The Book
"What a little b***h," Jack sneers, his voice dripping with disdain, as his fist connects with a sickening thud against my right cheek. The impact sends a shockwave through my body, causing me to stumble and collapse onto the cold, unforgiving ground. The taste of iron fills my mouth, a bitter reminder of the violence that has just unfolded.
The world around me seems to blur, the edges of my vision dancing with specks of light. The pain radiates from my cheek like a relentless fire, intertwining with the ache of despair that grips my heart. This cruel and unfortunate turn of events feels like a cosmic joke, orchestrated by a world that has turned its back on kindness and empathy.
In the midst of the torment, my mind races, grappling with the overwhelming injustice of it all. Why, in the name of all that is good, were we granted these inexplicable powers? The supernatural abilities that now govern our lives, a twisted gift that only seems to amplify the darkest aspects of our nature. As the haze of pain clouds my thoughts, another blow lands on my already tenderized cheek, a cruel punctuation to my musings.
"Now that f*****'s cheeks are both red! Haha!" Jack's triumphant voice cuts through the air like a serrated knife, his words laced with sadistic pleasure. He revels in the attention of his bully friends, who gather around like a pack of hyenas, feeding off his malevolence.
Jack, the embodiment of arrogance and power, stands tall with an imposing figure that could rival even the most seasoned athletes. His muscles ripple beneath his shirt, a physical testament to the supernatural strength that sets him apart from the rest of us "mere mortals" as he calls. This "gift" of raw might, quantified by an otherworldly numerical score that hovers in front of our eyes like an arcane projection when at an altar.
In a society where the altar of statistics is worshipped, we all bear witness to the stark disparities that define our worth. An average adult male's strength is a humble 5, a testament to the limitations of human effort. Yet, Jack defies convention with a staggering score of 9, a number that mocks the concept of fairness and mocks the potential for anyone to close the gap.
I find myself reflecting on the stark contrast between the past and the present, a time when sheer determination could elevate even the weakest among us. Those days are but a distant memory, shattered by the emergence of this new order where destiny is etched in stone and crime thrives unchecked.
Suddenly, a frantic voice pierces the suffocating atmosphere, drawing my attention away from my tormentor. Jack's lookout, panic etched across his face, rushes into the room with urgency. "Sh**! Let's get out of here! A priest is coming!" he exclaims, his words a harbinger of impending doom.
"Why would we leave when it's a mere prie—" Jack's response is swift and brutal, a testament to the ruthless logic that guides his actions. With an explosion of force, his friend is slammed into the floor, a horrifying crack filling the air as bones shatter and blood begins to pool. His friend's worries are silenced by Jack's iron grip, his intentions made chillingly clear. The priest holds the key to maintaining their privileged status, the power to bless the altar and expose their actions for the world to see. With a cold, calculated calmness, Jack explains, "That priest is the only one in this city who can bless an altar to see stats! If he sees us beating the s**t out of Oren, we're never going to see our stats again."
I remain sprawled against the bathroom wall, a battered and bruised testament to their cruelty. The pain surges through me, an agonizing reminder of the vulnerability that accompanies powerlessness. A glimmer of solace settles within me – I am not alone in this torment, Jack's malevolence is an equal-opportunity oppressor.
As Jack effortlessly hoists his unconscious friend, a chilling realization dawns upon me. The footsteps of the approaching priest echo in the hallway, drawing nearer with each passing second. Jack's posse disperses like shadows, fleeing from the inevitable reckoning that the priest's arrival promises.
The bathroom door swings open with a creak, revealing the holy figure in his vestments. His gaze falls upon my broken form, a silent understanding passing between us. The shame burns like a branding iron, scorching my pride and dignity. My eyes meet the priest's, and I can almost hear the unspoken words that hang heavy in the air.
"Fear not, my child," something murmurs softly, a gentle reassurance that offers a fleeting moment of respite from the world's cruelty. In that instant, as the priest's gaze lingers upon me, I am reminded that even in this God-forsaken world, pockets of compassion and hope still remain. But, f**k, this is embarrassing.
