, doubling him over, yet he straightened, fists trembling. By the sixth, his dream-body was battered—blood streaking his face, ribs throbbing—but he kept swinging, kept moving, fueled by stubborn fire. The seventh was brutal, the man landing hooks and jabs, a kick sending Charlie sprawling. He clawed up, throwing a weak punch that brushed the man's arm. "Come on," he rasped. "That all you got?"
The eighth round began. The man charged, fists a blur. Charlie weaved, reflexes sharper, dodging a jab, taking a glancing hook to his shoulder. Pain seared, but he planted his feet, teeth gritted. The man threw a straight punch, aimed for his jaw. Charlie saw it—weeks of videos, nights of study flashing—and ducked low, surging forward. His forehead met the man's fist in a reckless clash, a crack echoing as his skin split, blood spraying. The impact rocked his skull, vision blurring red, but he didn't fall. He swayed, blood dripping, staring into the blank void. The man paused, fist raised, as if startled. Charlie's lips curled into a bloody grin. "Not this time," he whispered. The bell rang, sharp and final.
Charlie woke with a triumphant shout—"YES!"—bolting upright, chest heaving, sweat soaking his sheets. He clutched his head, expecting blood, but his real body was unscathed, the pain a fading echo. The System's voice rang clear. Combat instinct increased to 1%. Boxing Level: 2 Stars achieved.
He froze, then laughed, shaky and raw, collapsing onto his pillow. "I did it," he gasped, staring at the ceiling. "I stood. I didn't fall." His fists clenched, pride surging. Tomorrow, school awaited—a new battlefield, a new Charlie. But tonight, in his mind's ring, he'd won.