The Choice to Change

Maro left school early, walking the familiar path home with heavy steps. 

When he entered the house, his father sat in the living room, newspaper in hand. 

The older man looked up, concern flickering across his face.

"Back early today," his father said softly, folding the paper in his lap. "What happened?"

Maro avoided his gaze. "I'm not feeling great. Mind if I stay home tomorrow too?"

"I see," His father studied him for a moment, worry creasing his brow. "Rest up, son. I'll call the school."

Nodding, Maro slipped away to his room. 

Once inside, he closed the door behind him, leaning against it. 

Maro wasn't used to the attention, from being ignored to studied by ever pair of eyes as he walked into a room, it was a shift he'd need time to get used to.

Finally, he had a chance to breathe. 

He was safe here, but his thoughts were loud.

His father, now alone in the living room, glanced at the discarded newspaper on the table. 

The paper's pages were sprawled out onto the fourth page, in a small column reading "Gotham's Newest Hero: Teen Stops Mugging."

It should've been a proud moment, but something about it had unsettled Maro. His father could sense it. What had happened at school today to drive him back home so early?

Upstairs, Maro paced his room, eyes falling on the framed photos lining the walls. 

Pictures of him as a child, his father and mother at his side. He missed the way things used to be, when the family was whole. Back then, everything had been simpler.

But that life felt distant now. Irrelevant. What mattered now was the choice he had made—to accept the System's will and become something more than he was.

The price of his continued survival.

He changed out of his school uniform and into plain clothes, casting a glance at himself in the mirror. 

His reflection stared back, thin arms and sharp ribs mocking him. 

He had never cared much about his appearance, never had the drive to change. But things were different now. He was different. He had to be.

Determined, Maro left his room and headed toward the front door. His father, still seated in the living room, looked up once more.

"Feeling any better?" his father asked, searching his son's face for any sign of illness.

"Yeah. A little," Maro replied quickly, grabbing his jacket. "I'm going out for a bit."

His father's eyes followed him, concern deepening. "Where are you going? You shouldn't be pushing yourself if you're unwell."

"Just need some air," Maro said, not stopping.

"Maro…" His father's voice grew more serious. "You've been acting differently since that incident. What's going on?"

Maro paused, hand on the doorknob. He didn't turn around. "I don't have time for this, Dad. I'll be back later." Before his father could respond, Maro was out the door, letting it close with a heavy thud behind him.

His father sighed, staring at the closed door for a long moment before looking down at the paper in his hands. 

Outside, Maro's steps were swift. 

He needed an outlet, something to clear his head. 

A quick search on his phone led him to a gym—an underground establishment beneath a shady-looking bar. 

'Typical Gotham.'

Nothing here was pristine, but the gym's low prices caught his eye.

When he arrived, the entrance creaked open, revealing a dimly lit space that smelled of sweat and iron. The faint hum of machinery and grunts of exertion filled the room.

Maro approached the receptionist, a bored-looking woman flipping through a magazine. "I'd like to sign up," he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

She barely glanced at him, took his money, and handed him a faded membership card. "Locker room's that way," she muttered, not bothering to look up.

Maro headed deeper into the gym, his wallet now lighter. Thankfully it wasn't too expensive, though it was still considered robbery when one considered the cleanliness of the venue.

But beggars couldn't be choosers, Maro had long since lost his job at the restaurant. For now, he was operating solely on his savings. 

He walked past the locker room, and into the main gym. All he had brought with him was a small drawstring bag holding his water bottle and his phone.

There was no chance he was leaving that in the locker room. He didn't quite trust the security of this gym.

Once in the main part of the establishment, he sighed to himself.

The equipment looked worn, scarred by years of use. 

A few people worked out in silence, including an older man with bulging veins pounding away at a punching bag with relentless precision. 

The rhythmic thudding of his fists echoed across the room.

Maro felt out of place. 

He wandered toward the weights, grabbing a pair of dumbbells and starting a set of exercises. 

He barely lasted fifteen minutes before setting them down, sweat clinging to his skin. His muscles ached, but annoyance simmered inside him.

"Why isn't it working?" he muttered under his breath. He had expected the System to reward his effort, to give him a boost, but the interface remained silent.

"Don't expect miracles after one workout, kid," came a gruff voice.

Maro looked up to see the older man from earlier, his hands wrapped in boxing gloves, grinning. "Improvement takes time."

Maro nodded, his impatience burning under his skin. "Yeah, I know. Just… in a hurry."

The old man chuckled, lowering his gloves. "You're new here, huh?"

"Yeah," Maro admitted, trying to smile. "Wonder what gave that away...."

The aged man grunted, eyeing him up and down. "Doesn't look like you're here just for the beach body. You don't look too caught up in appearances. What's your story?"

Maro hesitated. "Just needed a change."

The man nodded in approval. "Change is good. Keeps you alive. Let me show you a few things."

For the next hour, Maro worked under the older man's watchful eye. 

His gruff instructions cut through the ache. "Straighten your back! Feel it in your chest! You're wasting energy if you don't move with purpose."

Every correction was sharp, but Maro soaked it all in, determined to improve.

Each rep sent fire through his muscles, but he pushed through the pain, grinding through every set. Maro felt a drive he'd never known before.

After what felt like hours, he collapsed onto a bench, panting. It was then that the System finally responded.

[Endurance +1] 

[Strength +1]

[Strength +1]

He stared at the notifications, a flicker of satisfaction rising inside him. It wasn't much, but it was proof he was moving in the right direction.

"See, kid?" the old man said, tapping Maro's chest. "You gotta feel it here. It's not just physical. It's mental, it's emotional. Focus."

Maro nodded, the older man's words settling in.

