Wednesday morning brought a different kind of tension to the 10th-grade classroom. It wasn’t the thrill of leather smashing into wood, but the silent, suffocating dread of Mr. Gupta’s quadratic equations test being returned.
Mr. Gupta, a stern man with a meticulously combed mustache, walked down the aisles, placing the graded sheets face-down on the desks.
"Some of you," Mr. Gupta announced, adjusting his spectacles, "continue to believe that mathematics is a spectator sport. It is not. However, I am pleasantly surprised by a few of the turnarounds in this class."
He stopped at Ananya’s desk, placing her paper down with a nod of approval. Then, he moved to Rohan’s desk, paused for a fraction of a second, and dropped the paper.
Kabir, sitting next to Rohan, groaned audibly as he peeked at his own score. "Fifteen out of fifty. My dad is going to cancel my Wi-Fi."
Rohan ignored him, his eyes locked on the red ink circling the top right corner of his paper.
48/50.
He let out a slow, quiet breath. The Mindscape’s intense focus training was definitely bleeding into his daily life. Before the System, his highest math score had been a scraping 31.
A shadow fell over his desk. Ananya was leaning over, shamelessly trying to peek at his score. When she saw the 48, her hazel eyes widened in genuine shock.
"Show me yours, Sharma," Rohan challenged, leaning back in his chair.
Ananya flipped her paper over with a smug, triumphant smile.
49.5/50.
"Half a mark lost on a silly sign conversion in question four," she said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "But still enough to maintain the throne. You fought well, Roy, but I believe you owe me a cold coffee."
Rohan chuckled, folding his test paper. "Fair play. Meet me at the canteen during the recess break. I honor my debts."
The school canteen was a chaotic war zone of shouting teenagers, flying samosas, and the clatter of steel plates. Rohan managed to secure two cold coffees in plastic cups and handed one to Ananya, who had snagged a quiet table near the window.
"I have to admit," Ananya said, taking a sip and looking at him thoughtfully, "I actually thought you were bluffing. Going from a 60% average to near-perfect in a week? Plus the sudden cricket upgrade? If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you sold your soul to a demon."
"Just prioritizing," Rohan replied smoothly, taking a sip of his own drink. "Got tired of sitting on the sidelines in both the classroom and the field."
Ananya’s smile softened into something more genuine. "Well, I’m glad. But the real test is Saturday, isn’t it? The Zonal Tournament starts."
Rohan nodded, the mention of the tournament bringing a sharp focus back to his eyes. "Yeah. We find out the team lineup this afternoon."
"Oakridge International is the first match," Ananya warned, tapping the side of her cup. "Their captain is a state-level under-16 batsman. They have a turf wicket, imported bowling machines, and an actual physiotherapist. Don’t underestimate them just because you humbled Aryan."
"I don’t underestimate anyone anymore," Rohan said quietly. "But they better not underestimate me either."
At 3:30 PM, the atmosphere in the sports complex was heavily subdued. The remaining fifteen members of the school cricket squad sat on the bleachers. Coach Sharma stood before them, looking exhausted.
Aryan sat in the front row, staring blankly at his spiked shoes. He hadn’t said a word to anyone all day. The aura of the invincible captain was completely gone, shattered along with that middle stump.
"Listen up," Coach Sharma barked, clapping his hands once to command attention. "The Zonal Inter-School Tournament begins this Saturday. This is a knockout format. One loss, and our season is over. Our first match is away, against Oakridge International."
A collective groan rippled through the squad. Oakridge was notorious for treating public and mid-tier private schools like dirt on their expensive shoes.
"Silence!" Coach Sharma snapped. "We will be playing a 40-over format. I am announcing the playing eleven. The rest of you will be carrying drinks."
He read down the list. Aryan was still named captain and opening batsman. Kabir, to his absolute delight, was named as the primary wicketkeeper due to his reliable glove-work in the nets.
"And opening the bowling attack with the new ball," Coach Sharma paused, his eyes reluctantly finding the boy in the faded trousers sitting at the back, "will be Aryan and Rohan Roy."
Every head turned to look at Rohan. There were no protests. No snickers. The [Reputation System] was doing its job, but more than that, everyone had seen the raw, terrifying pace with their own eyes.
"Practice tomorrow is mandatory," Coach Sharma finished, dismissing them. "Roy, don’t let this get to your head. A match environment is very different from the practice nets."
"Understood, Coach," Rohan replied evenly.
By 6:00 PM, Rohan found himself standing outside a basement unit near the local metro station. The neon sign above the stairs flickered, buzzing loudly: IRON CORE FITNESS.
