"Ninety... eight."
Rohan’s arms were violently shaking. His elbows felt like they were filled with crushed glass.
"Ninety... nine."
He collapsed face-first onto the cold cement floor, his nose barely an inch away from his torn left shoe. He lay there, his chest heaving, gasping for air as if he were drowning. It was 6:15 AM.
A faint, satisfying Ding! echoed in his mind.
[Objective Complete: 100 Push-ups (100/100)]
[Objective Complete: 100 Squats (100/100)]
[Objective Complete: 100 Sit-ups (100/100)]
[Remaining: 10 Kilometer Run (0/10 km)]
[Time Remaining: 17 Hours, 45 Minutes]
He had spent three hours doing what a fit athlete could do in twenty minutes. He had to break the push-ups into sets of five, resting for agonizing minutes in between, fighting back tears of frustration and physical pain. His body was a malnourished vessel, unaccustomed to such brutal punishment.
Suddenly, the wooden door to his room creaked open.
"Rohan? Why are you sleeping on the floor?"
His mother stood in the doorway, holding a steel glass of hot milk. She frowned, taking in his sweat-drenched t-shirt and the bizarre position he was in. She noticed his open math textbook on the small study table.
"Did you fall asleep while studying?" her tone softened slightly, a hint of maternal guilt creeping in.
Rohan slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position, every muscle fiber screaming in protest. "Uh... yeah, Ma. Must have fallen off the chair."
"Drink this milk and get ready for school. Don’t be late," she sighed, placing the glass on the table. "And throw away those old shoes. I’ll ask your father if we can manage a new pair of school shoes next month."
As she left, Rohan stared at the milk. It wasn’t whey protein or a fancy pre-workout drink, but right now, it felt like liquid gold. He chugged it down, wincing as he forced his aching body into his school uniform.
St. Peter’s High School was bustling with energy, but to Rohan, it felt like a hazy dream.
He shuffled into his 10th-grade classroom, practically dragging his feet. He slumped into his chair at the back, burying his face in his arms.
"Bro, you look like a zombie that got run over by a DTC bus."
Rohan cracked one eye open. Sitting next to him was Kabir Ali, his best friend. Kabir was naturally talented—a wicket-keeper batsman with lightning-fast hands—but he was notoriously lazy. He was currently busy stuffing a samosa into his mouth before the teacher arrived.
"Just tired, Kabir," Rohan mumbled, his voice muffled by his sleeves.
"Still upset about yesterday’s trials?" Kabir asked sympathetically, offering half of his samosa. "Don’t sweat it. Coach Sharma is biased anyway. Aryan’s dad sponsored the new practice nets, so obviously Aryan gets to act like the king of the pitch."
Before Rohan could reply, a gentle scent of jasmine reached him. A crisp, perfectly maintained notebook was placed on his desk.
"You missed the first period, Rohan. Mr. Verma taught quadratic equations. You’re going to need these notes for the unit test next week."
Rohan looked up to see Ananya Sharma. She was the class topper, with sharp, intelligent eyes and a no-nonsense attitude. She didn’t understand the first thing about cricket, but she was one of the few people who treated Rohan with genuine respect.
"Thanks, Ananya," Rohan said, sitting up straight despite the shooting pain in his core. "I’ll copy them and return it tomorrow."
Ananya frowned, scrutinizing his pale face. "Are you sick? You’re sweating, and the AC is at 18 degrees."
"I’m fine, just... started a new workout routine," Rohan lied smoothly.
Kabir snorted. "Workout? You? Bro, lifting that heavy bat of yours is your workout."
Suddenly, the classroom door swung open, and Aryan Singhania walked in, flanked by two of his teammates. He spotted Rohan and smirked, tossing a crumpled piece of paper onto Rohan’s desk.
"Hey, waterboy," Aryan sneered. "Since you’re free this afternoon, the team needs someone to carry the kit bags to the storage room after practice. Be useful for once."
Kabir stood up, his face flushing with anger. "Hey, back off, Aryan."