The priest's voice was laced with genuine concern as he questioned, "Oh my Lord, are you okay, son? Who did this to you?" His concern was palpable as he knelt down beside me, a mix of worry and compassion in his eyes. I struggled to catch my breath, coughing up blood to the side before managing to look up at him. "No, I'm not okay, sir," I replied weakly, my voice strained. "Please, take me somewhere... away from this dirty place."
His nod was both reassuring and determined as he gently lifted me in his arms, his strength surprising given his role. As he carried me down the dimly lit hallway, he turned his head to face me, his expression sincere. "You forgot to tell me, who did this to you?" His inquiry was gentle yet pressing, showing that he genuinely cared about the answer.
My anger surged, and I couldn't help but grasp his shirt tightly, my frustration and pain boiling over. In that moment, I felt like a failure, burdened by a skill that seemed to do more harm than good. "I'm such a loser," I thought to myself, "I'm the only one with this horrible skill. I can't even become 'average'." His gaze remained forward, his determination unwavering as he continued, "I guess... You have your own problems to worry about, son. Forget I asked, just come to me when you need help, okay?"
The infirmary's sterile white walls welcomed us as the nurse's shocked voice broke through the tense atmosphere. "Did you see what happened? Blunt trauma?" she asked urgently, scanning the room for the necessary medical supplies. I winced as I realized the extent of my injuries; I was beaten and bruised. Yet, somehow, a strange surge of adrenaline coursed through me, numbing the pain to some extent.
Abruptly, a searing pain shot through my face, causing me to instinctively grab it and let out a loud cry. The nurse's exclamation filled the room, a mix of frustration and urgency in her voice. "S**t! This is what we get for giving kids muscle strength superior than Mike Tyson! Priest, put him on the bed!" The priest's strong arms cradled me, placing me gently on the sterile bed, while the nurse swiftly administered a dose of morphine to ease my pain.
My vision began to blur as the drug took effect, the world around me fading into darkness. I strained to hear the hushed conversation between the priest and the nurse as consciousness slipped away, leaving me wondering about their thoughts and intentions.
When I finally stirred awake, the dim light of the infirmary greeted me, and the priest and nurse were still by my side. My body ached, the pain now a dull throbbing sensation, like a persistent headache. A bag sat next to the priest, its contents unknown to me, but my future self would know.
My voice trembled as I spoke, my vulnerability on display, "Sorry for making you worry about a weakling like me." The priest's response was gentle, his words carrying a profound wisdom, "God loves the weak, my son. He loves all." Emotions overwhelmed me, and tears streamed down my cheeks. "Is this how he shows me his love? By giving me this skill, and letting me get beat up all f*****g day?" I couldn't help but pour out my frustrations, my voice laced with bitterness.
The priest's gaze shifted to the bag beside him, then back to me, a look of curiosity in his eyes. "A skill? What skill? Aren't people with skills usually strong?" His innocent inquiry struck a nerve, fueling my determination to prove myself. With resolve, I rose from the bed, ignoring the pain that shot through me. "I'll show you. Take me to the altar."
The nurse's concern was palpable as she cautioned me about my injuries, her voice filled with a mix of care and professionalism. "You're still hurt. Be careful when walking and don't do any intense exercise for the next few weeks, alright?" I nodded, acknowledging her advice, while the priest stood up, ready to accompany me. "Alright. Show me your skill, son."
With school hours behind us, I made my way towards the school gate, hoping for a moment of peace. However, fate had other plans, as Jack and his cronies loomed ahead. My frustration and fear bubbled up again; I wished they would just leave me alone for once. Jack's menacing gaze locked onto me, his unspoken threat clear.
The priest's interaction with Jack provided a temporary distraction. "Priest, when will I be able to get my stats checked?" Jack's voice held a tone of impatience, while the priest's calm response set the timeline. "Oh, maybe in like a week? Just wait a little bit." Jack's gaze lingered on me, a silent reminder of the consequences of speaking out.
As we continued past Jack and the gate, the weight of the situation lingered in the air. The priest and I walked side by side through the bustling city streets, a sense of camaraderie forming between us. In the midst of our journey, the priest turned his attention to me, his curiosity piqued. "Oh, yeah. What is your name?" His genuine interest brought a small smile to my face, and I replied softly, "My name is Oren, Oren Hashigana, sir."