He walked down the concrete steps. The heavy scent of sweat, chalk dust, and rusted iron hit him instantly. This wasn’t a fancy, air-conditioned corporate gym with treadmills and juice bars. It was a dungeon built for raw strength. Heavy power racks, worn-out benches, and massive dumbbells lined the mirrored walls. Heavy metal music blasted from a corner speaker.
A man in his late twenties with shoulders as wide as a doorway walked over, wiping chalk off his hands. He had a slight limp in his left knee, just as Monu Bhaiya had described.
"You must be Monu’s kid," the man said, his voice a deep rumble. "I’m Vikram. Welcome to the Iron Core."
"Thank you, sir," Rohan said politely.
"Call me Vikram. Anyone Monu vouches for is family here. He says you bowl fast. Let’s see what kind of engine you have."
Vikram led Rohan to a basic squat rack. He loaded an empty 20-kg Olympic barbell onto the pins. "Give me five deep squats. Let’s look at your form and leg strength. Fast bowling comes from the ground up."
Rohan stepped under the bar. It was only 20 kilograms. He braced his core, just as he did in his bowling action, and descended.
Immediately, his legs began to shake.
The fast-twitch muscle fibers he had developed through his grueling street sessions and the System’s minor upgrades were built for explosive, split-second speed, not for grinding under static load. As he pushed back up, his form wavered, his knees buckling slightly inward.
He racked the bar after three reps, breathing hard.
Vikram observed him with a critical eye, crossing his massive arms. "Not good, kid. Your explosive coordination is probably decent, but your foundational strength is hollow. If you try to bowl 125 clicks in a 40-over match with those chicken legs, your lower back will compensate, and you’ll snap a vertebra by the tenth over."
Rohan wiped the sweat from his forehead, looking at his reflection in the mirror. Vikram was right. His Physique was still miserably low.
"I can fix it," Rohan said, determination burning in his chest.
Vikram chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. "I like the spirit. But muscle takes months to build, kid. The tournament is on Saturday. Just do some light mobility work today. We’ll start a proper bulk next week."
As Vikram walked away to spot another lifter, Rohan retreated to a quiet corner of the gym, sitting on a gym mat.
Months? Rohan thought. I don’t have months.
"System," Rohan whispered. "Open interface."
The glowing blue screen materialized over the dusty gym floor.
[Player Profile: Rohan Roy]
• Physique: 16/100
• Stamina: 16/100
• Available SP: 38
Rohan took a deep breath. It was time to spend the spoils of his street tournament victory and his net session triumph.
"Allocate 15 System Points to Physique. Allocate 15 System Points to Stamina."
[Ding! Point Allocation Confirmed.]
[Deducting 30 SP. Remaining SP: 8.]
[Warning: Rapid cellular regeneration and muscle fiber densification initiating. This will be physically taxing.]
Suddenly, a wave of intense heat washed over Rohan’s body. It wasn’t the agonizing burning of the Adrenaline Backlash; this felt like his muscles were vibrating at an incredibly high frequency.
He gritted his teeth, gripping the edges of the gym mat as the heat settled deep into his bones. He could feel his core tightening, the muscle fibers in his thighs and hamstrings knitting together, becoming denser, thicker like braided steel cables. His lung capacity expanded, his chest rising as a rush of oxygen flooded his system.
Five minutes later, the heat subsided, leaving a cool, minty sensation in its wake.
Rohan stood up. He felt... different. The chronic, dull ache that always lingered in his joints was completely gone. He felt rooted to the floor. His uniform shirt felt noticeably tighter around his chest and arms.
[Updated Attributes]
• Physique: 31/100 (Tier: Amateur Athlete)
• Stamina: 31/100 (Tier: Enduring)
Rohan walked back to the squat rack. He didn’t ask for permission. He slid a 10-kg iron plate onto each side of the barbell, bringing the total weight to 40 kg.
He stepped under the bar, un-racked it, and descended.
Smooth. Perfect depth. No shaking. He exploded back up with terrifying speed.
He did ten reps effortlessly, the barbell feeling like a broomstick across his shoulders.
From across the room, Vikram paused his conversation with another lifter, his jaw dropping slightly as he watched the skinny kid who had just struggled with an empty bar suddenly rep 40 kilos like it was a warm-up.
Rohan racked the bar with a loud metallic CLANG. He looked in the mirror, his dark eyes shining with intense, calculated focus.
Let Oakridge International bring their turf pitches and their state-level captains, Rohan thought, a dangerous smile crossing his face. I’m ready.