Aryan ignored Kabir, keeping his eyes locked on Rohan. "Or what? You’ll drop another catch in the slips, Kabir?"
Rohan placed a hand on Kabir’s arm, pulling him back down. He looked at Aryan, his dark eyes eerily calm. The System’s voice echoed in the back of his mind: A skyscraper cannot be built on quicksand.
"I’m busy after school, Aryan," Rohan said evenly. "Carry your own bags."
Aryan’s smirk faltered for a second, surprised by the pushback from the usually quiet bench-warmer. He scoffed, "Suit yourself, loser," and walked away as the teacher entered the room.
By 6:00 PM, the Delhi sun was dipping below the horizon, casting a hazy orange glow over the city.
Rohan stood at the entrance of a large public park, about two kilometers from his home. He had changed into a faded pair of track pants and an old t-shirt. Since his cricket shoes were completely destroyed, he was wearing a pair of basic canvas sneakers that offered zero cushioning.
[Remaining: 10 Kilometer Run (0/10 km)]
[Time Remaining: 6 Hours]
"Let’s get this over with," Rohan muttered.
He started at a light jog. The first two kilometers were somewhat manageable, fueled by adrenaline and the sheer novelty of the System.
But by kilometer four, reality set in. His lungs burned. His legs felt like they were moving through wet cement. The smog in the air scratched at his throat, and a sharp cramp tore through his side.
I can’t... I can’t do this, his mind screamed.
He slowed to a walk, gasping for air.
[Warning: Host’s heart rate is unstable. Stamina is depleted.]
"Shut up," Rohan wheezed, clutching his stomach. "I’m not a machine."
[Does the Host wish to give up? Penalty: -2 Stamina Stat. Consequence: The Host will likely never bowl past 110 km/h in his lifetime.]
The robotic voice wasn’t mocking him this time; it was stating a cold, hard fact.
Rohan closed his eyes. He saw the disappointment in his mother’s eyes. He saw Aryan’s arrogant smirk. He felt the humiliation of slipping in the dirt and throwing a wide ball in front of everyone.
I am not going to be a waterboy, Rohan roared in his mind.
He forced his legs to move. It wasn’t a run anymore; it was a desperate, agonizing shuffle.
Kilometer 7... His vision started to blur.
Kilometer 8... He couldn’t feel his feet.
Kilometer 9... People in the park were staring at the sweaty, pale teenager who looked like he was about to drop dead.
At exactly 8:45 PM, Rohan crossed a chalk line on the jogging track and collapsed into the wet grass, his vision going completely black at the edges.
Ding!
[Daily Quest: The Foundation of a Pace Demon - COMPLETED!]
[Evaluating Performance... Passable.]
[Distributing Rewards...]
[+1 Physique Stat]
[+5 System Points (SP)]
[1x Novice Recovery Muscle Patch generated in System Inventory.]
Rohan lay on the grass, unable to move a single muscle. "Give me... the patch..." he gasped mentally.
[Does the Host wish to apply the Novice Recovery Muscle Patch? (Y/N)]
"Yes!"
Suddenly, a warm, soothing sensation bloomed from his chest, spreading rapidly through his veins like liquid fire, but without the burning. It rushed into his shoulders, his core, and down to his agonizingly cramped legs.
The micro-tears in his muscles began to knit themselves back together at an accelerated, unnatural rate. The lactic acid that had built up in his system was flushed out in seconds.
Within exactly one minute, the horrific pain that had plagued him all day simply... vanished.
Rohan sat up, his eyes wide with shock. He flexed his arms. He bounced on his toes. He wasn’t completely refreshed—he was still mentally exhausted and very hungry—but the physical muscle damage was completely healed.
He pulled up his Status Panel.
[Physical Attributes]
• Physique: 13/100 (Minor improvement detected)
• System Points (SP): 5
Rohan looked at his hands, a fierce, uncontrollable grin spreading across his face.
It wasn’t a trick. It wasn’t a dream.
"Aryan Singhania," Rohan whispered into the cool evening breeze. "Coach Sharma. Enjoy your spotlight while it lasts. Because I’m coming for it."