The classroom buzzed with low chatter as Charlie sat near the back, the weight of today's confrontations simmering in his chest like a live wire. Katie's stammering apology in the quad, Bobby's retreat under his unyielding stare, the teachers' stunned reactions—all of it fueled a restless fire, a quiet thrill he couldn't shake. The bell had rung minutes ago, kicking off the last class—English with Ms. Ellis—and Mr. Hargrove had just shuffled out after muttering about mixed-up faces, his roster still clutched tight. Whispers rippled through the room—"That's him?" "No way, he's different"—but Charlie tuned them out, his pen tapping the desk, his mind drifting to last night's System chime: Unbreakable Body—1000 real hits for 1 star. Sleep fighting didn't count—only real punches would carve that strength into his bones. His lips twitched, a spark of hunger cutting through Ms. Ellis's droning voice.
She lectured on some poem—resilience, struggle, heavy-handed metaphors—but Charlie's mind, sharpened by the Better Genes Potion, caught every word despite himself. Last year, he'd zoned out, barely passing; now, it stuck, clear and effortless. She handed back a vocab quiz from earlier—another A in red ink. Ms. Ellis paused, peering at him over her glasses. "Charles Finch? You're… not what I expected from last year's records." He shrugged, voice low. "Things change." She nodded, uncertain, and moved on. The minutes dragged, the poem fading into noise as Charlie flexed his hand under the desk, the Muscle Density Perk tightening his skin, muscles pressing through where flab once sagged. The final bell rang, a sharp jolt, and he grabbed his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder. The day was done, his pulse steady but alive with something restless.
He stepped into the hall, the crowd parting slightly as he moved—whispers trailing him like shadows, his lean frame cutting through, hoodie less baggy than it'd been three months ago. The quad outside hummed with students spilling out, the afternoon sun casting long streaks across the pavement. Charlie's stride was steady, his eyes scanning ahead, oblivious to the tension brewing elsewhere. Earlier, while he'd been scratching answers in class, Pete and Ray had cornered Bobby near the parking lot, out of earshot, their voices low and sharp. Pete, wiry and buzz-cut, had hissed, "Bobby, come on. Finch thinks he's hot shit now. We've got to take him down—show him who's boss." Ray, stocky and restless, had smirked, bouncing on his toes. "He's good at kickboxing or something, right? We've been training too—me and Pete can handle him, like you taught us." Bobby, leaning against a rusted sedan, arms crossed, jaw tight, had shaken his head. "No. You haven't seen his eyes. That bastard's done things—seen things. His look's menacing, like he's fought with his life on the line. I know it." Pete had scoffed, stepping closer. "What, you scared? Bobby Klein's a coward now?" Ray piled on, "He's just some loser who dropped weight. You're running from that?" Bobby's gaze had hardened. "You're idiots. There's other ways to mess with him—violence ain't the only play. I'll figure something out. Leave it." Pete had spat on the ground, turning to the others. "Fine, stay soft. We'll do it ourselves." The gang had grumbled—Bobby's lost it, we don't need him—and peeled off, their plan set.
Now, as Charlie crossed the quad toward the exit, Pete's voice sliced through the chatter. "Hey, Finch!" He turned, seeing Pete and Ray stalking toward him, the other two trailing but keeping distance. Pete smirked, fists loose at his sides. "Follow us if you ain't a coward. Got something for you." Charlie's eyes narrowed, a wild glint sparking—Real hits. Unbreakable Body. "Sure," he said, voice steady, dropping his backpack by a tree. "Lead on." The crowd thinned as they veered behind the gym, a shadowed patch of cracked asphalt and faded graffiti tucked out of sight. Pete cracked his neck, Ray bouncing on his toes—both leaner, sharper than last spring, kickboxing drills etched into their stances from months of mimicking Bobby.
"Think you're tough?" Pete sneered, lunging with a jab. Charlie didn't dodge—his arms stayed low, the punch snapping his head back, a sting flaring on his cheek. Ray swung in, a sloppy hook slamming into his ribs, then a kick grazing his thigh. Charlie grunted, standing firm, the Pain Threshold Bump dulling the blows to a muted thud. He didn't hit back—just took it, his lips curling into a faint, unhinged grin. Pete and Ray froze, exchanging glances. "What the fuck?" Ray muttered, throwing another kick—shin to Charlie's side, a solid crack. Charlie barely flinched, his eyes blazing, wild and crazy. Fifteen hits landed—punches, kicks, wild swings—and they panted, sweat beading on their brows, while Charlie stood tall, bruises blooming but his stance unbroken.