Our steps carried us through the maze of city intersections, each one bringing us closer to the priest's church. The historical significance of his church was undeniable; it was the only place capable of assessing stats due to its unique altar. I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the sight of the church's grandeur, even as my wavering faith cast a shadow over my heart.
The imposing doors of the church swung open, revealing a realm of Christian art and literature within.
I remember the exact moment that solidified my identification as a Christian. It was a profound and breathtaking experience that has remained etched in my memory. As I stepped into the grand cathedral, a sense of awe enveloped me. The impressive expanse of the interior was adorned with intricate stained glass windows, each portraying vivid scenes from the Bible. The play of sunlight through the multi-colored panes painted the entire space with a kaleidoscope of hues, creating an ethereal atmosphere that felt like a glimpse into another realm.
My eyes were immediately drawn to the centerpiece of the cathedral – a massive, meticulously crafted glass ceiling that seemed to stretch on endlessly. The delicate glasswork depicted biblical tales with astonishing detail and precision. I couldn't help but wonder about the artist behind this masterpiece. Who had the talent and dedication to create such a breathtaking piece of art?
While admiring the remarkable artwork, I allowed my thoughts to wander through the ancient stories. I chuckled inwardly as I mentally skipped over some of the more intricate theological nuances, realizing that the essence of the stories could be understood even without delving into every minor detail. These narratives were universal, transcending language and time, reaching deep into the core of human understanding.
Lost in my thoughts, I was brought back to reality by the priest's gentle voice. He had noticed my amazement and approached me, a warm smile on his face. "Are you wondering who made this ceiling?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with a sense of pride. "It was crafted by an elderly man who visited our cathedral many years ago. He dedicated his time and skill to this labor of love, completing it within a single month. A true testament to his devotion." His words resonated with a sense of history and dedication that was truly inspiring.
As the priest gestured ahead, I followed his lead, my heart pounding with anticipation. We approached the majestic altar, an ornate masterpiece of its own, standing as a beacon of reverence and devotion. "Shall we begin?" the priest inquired, his voice both inviting and reassuring. With a silent nod, I stepped forward and knelt before the altar, a wave of solemnity washing over me.
The priest's voice filled the sacred space as he began to pray, his words carrying a weight of tradition and faith. I closed my eyes, allowing the resonance of his prayer to envelop me. In the stillness of that moment, I opened my heart in communion with the divine. My own whispered words joined the chorus of prayers, a heartfelt conversation with the higher power that transcended the confines of earthly existence.
Amidst my reverie, I found myself reflecting on my own path and purpose. "God, I ask for your blessing," I whispered, my voice tinged with a blend of humility and certainty. "I hold unwavering faith in your presence. Your existence is undeniable, but I am left to wonder – why have I been bestowed with this terrible skill, named-"
As my thoughts converged in a final plea, the priest's voice gently interrupted my contemplation. "Weakling?" he called out, a touch of amusement in his tone. Startled, I opened my eyes, realizing that his prayer had concluded while I was lost in my own musings.
Name: Oren Hashigana
Strength: 2
Speed: 2
Defense: 5%
Soul: 100
Skills:
Lvl. 3 Weakling (Passive) - Your growth limit is 4.
The very sight of it stirred a mix of emotions within me—nostalgia, bitterness, and a pang of self-doubt. This was the same interface that had marked the turning point in my life, the catalyst that led to my parents' decision to leave me behind. Admittedly, it wasn't the sole reason for their departure, but it was undeniably a pivotal moment. The screen seemed to hold the weight of my past, a reminder of my struggle against fate.
Despite dedicating considerable time and effort to boxing and honing my physique, my abilities never ascended beyond mediocrity. I was outperformed by children half my age, a fact that gnawed at my sense of self-worth. The priest, who was now staring at the screen in astonishment, reached out and closed it. His warm hands found their way to my shoulders, and his comforting touch provided a reassuring anchor amidst my inner turmoil. "This is not a sign of God forsaking you," he declared, his voice firm with conviction. "I promise you this with every fiber of my faith."
