The gym bell rang, cutting through the heavy air like a whip. He exhaled sharply, rubbing the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. Around him, other fighters had begun cooling down, but he stayed rooted, fists raised even when no one was facing him. Every strike, every movement, had purpose. Every rhythm had a story written in muscle and breath.
A coach approached, clipboard in hand, voice calm but firm. "Good. But you're rushing the pivot. Again. Focus on balance before speed." He nodded once, the correction absorbed without a word. Feedback wasn't punishment here—it was fuel.
He moved back to the heavy bag, shoulders tense, eyes narrowing. The bag swung under his jabs, catching the force and sending it back like a small challenge. Jab, cross, hook. The rhythm never wavered. He imagined the bell, the ring, the crowd that might never cheer, the opponent who might never blink. And in that imagined fight, he was already two steps ahead.
Every now and then, the sound of fists against leather was punctuated by a grunt, a shuffle of feet, or the squeak of trainers against the mats. Time seemed suspended, measured only by breath, strike, and shadow. He paused briefly, letting the bag swing, listening to the heartbeat of the room. The sweat dripping down his face stung his eyes, but he didn't flinch. Pain was temporary. Precision was eternal.
By the end, his muscles trembled from exertion, legs heavy as if the floor were made of lead. But he stood tall, fists at his sides, chest heaving with controlled exhaustion. And when he finally dropped his guard and exhaled, the reflection in the mirror told him everything he needed to know: strength wasn't just built in the ring—it was built inside.
---
Fight night arrived without ceremony.
The venue smelled like sweat, disinfectant, and nerves. The crowd was small but loud, voices bouncing off concrete walls, hungry for impact. He stood in his corner, hands wrapped, gloves snug, mouthguard pressed between his teeth. His coach leaned in close.
"Remember—don't rush the pivot."
He nodded. Same answer as always.
The bell rang.
The first round opened fast. Too fast.
His opponent came forward immediately, compact and sharp, guard tight. No wasted movement. They traded jabs—his snapping, the other man's heavier, thudding against his gloves. He circled left, feeling good, feeling light. Footwork smooth. Balance—solid.
Then he pushed.
A combination flew out of him on instinct: jab, cross, left hook. Clean. The crowd reacted. He felt it—the pull to press, to finish early. He pivoted—
Too quick.
His foot slid half an inch on the canvas. Just enough.
The counter came like a hammer.
A right hand crashed into his ribs, low and brutal. The sound wasn't loud, but it was wrong—dull, deep, like something breaking underwater. Pain detonated in his side, sharp and immediate, stealing the air from his lungs.
He staggered back.
Breathe.
He tried. His chest seized. Every inhale felt like glass dragging along bone. The opponent was on him instantly, smelling blood, throwing hooks, digging into the body again.
Another shot landed.
Something gave.
Not dramatically. Not with a snap the crowd could hear. Just a sudden weakness, a collapse inward, like a pillar removed from inside his body. His guard dropped a fraction too low. His knees dipped.
The referee watched closely.
He forced his hands back up, teeth clenched around the mouthguard, eyes burning. Pain screamed with every movement, but he stayed upright. Stayed fighting. Pride did that. Stubbornness too.
The round ended with him still on his feet.
Back in the corner, he sucked in air that wouldn't come fast enough.
"Talk to me," his coach said, eyes already scanning his posture.
"It's—" He tried to laugh it off. Failed. "Rib. Maybe."
His coach pressed lightly against his side. He hissed, body jerking away before he could stop himself.
The look on the coach's face changed.
"Can you breathe?"
"Yes."
It was a lie. Or close enough.
The bell rang again.
Round two was survival.
Every punch he threw twisted the pain deeper. Every step sent shockwaves through his torso. His opponent noticed immediately, shifting strategy—less headhunting, more body work. Cruel. Efficient.
A left hook sank into his injured side.
His legs buckled.
He went down on one knee, glove pressed to the canvas, the other instinctively clutching his ribs. The arena blurred, sound stretching and warping. The referee started the count.
"One… two…"
He pushed himself up, shaking, vision tunneling.
