For weeks, I'd been caught in a relentless cycle of sweat, study, and service, each day chipping away at the old Ryota—the one everyone despised. Coach Ryoza's training regimen was a crucible, forged to break me down before building me back up. At first, my overweight body rebelled against every sprint, every push-up, my lungs burning and my legs trembling under the strain of my own weight. I'd collapse on the training hall's cracked stone floor, gasping, while Coach's sharp voice cut through the haze.
"Get up, Ryota! You're not done until I say so!"
Her words were a lash, but they kept me moving. By the third week, something shifted. My stomach, once soft and heavy, began to tighten. My stamina stretched, letting me run laps without doubling over. In my tiny room at home, I'd catch myself stealing glances in the chipped mirror, flexing my arms with a grin I barely recognized. It wasn't just my body changing; it was my sense of self. For the first time, I felt like I could be more than the town's punching bag.
School was a different kind of battle. I'd always been the kid teachers sighed at, the one whose name was synonymous with failing grades and whispered gossip. But studying had become my refuge, a way to drown out the voices—both in my head and in the hallways. I pored over textbooks late into the night, my desk lamp casting long shadows across pages of algebra and history. The effort paid off. My latest exam scores were near perfect, a stark contrast to the scribbled Fs of my past. My classmates noticed, their whispers turning from mockery to suspicion.
"He's cheating," a boy hissed in the cafeteria, his voice carrying over the clatter of trays.
"No way someone like him pulls those grades," another agreed.
My homeroom teacher, Mr. Tanaka, wasn't convinced either. He made me retake a math exam after school, his hawk-like eyes tracking every move of my pencil. I aced it again, handing him the paper with a quiet defiance. The gossip didn't stop, but a few voices softened, their words tinged with reluctant respect.
"Never thought he was the smart type," a girl muttered as I passed her in the hall.
"Pigs are smart, you know," another sneered, earning a laugh from her friends.
I ignored them, settling into my new seat in the center of the classroom. It was a spotlight I hadn't asked for, their stares prickling my skin like needles. But I kept my head down, my pencil moving, determined to prove them wrong.
The orphanage was my sanctuary. I poured every yen I earned from odd jobs into groceries for the kids—sacks of rice, apples, and the occasional treat like chocolate bars. Their faces lit up when I arrived, their small hands tugging at the bags as they helped me unpack in the cramped kitchen. Their chatter filled the air, a chaotic symphony of gratitude and excitement.
"Ryota, did you get the good rice this time?" a girl named Hana asked, her eyes wide.
"Only the best for you," I teased, ruffling her hair.
On quieter evenings, I stayed late, tutoring them in math or reading. Sitting cross-legged on the worn wooden floor, I'd guide them through multiplication tables or stumble through stories in their tattered books. Their laughter was a balm, soothing the ache of the world's judgment. It reminded me why I kept pushing, why I endured Coach Ryoza's relentless drills.
She noticed my progress, too, though she'd never admit it outright. Her training sessions grew fiercer, her critiques sharper, her drills more punishing. One day, as I collapsed after a grueling set of sprints, she crouched beside me, her voice low but firm.
"You're not here to coast, Ryota."
Her eyes locked onto mine, daring me to push harder, to prove I was more than my past.After a month, my progress materialized in the strange, glowing interface only I could see—a gamified reflection of my growth, like something out of the fantasy novels I used to escape into:
Lvl. 2 [HP: 15 MP: 0 STR: 2 AGI: 1 INT: 2 PER: 1 LCK: 0]
I showed Coach the stats, expecting a curt nod. Instead, she grabbed my shoulder, her smile sharp and predatory.
"Not bad, kiddo. Ready for the real test?"
Without a word, she led me to the third floor of the training hall, a place I'd only heard rumors about. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something metallic, the stone walls scarred and pitted from battles I couldn't imagine. Flickering torches cast long shadows, making the chamber feel like a tomb.
"Got the hang of fighting monsters yet?" she asked, leaning against the wall with a casual air that didn't match the tension in the room.
"Yeah," I said, catching my breath.
"Stamina's up, footwork's solid. I can hold my own."
"Excellent. Turn around."I blinked.
"Huh?"
She held up a coarse rope, her grin widening.
"Turn. Around."
Unease prickled my skin, but I obeyed. She bound my right arm—my stronger one—tightly to my torso, the rope biting into my skin. My left arm, free but clumsy, felt like it belonged to someone else. I flexed my fingers, testing their strength, and found them wanting. Before I could protest, Coach smashed a vial of purple liquid onto the floor. The acrid scent stung my nose, sharper than the red vials she'd used in earlier sessions. A faint shimmer hung in the air, and the ground seemed to pulse beneath my feet.
"Do I really have to fight with one arm?" I asked, my voice tight with dread.
Her only response was a smirk as three Kapras burst from the shadows. They were four feet tall, their leathery gray skin stretched over sinewy frames, their yellow eyes glinting with predatory hunger. Their jagged claws scraped the stone floor, and their screeches echoed like a chorus of nightmares. Two lunged at me, their claws slashing through the air. I stumbled back, heart pounding, and they collided mid-air, crashing in a tangle of limbs and snarls.