Though his words held a glimmer of solace, skepticism still clung to my thoughts. The display had shown a meager "4," an indicator of my growth potential, or lack thereof. Not even a mere "5" to offer a sliver of hope. My heart sank as I considered the stark truth: the lower the growth limit, the more arduous the journey to acquire meaningful attributes. The world was undergoing a seismic shift where strength was becoming an increasingly vital currency. The ominous shadow of the Criminal Alliance loomed large, wreaking havoc upon major cities through acts of terror. Even in our remote haven, the threat was tangible, creeping ever closer. I couldn't help but imagine people like Jack aligning themselves with these malicious forces, a disturbing thought that sent shivers down my spine.
With a feeble smile, I managed to respond, my voice quivering, "I understand, priest, sir. I can't hold God accountable for this... this twist of fate, can I?" Tears welled up in my eyes, threatening to spill over. In a gesture of compassionate understanding, the priest enveloped me in his embrace. My emotional dam broke, and the pent-up despair poured out in a torrent of tears that soaked into his robes. For the next ten minutes, time seemed to stand still as I clung to him, releasing a reservoir of grief and frustration that had been building for far too long.
Eventually, I pulled away from the priest's embrace, my tear-streaked face now a portrait of vulnerability and resolve. Thanking him for his help, I made my way back home. The priest had urged me to stay and discuss matters further, but I felt an urgent need to chart my own path, to find a purpose that transcended my perceived limitations.
As I walked past a towering high-rise building, fate seemed to intervene once more, this time in the form of a sudden commotion. An object plummeted from above, crashing onto the ground with a resounding thud. Startled, I instinctively leaped backward, my heart racing. The object emitted a brief puff of smoke before it came into focus—a brown book. Curiosity piqued, I bent down and picked it up, its title revealing itself to me: "The Book of Strength." A slim volume, its mere three pages hinted at an enigmatic treasure trove of knowledge. Tentatively, I opened the book, unaware that this single act would set in motion a sequence of events that would forever reshape the trajectory of my life.
Welcome! Oren Hashigana! You have been
registered as the first user of "The Book of Strength"!
We have removed your "Weakling" skill!
Congratulations! Here are your stats and available points:
Book Level: 1
Name: Oren Hashigana
Health: 1000
Strength: 2
Speed: 2
Defense: 5%
Soul: 100
Skills:
Lvl. ??? Infinite Growth Limit (Passive) - No growth limit.
Points: 2100
Shop:
Stats: 100p
Lvl. 1 Stealing Skills - 10% chance of stealing one skill from an opponent you defeat. 0 soul to use, one day cooldown. 1500p
Lvl. 1 Strength Booster - Increase your strength by 150% for three seconds. 20 soul to use, one minute cooldown. 250p
Lvl. 1 Speed Booster - Increase your strength by 150% for three seconds. 20 soul to use, one minute cooldown. 250p
Lvl. 1 Triple Strike - Attack three times in succession with enhanced speed and strength. 10 soul to use, thirty second cooldown. 500p
Upgrade Book: 1000p
Before me lies an enigmatic sight, a phenomenon that has never graced my eyes until this very moment. A book, unlike any other, conjured an ethereal screen that shimmered in the air before me. This mesmerizing display, I come to realize, is a privilege reserved solely for sacred altars, places of profound reverence and power. Oddly juxtaposed, the notion of a shop at an altar seems utterly incongruous. My mind races as I retreat into the nearby alleyway, seeking solitude to contemplate this extraordinary occurrence. Could this be the handiwork of a divine force, an act of God orchestrating my destiny? Or perhaps the ingenuity of an ingenious individual who crafted this marvel? A surge of curiosity courses through me, intertwining with a tinge of apprehension about the origins of this phenomenon.
After moments of introspection, a sense of clarity washes over me. The weight of the moment is balanced against the intriguing revelation before me—a collection of 2100 points, an ephemeral currency beckoning me to shape my newfound destiny. The array of choices unfolds like a tapestry of opportunity, each thread promising untold potential. Swiftly, I eliminate two options from consideration. The Level 1 Stealing Skills, though tempting in its own right, pales in comparison to the effort required to attain it. The investment versus reward is a scale tipped unfavorably. Similarly, Triple Strike's allure falters under the veil of ambiguity shrouding its potential enhancements, coupled with a price tag that bears a hefty burden.