"Five… six…"
He stood at eight.
Barely.
The fight resumed for only a few seconds before another body shot landed, clean and merciless. His body folded around the pain this time. No argument. No pride left to burn.
The referee stepped in.
Waved it off.
It was over.
---
He sat on the stool afterward, gloves off, chest wrapped tight, breath shallow but steady. The crowd noise faded into background static. His coach crouched in front of him.
"You didn't lose," the coach said quietly. "You learned."
He looked down at his trembling hands. Sweat dripped onto the mat. It stung his eyes.
"I rushed the pivot," he said.
His coach nodded.
The medics confirmed it minutes later—a cracked rib. Weeks out. No shortcuts. No sparring. Just healing and patience.
As they helped him up, he caught his reflection in a darkened window. Bruised. Exhausted. Injured.
Still standing.
The promise of the fight to come hadn't disappeared.
It had simply been postponed.
And this time, when it returned, he would be ready—balanced, focused, unyielding.
---
[Memory sequence concluded. A small sigh passes his mind. All right, time to get cleaning.]
As he packed the tiny apartment, folding blankets on the couch, reorganizing the spice cabinet for a million times, he heard himself mutter in the quiet, empty apartment. As the cars bust, the dogs continue to scream, and their neighbors' constant banging, begging someone to open up to explain why they cheated. He simply didn't care. He just closed his eyes, closed the spice cabinet, took the remote, turned on the news, and tried to forget the memories he tried to bury. But they wouldn't stay buried until he received a message as the system notification flashed.
[Immediately: You have one new message from Rose Goodwin, based on your anatomy book you borrowed last week.]
"Cancel it," he exclaimed.
---
Someone entered the door "Well, dear. Hmm?"
—a woman with tired eyes, her black hair slumped around as if shocked by electricity, glasses slipping, clothes messy, carrying bags.
"Asur, sweetie, can you come help me?"
"Coming," he said, grabbing the bags and putting them away.
She sighed heavily. "God, what would I do without you, my little boy? You'd probably not eat, cook, clean, or do anything else but work yourself to death,he responded.
Well, you are right. I am too busy for my own good."
"Oh, you have some mail," he responded.
As she moved, Asur glanced at the table and saw the electric bill, utility bill, and security bill, all stacking up. He wished he could help her. Until she screamed.
"What worry mom?" Panic filters voice.
He snapped toward a letter.
"You have a letter!From Rosewell's Academy."
"What? Rosewell's Academy? What is that?"
"Take it, take it, take it!" She urged.
He seized the embroidered handwritten letter. Elegant handwriting, all carefully scripted. He muttered, "What now?"
---
He opened the letter and began reading in silence.
"Come on, don't leave me out," his mom said, patting her legs on the couch. "Read it out so we both know what it is."
A small sigh passed him as he began.
Dear Asur Cadrill
We at Rosewell Academy would love the opportunity of allowing such a fine young person to join our esteemed school.
We will provide you with the basics of interactive culture, e-learning, and active services. And if you would be so kind to join us, you have also been chosen as one of the few people transferred from your own school as this letter was sent to your parent and assumed that they agree to accept you.
We will help you strive in academics, sports, culture, and of course, the way of the Rosewell ways.
We hope to receive your response by the end of the week.
"Uh," he exclaimed. "Oh, today is Wednesday. End of the week means?"
"Asur, it's Friday, sweetie. So, what now?" She responded
"Is that all the letter has to say?" She asks.
"Yeah, nothing much." Asur answer back.
"Okay, what do you want? Come on. Please, please say something sensible for once." She asked with an answer that has already decided for him
"K, I will. "
"Yes?" She clapped her hands excitedly, squealing in delight as she hugged him.
"I feel like, Mom, wait. We don't even know where this place is." Answering entering her excitement with careful worry.
As she had them and responded with "Oh, don't worry, sweetie. We'll find a way that's why we have the internet. And if we can't find it then, maybe Tiss she might know. I hear her department works in line with the Vinman Academies around here."
But I miss I LA mom miss so much, Asur with are saddened responded.
