The warehouse smelled of rust and dust, its cavernous space echoing the faint hum of the city outside. Dim, flickering overhead lights cast long shadows across the cracked concrete floor. The air was thick with the scent of old metal and sweat, remnants of whatever industrial work had been done here before it was abandoned.
A single heavy bag hung from a rusted chain, swaying slightly from my last punch.
I shook out my hands, exhaling through my nose. Something felt off.
I wasn't just swinging blindly—I understood power, momentum, control. My body knew how to hit. But there was no technique. No instinctual flow that I should have had by now.
I clenched and unclenched my fists, staring at them.
Why don't I have a single skill from this job?
It didn't make sense.
When I became a detective, the skills flooded in immediately—Observation, Deduction, Interrogation.
When I picked up my Firefighter job, my body sharpened—Fire Suppression, Heat Resistance.
Every other job had granted me something. Some kind of knowledge or ability to shape how I performed.
No Footwork Mastery. No Combat Precision. Not even a basic Boxing Fundamentals skill.
It was like the job didn't exist.
At first, I thought it was my Instinct skill interfering again.
Back when I was Mr. Angel, it had stopped me from gaining skills that might have led me down the wrong path. But this didn't feel the same.
This wasn't my instincts stopping me.
This was something else entirely.
"Thinking too much isn't gonna help you punch better."
Milan was watching me, arms crossed. His cracked glasses caught the dim warehouse light, distorting his expression.
I exhaled through my nose. "Something's wrong."
Milan's smirk deepened. "Finally figured it out, huh?"
I straightened, rolling out my shoulders. "Why don't I have any skills? Every other job gave me something. This one? Nothing."
Milan chuckled, shaking his head. "You still think this works like your other jobs? That's your problem, kid."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Martial artists don't get skills," he said simply. "They get techniques."
I stared at him. "...What?"
Milan spread his arms. "Think about it. You ever met a professional fighter with a skill called 'Speed Boost'? Or a karate master with 'Superhuman Reflexes'? No. Because the system doesn't work like that."
I clenched my jaw, waiting for him to continue.
"Skills apply to knowledge, tactics, external abilities. They make you smarter, help you process information faster, give you an edge in planning and execution. But they don't make you physically stronger or better at fighting. That part? That's all you."
"But why?" I pressed. "What's the difference?"
Milan smirked. "Because the system doesn't mess with your body. Only your mind."
He started pacing, gesturing as he spoke.
"Ever wonder why Olympic athletes don't just get a 'Peak Human Physique' skill? Why the best runners don't have 'Enhanced Speed'?"
I stayed silent, letting him talk.
"Because those things don't exist. The system can make you learn faster. It can optimize how you use what you have. But it can't change your body. That's why real fighters don't rely on skills—they rely on training."
I frowned. "Then what about skills like Heavy Lifting or Endurance Mastery?"
Milan snapped his fingers. "Exactly. Those don't make you stronger or faster. They just change how you handle strain."
He held up a hand, counting off:
Endurance Boost – Doesn't increase stamina. It just makes you ignore pain better.
Athleticism – Doesn't make you stronger. It just improves how your body processes movement.
Heavy Lifting – Doesn't make you physically stronger. It just makes you more efficient at lifting.
"You don't become strong by getting a skill. You get strong by training. That's why every real fighter learns the hard way."
It explained why professional athletes didn't just grind their way to skill-based superhuman performance.
But... there was a problem.
A problem only I knew.
Because I had skills that did change my body.
Muscle Optimization. Muscle Reinforcement.
These weren't tricks. These weren't just better technique or knowledge.
And if Milan was right, if the system shouldn't be able to do that...
I didn't voice any of this.
I just gave a small nod, keeping my thoughts to myself.
Milan didn't press further. Instead, he moved.
Before I could react, his fist was coming straight at my face.
A second punch followed—quick, controlled. I raised my forearm, blocking the impact, but the force still sent a sharp sting through my arm.
I stepped back, instinctively shifting into a defensive stance.
Milan grinned. "See? You've got power. But you've got no idea how to use it."
I exhaled through my nose. "You could've warned me."
"And let you get comfortable? Not a chance."
Milan straightened, rolling his shoulders. "We're starting from the basics. Footwork drills. Shadowboxing. Learning to slip punches, not just block them."
I nodded, already stepping into position.
But as we trained, as I forced my body to adapt, one thought still lingered in the back of my mind.
Why do I have skills that shouldn't exist?
Milan took a step back, shaking out his wrists.
"Alright, that's enough for now. We'll move on to—"
His body tensed. His expression darkened.
Someone was standing at the entrance of the warehouse.
Backlit by the light outside, their silhouette was tall, unmoving. Watching us.
A voice cut through the air—low, deliberate.
"I was wondering when I'd finally find you."
My instincts screamed at me.
My heartbeat slowed, steady and controlled, but my body knew—this was bad.
I couldn't see the person's face.
But the air felt heavy.
Like something dangerous had just stepped into the room.
Milan let out a slow exhale.
"You picked the wrong time to show up, pal."
The figure took a step forward.
Their face came into view.
And my breath caught.