Yet, amidst these considerations, a clear path emerges—a strategic endeavor to bolster my foundational attributes. Strength and speed, I conclude, should be cultivated in equal measure, a harmonious balance poised to grant me prowess in multifaceted scenarios. With conviction, I select the 'Stats' option, feeling a surge of anticipation that electrifies the air. A simple gesture, a tap of my finger, and the screen responds with a radiant pulse—a confirmation of my choice. A cascade of euphoria and accomplishment rushes through me as the numbers shift and adjust, bestowing upon me six increments of both strength and speed.
Book Level: 1
Name: Oren Hashigana
Health: 1000
Strength: 8 (+6)
Speed: 8 (+6)
Defense: 5%
Soul: 100
Skills:
Lvl. ??? Infinite Growth Limit (Passive) - No growth limit.
Points: 900
Shop:
Stats: 100p
Lvl. 1 Stealing Skills - 10% chance of stealing one skill from an opponent you defeat. 0 soul to use, one day cooldown. 1500p
Lvl. 1 Strength Booster - Increase your strength by 150% for three seconds. 20 soul to use, one minute cooldown. 250p
Lvl. 1 Speed Booster - Increase your speed by 150% for three seconds. 20 soul to use, one minute cooldown. 250p
Lvl. 1 Triple Strike - Attack three times in succession with enhanced speed and strength. 10 soul to use, thirty second cooldown. 500p
Upgrade Book: 1000p
Alright, those were good choices. I don't feel any different though? What happened? Immediately after upgrading, I feel a surge of growing pains. The book slips out of my grasp, tumbling down to the pavement with a soft thud. My body seems to have a mind of its own, convulsing and contorting in ways I've never experienced before. Passersby glance at the alleyway, their eyebrows furrowed in concern or confusion, probably assuming I'm some sort of drug user. I collapse to the ground, my limbs trembling and muscles contracting involuntarily. The world spins around me, a dizzying whirlwind of sensations. A fierce determination wells up within me, and I find myself shouting defiantly towards the sky, "Is this all you have?! I'll embrace anything to become stronger!"
Abruptly, the convulsions cease, and my body stills as if some unseen force has answered my challenge. A surge of energy courses through me, causing my jacket to strain and tear under the pressure. With shaky hands, I prop myself up on all fours, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Fingers trembling, I retrieve my phone from my pocket and gaze at my reflection in the screen. My heart skips a beat as I take in the astonishing transformation before me. What the-? I'm an entirely different person! While I haven't exactly turned into a hulking giant, there's an undeniable sense of strength and vitality emanating from my newly sculpted physique. I must have grown at least three inches, and my features appear sharper, more defined. Could this book actually be real?
Unable to contain my excitement, I throw a quick jab into the air. The movement is lightning-fast, a blur that rivals the swiftest professional MMA fighters before the gift occurred. Although those fighters are undoubtedly much stronger now, the fact that I can even come close to their speed is mind-boggling. Overflowing with newfound energy, I leap into the air, defying gravity and soaring nearly two meters above the ground. A euphoric rush surges through me, and I can't help but exclaim, "Oh my God! This is real!"
Reality sets in, and I start pondering the endless possibilities that lie ahead. What should I use this newfound power for? The idea of becoming the strongest person ever with dedicated training takes root in my mind, a tantalizing dream that I'm not willing to let slip away. My thoughts are interrupted as a cold realization dawns upon me—I'm standing half-naked in the alley. My face flushes with embarrassment as I hastily glance around, hoping that no one else has noticed.
Suddenly, a familiar and comforting voice slices through the air, calling my name, "Oren, what the hell are you doing here?" I turn to see Aroha approaching, her gaze a mix of concern and confusion. Aroha, the one person who has always managed to inject a sense of joy into my life. She's a Hawaiian transplant who moved here after the Crime Alliance seized control of her state. Despite her own struggles, she's always managed to maintain a sense of resilience and positivity.