A small, tired sigh. "But my work says I have to be here, right? I know honey and I don't blame you for missing it." She answered quietly
"Oh, wait. It says by Friday I have to be enrolled. Does that mean the statement has to be there?"Panic filters voice thinking about the they don't have.
"Yes." She answered quietly.
But we barely have enough for rent.
"Don't worry, I'll find a way. I always do. That's what mom's do."
---
As they sat down, she asked, "So, ma'am, how was that client you were dealing with?"
"Oh, they were awful, sweetie." Quick response float out as the she continued to come to tell the story. His mind wandered. How exactly does his system work? Why do certain memories become memorable, and why the painful ones don't reflect properly?
Is mother's voice big an begin to become louder she called out his name "asur? asur? ASUR!"
"Huh? What?"
" You weren't listening, weren't you?" She asked softly.
"Sorry, I zoned out."
"It's okay. What did you do after school?"
"Nothing much. Homework. Exercise. Cleaned up."
"Are you sure that's all you did? Because you can do that in under two hours."
"I know, new place, new beginning, new time to change."
"Please, sir. Sometimes life leads us in places where we don't want to be, but where we need to be. So I'm begging you. Just try."
"Okay, I will."
NEWS:
'We come to you asking… begging for attention. The latest serial killer, Mondo Monroe, has finally been caught. The victims' families have come forward, stating that the villainy is baste on the fact he is like Vinman and they shouldn't be allowed to roam the streets. Many people have weighed in, throughout X, formerly known as Twitter, supporting them. Others have stated that this comment was offensive to the entire women kind and three of the women were of the Vinman race. They argue that in other countries, this wouldn't even be considered humane and most of the comments had carried racist remarks. Yet the country of Teflow's is far more opposed to racism than most. This situation might even land someone a fine or prison time, sparking a huge debate about what could be considered racist or not.'
As the news continued to flash, Asur's mom turned off the TV and told him not to worry about it. "We should probably get to bed," she said.
He stepped outside.
"Call me once you're done changing," he told his mom.
As the door closed, he stared up at the dingy apartment building. The light flickered constantly. Down the hallway, the person who had been begging earlier had finally fallen asleep.
As the door closed, he stared up at the dingy apartment, flickering lights, a person begging earlier fallen asleep in the hallway.
"Life leads you to unexpected places, where you don't want to be, but this is where you need to be," he whispered.
"Alright, I'll do it, Mom." He drew the biggest smile he could and hoped for the best. A quietly acknowledgment to the Promise he just made to himself.
---
The last day drifted by. Asur continued his everyday life, checking his few friends he has. His only friend called.
"Asur! Asur!"
"Huh? Oh, hey man."
"Come on, check it out!" His friend exclaimed.
"Wow, a new iPhone. Again."
"Come on man, at least pretend like you like it." His friend answer back with
"My mom said you can have this one."
"You can have it?"
"Yeah, I'm the only child now, and my parents are upset… already paid off… you should be able to do this."
"Alright. Thanks for the phone, man. But I'm not going to use it as much as I use the system."
"Yeah, that always confused me about you, Vinman. The system basically acts as your own phone. It's just bigger."
"Yeah, because that thing randomly flashes."
"Doesn't it blind you?"
"It does, but after a while you get used to it. Not really, though. Especially when you're not upsetting it."
"So, are you ready? Did you get the letter?"
"Yeah, Rosewell Academy. I don't know if I'm going. It's expensive… scholarship. Maintain good grades, take part in two sports, weekly help… free ride to a rich people's school. Rich people's prizes too."
"Yeah, I remember. Rich people's schools also have rich people's prizes. And the scholarship only sets them up for where I live. Where I live… and my textbook. And what? And a uniform. Bent like food and extra activity. Don't fall on my mom. And we are a single-house income. She can barely keep up—keep up her sweating habits."
"I've tried. I've tried doing that. What about your uncle? Where is he?"
"He's somewhere in Africa. My mom and my uncle don't talk as much as before. I think they had a falling out."
"That's rough. But I'm so excited for you, man. To get to go to a really fancy private school."