"How's he still up?" Pete gasped, stepping back, his fists trembling. "That's all, eh?" Charlie barked, his voice rough and wild. "Hit me more, c'mon!" His mind raced—it doesn't hurt that much. Fifteen down, 985 to go for Unbreakable Body 1 Star. This is my shot! Pete's jaw dropped, Ray's eyes widening. "You fucker!" Pete roared, charging again, a flurry of jabs—chest, jaw, ribs—Ray joining with kicks, their training sloppy but fierce. Charlie blocked some, forearms up, but let most land, counting silently—20, 25. They tired fast, breaths ragged, fists slowing, while Charlie laughed, a manic edge cutting through. "Hit me more, you weak bastards!" he yelled, his crazy eyes glinting, blood trickling from a split lip but his grin wide.
They hammered him—28 hits, 32—and collapsed, exhausted, hands on knees. Charlie stood, bruised but steady, blocking half the blows with instinct honed by dreams. "Hahaha!" he cackled, voice booming. "Is that all? More, hit me more!" The System chimed in his head: "37/1000 toward Unbreakable Body 1 Star." Pete stumbled back, panting. "Fuck, crazy bastard!" Ray wheezed, turning to run, Pete scrambling after him. "Waaaaiitt!" Charlie shouted, lurching forward. "Hit me more! Why you running? Scared now? FUCK, I need someone to hit me!" They bolted, vanishing around the corner, their curses fading—He's insane, what the hell—and Charlie stood alone, chest heaving, a mad grin splitting his face.
"Cowards," he muttered, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand. Then it hit him, a spark of genius igniting in his frenzied mind. "Mmm… wait. Boxing. Martial arts clubs in town. I should just be a punching bag in sparring! Challenge everyone, take every hit—get to 1000 fast! I'm a genius… hahaha!" He grabbed his backpack, adrenaline surging, his thoughts racing with plans. "Let's go find a club—boxing, anything—and get hit a lot!" His laugh echoed as he strode off, bruises throbbing but his resolve ironclad, the path to Unbreakable Body stretching out before him.
Charlie strode off from behind the gym, his laugh still echoing in the empty lot, bruises throbbing across his cheek and ribs, but he ignored it. The system's chime-37/1000 toward unbreakable body, 1 star—rang in his head like a victory bell, Pete and Ray's panicked retreat fueling his grin. Blood crusted on his split lip, and his mind raced with wild plans. "Boxing, martial arts clubs-be a punching bag, take every hit, get to 1000 fast," he muttered, slinging his backpack, adrenaline surging through him. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across Maplewood's streets as he turned toward town, his steps quick and purposeful. "I'm a genius... Ha haahahhaha!" His crazy eyes glinted; he will get the unbreakable body!
Halfway down the block, a thought struck him, slowing his stride. "Wait... 37 out of 1000," he mused, wiping blood from his lip. "And I blocked some of those kicks from Ray and Pete's jabs. If they're strong enough, do they count too? Hmm..." He paused, eyes narrowing as he replayed the fight in his head-forearms up, instinct kicking in, dull thuds against his skin. "System," he called, voice low but firm. The chime sounded, the screen flickering in his vision. "Clarification: Blocked hits count toward Unbreakable Body if they carry significant force-minimum threshold equivalent to a trained punch or kick. Current count: 37/1000, including 12 blocked strikes." Charlie's grin widened, a manic edge to it. "So they do count. Perfect. I've got the money-fuck it, I'll go premium. Boxing, jiu-jitsu, taekwondo—all of it. More hits, more skills." His laugh bubbled up again as he picked up the pace, heading for the martial arts gym he'd seen downtown-a squat brick building with a faded sign: Iron Will Fight Club.
The gym loomed ahead, its windows fogged with sweat, the muffled thump of fists on bags seeping through the walls. Charlie pushed through the door, the air hitting him thick with leather, sweat, and liniment. Inside, the space buzzed-racks of gym equipment lined one wall, a boxing ring sat center stage with two guys trading light jabs, an MMA cage hulled in the corner, an a tatami mat stretched across the back where a pair grappled in Jiu-jitsu drills. Fighters dotted the floor-some pounding heavy bags, others skipping rope with sharp snaps, and a few circling for sparring. Charlie stood there, bruises stark under the fluorescent lights, blood crusted on his lip, his lean frame taut beneath the hoodie. A stocky man in a worn Gi approached, his bald head gleaming, eyes flicking over Charlie's roughed-up look. Damn, this kid's fresh from a fight, the man thought, frowning. Poor guy-bullies messed him up, and now he's here to learn defense.