As she draws closer, her eyes widen in shock at the sight before her—me, transformed and exuding an aura of power. Her words tumble out, a mix of surprise and suspicion, "Did you steal Oren's phone?! Who are you?" I hurriedly try to explain, "No, it's me, Aroha." Her defensive stance relaxes slightly, but she remains wary, her fists still poised for action. "I won't let you steal his stuff! Give it back!" she asserts, her voice tinged with determination.
Desperation colors my voice as I reassure her, "It's really me, Aroha. Something happened, something incredible. I gained a new skill that replaced my old one and boosted my stats by 6 each." I can only hope she'll believe me. Her guard lowers, and her intense gaze softens, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "How lucky! So this just happened, right now? Your body looks different. I asked around, and they said you went with the priest. What did you do with him?"
A wave of realization washes over me—yes, it all started after my encounter with the priest. I answer her inquiry, "I just checked my skills. The skill 'Weakling' is gone." The synchronicity of it all is almost uncanny. Clutching the book in my hand, I attempt to show her, but her confusion deepens. "Why are you grabbing nothing?" she asks, puzzled. I point to the book, its pages shimmering with an otherworldly light, and explain, "You don't see anything in my hand?"
Aroha shakes her head, her skepticism evident, "No. Are you playing some kind of joke on me?" With a rueful smile, I shake my head and discreetly slip the book into my backpack, my fingers clicking the final products I plan to purchase.
Book Level: 1
Name: Oren Hashigana
Health: 1200 (+200 Max)
Strength: 8
Speed: 8
Defense: 5%
Soul: 100
Skills:
(+) Lvl. 1 Strength Booster - Increase your strength by 150% for three seconds. 20 soul to use, one minute cooldown.
(+) Lvl. 1 Speed Booster - Increase your speed by 150% for three seconds. 20 soul to use, one minute cooldown.
Lvl. ??? Infinite Growth Limit (Passive) - No growth limit.
Points: 200
Shop:
Stats: 100p
Lvl. 1 Stealing Skills - 10% chance of stealing one skill from an opponent you defeat. 0 soul to use, one day cooldown. 1500p
Lvl. 1 Triple Strike - Attack three times in succession with enhanced speed and strength. 10 soul to use, thirty second cooldown. 500p
Upgrade Book: 1000p
As Aroha and I exited the dimly lit alleyway, the sunlight hit my bare skin, making me squint against its brightness. The urgency of my need for new clothes was evident in my voice as I told her, "I need new clothes." She responded with a knowing nod, her eyes scanning the bustling street as she pointed towards a quaint storefront, "I go to this store often. It has men's clothes. What would you like?"
With a sense of humility, I replied, "I have no money, so anything will do." Her gaze lingered on me for a moment, her expression thoughtful, before she quipped with a smirk, "No... you need something good. I got you, just pay me back soon." Her confidence reassured me, and we began making our way towards Macy's, the iconic department store that beckoned with its promise of fresh clothes.
As I stood outside the store, the curious glances of passersby made me acutely aware of my shirtless state. I felt a mixture of self-consciousness and vulnerability that seemed to amplify with each stare. I couldn't help but wonder why I was drawing so much attention, even in a city where eccentricities were often embraced.
Amidst the scrutiny, a group of stunning women approached me, their beauty accentuated by their confident strides. They formed an impromptu line, with the girl in the center mustering her courage to speak, her cheeks flushed as she held out her phone and stammered, "Can-c-can I have your phone number?" The unexpected proposition left me bewildered. Am I really being hit on? The surreal nature of the moment made it difficult to believe that such a situation could be unfolding for.. me.
Suddenly, a soft thud against my arm jolted me from my thoughts. Aroha had returned, her presence both protective and possessive as she swiftly darted the phone away. Her voice was firm as she declared, "This guy isn't interested in you. Trust me, he isn't interested in anyone." The girl's hopeful expression twisted into one of heartbreak, and she turned to flee, her friends following suit with disapproving glares that were aimed squarely at Aroha.