The third Kapra swiped at me, its claws whistling inches from my face. I sidestepped, my movements sluggish with only my left arm free. Its attacks grew frantic, each swipe faster and more desperate. After twenty seconds, it faltered, its chest heaving. I swung my sword with my left hand, but the blade wobbled, too heavy to control. The other two Kapras were rising, their claws scraping as they regained their footing.
I dropped the sword—it was dead weight—and threw a jab with my left fist. The punch grazed the Kapra's scaly cheek, weak but enough to make it flinch. I wound back, channeling every ounce of strength into a blow aimed at its throat. The strike landed with a sickening crunch, and the creature collapsed, wheezing and clutching its neck. The other two charged, their eyes blazing. I sprinted forward, closing the distance before they could pounce. One leaped; I jabbed its throat, and it dropped, writhing. The other stumbled, its claws flailing, and I stomped down, my weight crushing its brittle frame with a crack.
Panting, I slumped against the wall, my left arm trembling from the effort.
"Hang in there!" Coach called, her grin infuriatingly cheerful.
"I'm having second thoughts," I muttered, wiping sweat from my brow.
"Look alive!" she shouted.
Four more Kapras emerged, their eyes glinting with hunger. I took a deep breath, my body screaming in protest, and charged.
Five minutes later, I was a wreck—cuts stinging across my arms, bruises throbbing on my ribs, dirt and blood smeared across my face. The walk home was a thirty-minute ordeal, every step shooting pain through my battered body. Passersby stared, their whispers cutting deeper than the Kapras' claws.
"Embarrassing," I muttered, limping toward my house.
Through the living room window, I saw my family—Mother, Father, and my sister, Ren—laughing at the TV. Their joy was a world apart, a warmth I'd never been part of. The sight twisted something in my chest, a mix of longing and guilt. I'd been trying to rebuild what I'd broken, to mend the rift my past self had carved into this family with my reckless, shameful actions. But I couldn't face them like this—a bloodied, filthy reminder of the trouble I'd caused.
I slipped upstairs to my room, wincing as I peeled off my torn, bloodied clothes. In the bathroom, I stood under the shower, the hot water stinging my cuts like a thousand needles. I scrubbed away the dirt and blood, watching the grime swirl down the drain. I bandaged the worst of my wounds, wrapping gauze around a deep gash on my forearm, and pulled on a clean shirt and pants. In the mirror, my face was still bruised, shadows lingering under my eyes, but I looked… presentable. Like someone who might deserve a second chance. I ran a hand through my damp hair, my reflection staring back with a fragile hope I barely trusted.
I descended the stairs, pausing outside the living room door. My hand trembled on the knob, my heartbeat thundering like a drum in a hollow husk. Memories of my past flooded in—fights I'd started, people I'd hurt, the shame I'd brought on my family. I wanted to be different, to be better. But the weight of their hatred loomed like a storm.
"Just walk in," I whispered.
"Apologize. Make it right."
I paced the hallway, my shoes squeaking on the polished wood, psyching myself up. My breath came in shallow bursts, my palms slick with sweat. Finally, I pushed open the door. The laughter stopped. Three pairs of eyes turned to me—surprised, then cold. The room fell silent except for the TV's faint hum, a sitcom laugh track mocking the tension.
I opened my mouth, but my voice cracked.
"I—uh, I'm…"
My hands gripped my pants, head down like a scolded child.
"I'm sorry," I managed.
"For everything. The trouble I caused. I want to fix it, to be a family again."
Ren's face twisted with shame and despair.
"What do you want? To hurt us more? Go away!"
Father stood, his eyes hard.
"You're a problem, Ryota. Always have been. We tried to help, but you kept making excuses. We're better off without you."
Mother's voice broke as she spoke, tears streaming.
"Because of you, I lost your brother. A miscarriage, Ryota. The stress you caused—I couldn't…"Ren's voice rose, sharp and cutting.
"I was bullied because of you! No friends, no one to talk to. I had to transfer schools. It's your fault!"Father grabbed my collar, his face inches from mine.
"You're not my son. You're my regret."
He shoved me back, and I stumbled, falling to my knees. He pulled out his wallet and tossed cash at me. It hit my face, fluttering to the floor like dead leaves.
"Take this and leave. Move somewhere else. Anywhere but here."
The room spun. I pressed my forehead to the floor, tears mixing with the faint sting of my bruises.
"I'm sorry," I choked out.
"I swear I'll make it right. Please, one more chance."
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Then Father spoke, his voice flat.
"Go to your room, Ryota. We'll talk this over."
I stumbled upstairs, hope flickering like a dying ember. In my room, I sat on the bed, my mind racing with possibilities. I imagined fishing with Father, the sun glinting off the water as we laughed. I pictured tutoring Ren, helping her with math until she smiled. I saw us at the zoo, the four of us together, a family again. The thought warmed me, fragile but stubborn. Two hours later, a knock came at my door.
"It's time," Father said.
I hurried to the living room, my heart pounding as I knelt before them, my clean clothes a silent plea for redemption.
"We've decided," Father said, his voice heavy.
"You need to move out. I'll pay for it, like I said. Just… go."