The notification still lingered in my vision, the glowing text searing itself into my thoughts.
New Skill Acquired: [Jab] (Lv. 1)
I flexed my fingers. My knuckles ached, but beneath the dull soreness, something felt... different.
I stepped back into my stance, focusing on the sensation, and threw another jab.
The movement was crisp, precise. It wasn't just muscle memory—I could feel the skill at work, my body aligning perfectly to maximize speed and efficiency. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion.
So this is what it means to have a skill.
I threw another. And another. Each time, the strike landed with just a little more precision, a little more fluidity.
It wasn't a massive difference—not yet—but the improvement was undeniable.
I let my arm drop, exhaling slowly.
If I could force a skill into existence...
What else could I create?
A jab was just the beginning.
I stepped back and shifted my stance.
I threw one—straight punch, pivoting off my back foot, driving power from the ground up.
No notification. No system response.
I tried again. And again.
I moved to a hook, then an uppercut, cycling through basic boxing techniques. The system wasn't responding like it had with the jab, but... something was happening.
Each strike felt better. More controlled. As if the system was recognizing my effort, fine-tuning my movements little by little.
I wasn't just practicing. I was forcing change.
But this was just combat. If I could shape a fighting skill through sheer will, then...
Could I do the same for something else?
I needed something non-combat.
My eyes drifted across the gym, then toward the door.
It was something I'd seen before, but never actively tried. If I could brute-force a physical skill, maybe I could do the same for something intellectual.
I grabbed a paperclip from a nearby table and bent it into shape, kneeling in front of a locker.
I inserted the makeshift pick into the lock and felt for the pins.
I adjusted, twisting the clip.
I tried again, again, and again—working purely on instinct, trying to force my way into proficiency.
Minutes passed. Then more.
Frustration crept in.
Why isn't this working?
I had done the same with my jab—repeated the motion until the system acknowledged it. But this? It was different.
I wasn't feeling any adjustments. No subtle improvements, no shifts in understanding.
So brute-forcing mental skills doesn't work the same way.
I sat back, exhaling.
Maybe it had something to do with my body—the way physical skills engaged muscle memory, biomechanics, instinct.
Or maybe I just wasn't approaching it right.
The gym door burst open, slamming against the wall with enough force to rattle the nearby equipment.
Alexis strode in, tablet in hand, her usual smugness replaced with something sharper—urgency, maybe even frustration. Her eyes locked onto me immediately, and I could tell whatever was on that screen wasn't just another curiosity for her.
"Alright, genius. I have your results."
I rolled my shoulder, my hand slightly cramping from having tried to lockpick for so long. "And?"
She stopped a few feet away, scanning the data with a furrowed brow.
"Your blood, skeletal structure, and neurological patterns are... normal. No genetic mutations, no inhuman anomalies."
I frowned. "Then what's the issue?"
She turned the tablet toward me.
The screen displayed a graph, a mess of numbers and biological markers. Even without fully understanding the medical specifics, I could see the spikes, the outliers. One value in particular—something labeled Cellular Metabolic Rate—was far higher than any of the reference points beside it.
"It's like your body is always running at peak efficiency," she said, crossing her arms. "Even when you're at rest, your cells are doing something. Repairing? Adapting? I don't know yet. But this isn't normal, Reynard."
I stared at the screen, processing.
Constant activity. No downtime.
A machine that never stopped running.
I should've been more concerned. Should've felt some kind of dread creeping in at the idea that my body wasn't just different—it was operating under a rule set that didn't make sense. But all I felt was... confirmation.
Because this was proof.
Proof that the system had changed me.
Proof that I wasn't imagining things.
I absorbed the information, then shrugged. "I feel fine."
Alexis made a noise—somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. "That's not the point."
She ran a hand through her hair, her usual sharp demeanor cracking just slightly at the edges. "If your body is constantly burning energy , we don't know what the long-term effects are. This could be dangerous. Possibly fatal."
That word—fatal—should've hit harder.
But instead, I just met her gaze.
I exhaled, stepping closer, letting my fingers brush against her hand before clasping it. "I'll be fine."
"You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
Her lips parted, like she was ready to argue. I could see the retort forming in her head—see the frustration warring with something else, something softer. But instead of snapping at me, she let out a sharp breath, shaking her head.
"You're impossible," she muttered.
Before I could respond, she leaned in and kissed me.
It was firm, insistent, but not rushed.
Like she needed me to be here, to be real, to not disappear into whatever anomaly my body was becoming.
And for a moment, I let myself lean into it.
Because for all the questions, all the unknowns—this was something solid.
When we broke apart, I kept my grip on her hand, thumb brushing absently over her knuckles.
"Don't tell the others yet," I murmured. "No need to worry them over nothing."
She gave me a sharp look, something unreadable flickering across her face. "You never learn, do you?"
She sighed. Then, after a pause, nodded. "Fine. But if something does happen, you tell me."
She didn't look convinced.
But—for now—she let it go.
That night, I sat in my office, staring at the ceiling.
The day had been... a lot.
Between breaking the system, Alexis' test results, and my failed attempt at brute-forcing a mental skill, my thoughts were still running in circles.
I glanced at the screen.
I frowned, unlocking the message.
Let me know when you want the truth.
A cold weight settled in my chest.
I stared at the words for a long moment before exhaling, locking my phone.
I wasn't ready for that conversation.
But I also knew—I couldn't ignore it forever.