"Yeah, and remember what it is—it's also an academic school. That means I'll have to compete with little people who complain about getting an A… or seven straight A's and one A-minus. Like him and Shirley."
"Of course. Shirley, man. She also got in. She was a translator and her parents paid for her first year. But it'll be fine, alright? You're really smart."
"No, I'm not. I'm just an average kid. Who has to go for mom sake."
_________
Friday morning came. He dragged himself to school. System flash: one new message.
[You have one new message from Michael Weldon.]
"Michael who?"
[Michael Weldon says: Congratulations. Gather your things from your school and classroom and prepare for departure to King's Station.]
"Okay… that's weird." He closed the window and the system disappeared.
"Alright, good morning students," the principal beamed. "As you know, several of our students have been chosen to be transferred to Richwood Academy as part of our re-tent program, mandated by the government. We are to train these students for one year."
"For a year?"
"Yes, and the training will also be sponsored."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," muttered one student. "One child matters now, yes."
"And anyway, we will soon be calling out those students' names to come forth. A teacher from the school has arrived to call out the names. Please, everyone, take part."
The principal addressed the school:
"Several of our students have been chosen to go to Rosewell Academy as part of the re-tent program… please gather your essentials… 12 minutes to prepare… parents will be waiting for you."
Professor Minerva Merida appeared:
"Good morning. We will be exchanging students, and those leaving will not return. Accepting students will have opportunities in the job market… living assistance… if you received an email from Michael, do it urgently."
The chosen students collected their belongings and boarded the car.
The ride through the city was silent.
"So, what exactly are your abilities?" she asked.
"I'm not even sure I have any," one replied.
"Anyone with a system has an ability. Combat-oriented or not."
"Yeah, I have a system, but personal info stops working randomly."
"We'll see once we get to the academy."
They drove beyond the city, arriving at a remote rendezvous point.
"This is a test," the teacher explained.
"A test?" a girl yelled.
"An entrance test," the teacher replied. The bell tower at the far end—reach it within ten minutes or be disqualified.
Asur and the others ran. The bell rang in the distance. Time ticked down.
Eight minutes left—they pushed harder. Seven minutes—field stretched endlessly. Asur ran out of energy but realized he was actually close. Turning, he saw classmates running the opposite direction. He was transported to a forest, then a desert, then a city—all while the timer counted down.
Four minutes left—he drank water, splashed it on his face, clearing the forest illusion. He helped the fainted girls. Two minutes left—he rallied the team. One minute left—the system flashed warning.
The clock hit zero. The bell began, the bell rang. But as they awaited the punishment, nothing happened.
Until the teacher clapped her hands, suddenly appearing from nowhere. She told them they had passed.
They asked her how—how they hadn't even reached the bell tower.
She smiled. "You only needed to be in the vicinity of the bell, not actually reach it. Those strange, surreal feelings, the places you drifted off to… they weren't illusions or just dehydration. Those were actual places your minds touched while navigating the bell scenario."
She commended Asur. He gained five points and a hundred shillings, plus an extra 150 shillings for passing.
She turned to Asur. "Well, my boy, you do have quite the talent for spotting reality first."
"Asur gained five points and a hundred shillings." For passing the test
"A hundred shillings?" he asked. "No, ma'am wait that's fair actually. I'll take it," he muttered."
"Okay, Professor Lumion, you can turn it off now." Professor Minerva called out.
The field around them disappeared. They found themselves in a hall filled with students passing in and out of classes, teachers moving, staff bustling, and other new students standing at their side.
"Since you all passed," the professor continued, "you'll each receive an additional 150 shillings. Something to spend money on."
"Okay, please go join the others," she said. "I need to check on the other students that just arrived."
As they moved, they saw just how diverse the academy truly was. People that seemed straight out of a fantasy movie or cosplay. Actual furries that looked like characters from cartoons, horror movies, or video games, all walking in uniform as if they belonged.
When the other group joined them, a professor stood forth.
"All right, everyone. Please join me. Go straight ahead to the hall, and take a seat."
-------------