"Kid," the man said, his voice gruff but gentle, "listen-even if you learn to fight, don't go messing with the punks who did this to you. Revenge ain't worth it." Charlie blinked, stunned for a beat, then remembered-his split lip, the blooming bruises. He smirked, shaking his head. "Eh? Nah, it's not like that." He straightened, eyes glinting. "You got a premium package? Full access-boxing, Jiu-Jitsu, Taekwondo, MMA, everything?" The man - Rick, the gym's manager-raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. "Yeah, we've got it, but it's steep, kid-$500 upfront, $150 a month after. You're exaggerating-focus on one style first." Charlie didn't flinch, his grin widening. "No, I want the premium package. And everything needed-MMA gloves, boxing gloves, gi pants, boxing shoes, a mouthguard, whatever's for Taekwondo-give me it all."
Rick's jaw slackened. "Everything... huh? Wait-we don't have it all in stock. We'd need to order some, take measurements too." Charlie waved it off, unfazed. "No worries. Can I start now?" Rick hesitated, then nodded, seeing signs in this bruised kid's insistence. "Yeah, boxing class ins on. Jhon!" He snapped his fingers, calling over a lanky coach in a faded tracksuit, muttering under his breath, Treat this kid right-he might be loaded. Charlie dug into his savings-11,250 from Hell Summer, minus today's $500 for the premium package, leaving $10,750-and handed over the cash, unfazed. "Done," he said, voice steady.
Jhon approached, his sharp eyes scanning Charlie-the bruises, the split lip, the wild glint in his gaze. "Ahh, what happened to you, kid?" he asked, concern lacing his tone. Charlie shrugged, brushing it off. "Nothing happened. Can you teach me?" Jhon frowned, unconvinced, but nodded. "Alright, basics first. In front of the mirror-jabs, correct form. Might be boring, kid, but it's how we start." He thought to himself, Vengeance is bad, kid. I'll teach you a bit, then talk some sense into you. Can't let you turn into your bullies. He positioned Charlie before a wall of mirrors, stance squared-feet shoulder-width, left foot forward, fists up. "Jab-snap it out, pull it back. Like this." Jhon demonstrated, a crisp one-two cutting the air.
Charlie mirrored him, his left jab snapping out-sharp, controlled, the Punch Power Perk giving it a subtle weight. His right followed, a hook curling with a twist of his hips, then a cross, each move flowing smoother than Jhon expected. His footwork shifted-light bounces, Agility Spike keeping him balanced, pivoting like he'd seen in Ali's tapes. Jhon watched, eyes narrowing as Charlie moved-jab, hook, jab, cross-shadow-boxing with a rhythm that wasn't raw. The jab snapped like a whip, the hooj carried force, his feet danced without dragging. This ain't amateurish, Jhon thought, stunned. This boy... where'd he get this?"Hey!" he barked, cutting in. "Where'd you learn to box like that, kid? Tell me the truth and i said jabs only!
Charlie paused, wiping sweat from his brow, a faint smirk tugging his bruised lip. "By myself," he said, voice casual. "And if i know more, why stick to basics? It's good but i wanna spar-get good enough fast." Jhon's brow furrowed, disbelief warring with curiosity. "No way... impossible. But if it's true-why spar so bad?" Charlie's grin widened, a lie slipping out smooth. "Because I love fighting!" His mind shouted-I need that Unbreakable Body perk! Sounds so damn cool! - but he kept it locked inside, eyes glinting. "My goal's every style here-boxing, Jiu-Jitsu, Taekwondo. Spar,spar,spar, and more spar!"
Jhon stared, trying to process the kid's words, his bruised face, that unhinged energy. "That's impossible, kid... what, you a genius born to fight?" Charlie shrugged, his grin unshaken. "You never know if you don't try." Jhon sighed, shakin his head. "Just shadow-box for now-stick to the basics." Charlie didn't argue-Jhon's bak was turned, so he called inward, "System, give me a boxing routine. Good equipment's here." The chime sounded, screen flickering: Routine: 100 jabs, 50 hooks, 50 crosses, 5 minutes jump rope, 3 minutes bag work. He dove in-jabs snapping like gunfire, hooks carving arcs, crosses punching through, rope skipping with a steady snap-snap-snap, then fists thudding the heavy bag, sweat dripping, bruises aching but ignored.
Hours bled by, the gym emptying as he pushed, his form tight, relentless. He left as dusk settled, wiping sweat and blood with his sleeve, the day's grind etched into his frame. Jhon watched him go, leaning against the ring, thoughts swirling. That jab, that footwork-not a begginer. Kid's got something... crazy, but something. He rubbed his chin, a decision hardening. You know what? He wants to spar? FIne. Tomorrow, I'll give him what he's asking for-let's see what he's really made of.