My confusion deepened as I turned to Aroha, my voice laced with bewilderment, "Why would you do that? They weren't being mean. You even made her cry." Her gaze averted from mine, and she murmured something under her breath that I struggled to catch. Something about me not realizing what she feels? The weight of her words left me momentarily speechless, and I watched as she turned back towards me, presenting a bundle of clothes. With a sense of gratitude, I accepted the clothes and began to change, the fabric against my skin offering a welcome sense of normalcy.
In the midst of this surreal scene, a faint noise echoed in my mind, drawing my attention away from the bustling street. I felt a strange sensation, almost as if my thoughts were being interrupted by an external force. Then, before my eyes, a blue screen materialized, displaying a message that filled me with excitement and anticipation. The words on the screen made me feel like I was evil for being happy about this, but still.
Quest 1: Bully Takedown
Your bully, Jack, has abused you and others for far too long. He is about to
approach you trying to steal Aroha! Stop him
and teach him a lesson! If you do.. you will get points!
Requirements:
Knock out Jack.
Recommendations:
Make him never hurt you or others again.
Rewards:
1200 points (300 extra if recommendations completed)
Right on cue, as if this book wasn't amazing enough, my gaze locks onto Jack's figure on the other side of the bustling street. He stands there, a dark silhouette against the urban backdrop, and his eyes are fixed on Aroha with an unsettling intensity. A sly grin curls on his lips as he shamelessly licks them, a gesture that speaks volumes of his audacious and predatory nature. Does he know no bounds? His confidence oozes as he begins to stride purposefully across the street, using the pedestrian crosswalk as if it were his own personal stage.
Aroha's gaze follows his approach, her brows furrowed in a mix of curiosity and skepticism. Her voice carries a tinge of uncertainty as she leans in and asks, "Hey, isn't that Jack?" Her eyes flicker between me and Jack, awaiting my response.
I meet her gaze with a hint of mischief dancing in my eyes, fully aware of the impending confrontation. "Be wary, Aroha," I say, my voice tinged with an air of self-assuredness. My stance subtly shifts as I prepare to intervene.
As Jack nears, his expression shifting from smug amusement to a feigned casualness, his attention turns to Aroha. He attempts to initiate his usual manipulation, his words dripping with false charm, "Hey, Aroha, come with me to the club—" But before he can finish, I swiftly step in front of her, positioning myself as a protective barrier between them.
Jack's gaze shifts from Aroha to me, and his eyes widen in a flicker of realization. Recognition dawns upon him as he takes in the figure standing before him—the same figure he once belittled and tormented mercilessly. His attempt to regain control is evident in his stammered words, "Oren? Is that you? What the hell happened to you? You weren't like this even three hours ago."
My voice carries a new, resolute tone as I explain, "My Weakling skill was removed. Don't you dare take Aroha anywhere. I won't let you." The tension in the air becomes palpable, a silent challenge that not only Jack but also the surrounding bystanders can sense.
The crowd begins to part, forming a clear space of about fifteen feet in diameter. It's as if they can sense the impending clash, a battlefield etched in the concrete expanse. The onlookers exchange wary glances, their anticipation mingling with a sense of trepidation. Even the police, though present, chose to remain at a distance, well aware that this confrontation may defy their ability to intervene easily.
With cautious steps, Jack takes a measured stride forward. The air is thick with unspoken history and tension, the memories of past torment resurfacing like a storm cloud. As he moves forward, the haunting specter of post-traumatic stress disorder looms over me, its icy fingers clutching at my mind. Doubts surge forth—what if he wins, what if Aroha suffers at his hands once more, what if the darkness that's plagued me refuses to dissipate? It's a surge of existential dread, a fleeting moment where the weight of my past seems insurmountable.
Yet, as my thoughts threaten to spiral into the abyss, a newfound resolve surges within me. This book, this catalyst for change, has given me the strength to redefine my narrative, my destiny. The echoes of self-doubt are silenced by a fierce determination. I refuse to remain a victim, to let Jack's malevolence define my faith.
In the midst of this internal struggle, Jack's voice pierces through, a mocking reminder of past battles, "No matter what you do, you're still trash! Did you forget how it went last time? You took a huge beating!" My eyes narrow, and a confident smirk graces my lips as I roll my sleeves down with deliberate purpose. What purpose? Beating the s**t out of this piece of trash.