"Life's a fight, kid. Not just with others, but with yourself," the man continued, his voice softer now, almost sombre. "This place? It's where men come to die and build themselves anew."

Maro looked up at him, something in his chest stirring. "I get it."

The man smirked. "Yeah? Then keep going. Show me you do."

The young boy then made his way onto the treadmill, performing a round of interval sprints. Focusing on agility and endurance. 

[Skill Unlocked! Running]

The man, still gruff but with a newfound respect, guided him through the running drills. He half expected Maro to give up.

"Keep a steady pace!," he barked. "Speed's nothing if you can't maintain it."

[Endurance +1] 

[Agility +1] 

[Endurance +1] 

[Agility +1] 

When they were done, the gym slowly began emptying as the sun began to set.

Maro felt his muscles scream in protest, but he pressed on. 

He finished his introduction to the gym, courtesy of the old man. He had even been offered tips, and recommended that Maro followed a workout plan for more optimal growth.

Maro didn't have the heart to tell him that this was the most optimal growth for him. 

The system rewarded him for his effort instantaneously, there was no need to wait for muscles to break down and restore themselves. 

However, Maro could feel the requirements for his growth increasing incrementally.

He wondered if it had more to do with his starting point. He had gotten 3 stat points in Coach Mersey's class, despite it only lasting for 45 minutes, but that had been the first time he exercised since he started attending Derrington. 

Maro watched as the old man unwrapped his gloves, grumbling under his breath before tossing them into his duffle bag. 

Feeling sheepish, he approached the punching bag, fists clenched awkwardly. 

He threw a punch, only for it to glance off the side of the bag, sending him stumbling forward. He let out a small yelp as his weight pulled him into the bag, clutching it helplessly. 

The man snorted from across the room. 

Maro swiveled his head in indignation.

The man doubled over with laughter, clutching his stomach. "That was pitiful!"

Maro flushed with embarrassment but straightened up. "I'm trying," he muttered, barely meeting the man's gaze.

"Trying?" The man repeated, shaking his head. "Let me show you something before the bag kicks your ass." With a gruff sigh, the old coach walked over. "You don't just throw punches, boy. You place them." He tapped Maro's fists. "Square up. Keep your elbows in. Feet steady. Now punch, like this."

He demonstrated, his fist snapping forward with precision and power. 

The bag shuddered under the impact. "See? It's about control. You aren't trying to knock the bag down; you're learning how to use your body. It starts with your feet, then your knees, your hips follow— next your shoulder, and then your elbow, until finally, your fist."

Maro mirrored his stance, his heart pounding as he tried again. This time, the punch connected, more solid but still weak. His next punch was sharper, harder.

"Not bad, kid," Maro's impromptu boxing coach said, stepping back, folding his arms. "Put some emotion into it if you've got to. Get riled up! Those punches aren't going to hurt anyone!"

[Skill Unlocked! Amateur Boxing]

His vision narrowed as he threw another punch, this time with more force. He could feel a flood of emotions building up.

Frustrations to do with the past... Memories that Maro had long since moved past came to the forefront of his mind. 

With each strike, it began to build, working its way to a crescendo.

His mother's death, his father's illness, the looming pressure from the System,—even the bullies at school. 

His system pinged in the background, but he barely noticed.

[Valor: Lvl1 Activated]

[Stats Temporarily Upgraded! Strength +4, Agility +4, Endurance +4, Vitality +4, Intelligence +4]

Without warning, a surge of energy shot through him. His fists felt lighter, faster—more precise. He lashed out again, his punches coming harder, faster. The bag rattled with every impact.

The old man watched in shock, eyes widened, his faint smirk fading as he watched. "Whoa now…" he muttered, stepping back. "What's gotten into you, kid? Where'd this second gear come from?"

Maro's punches came in quick succession, his frustration fueling each one. He could feel something shifting inside, his focus sharpening, and his shoulders loosening as he fell into a pattern.

He knew his form was sloppy, and incredibly amateurish, but it felt good to just slug away at the bag.

He could feel his insecurities washing away as he worked, laid forgotten as he immersed himself. Punch after punch, he vented it all until his knuckles bled.

[Vitality +2]

The final punch hit the bag with a resounding thud. 

Maro stood there, chest heaving, drenched in sweat, his knuckles torn and throbbing. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his vision blurred from the exhaustion, but he felt... lighter.

It was oddly therapeutic.

[Lvl 1 Valor, Exhausted. Stats returning to default.]

His middle aged companion let out a low whistle, his arms still crossed, but there was a glint of something new in his eyes—respect. "Looks like you found your rhythm," he said, nodding approvingly. "I'll be damned. You're a pretty quick learner, kid."

Maro staggered back onto a bench nearly collapsing, his energy spent. 

He managed to outstretch his hand, staring up at the old coach. "Thanks... for everything," he said between breaths.

The man just nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Don't thank me yet. You've still got a long road ahead, that was nothing. But keep going, and you might just get somewhere."

He picked up his duffle bag and slung it over his shoulder. The old man approached, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He looked at Maro's outstretched hand and hesitated, "What's your name, kid?", he barked gruffly.

"Maro."

"Ted." He replied, finally clutching Maro's hand and squeezing it hard.

Maro let out a shriek as he drew back his rapidly. "What was that for?!"

Ted waved it off, grinning beneath the sheen of sweat on his brow.

"Just remember, kid. The battle never ends. You just get better at fighting." He said as he turned around and stalked out of the darkly lit gym, his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. "You've got potential. But remember, improvement isn't an overnight thing. It takes time and consistent effort. I'll look forward to seeing you soon."

His voice disappeared up the steps, like a fading echo, leaving Maro alone in the now-silent gym.

After a moment, he too gathered his belongings and made his way to the exit. The cold air outside greeted him like a friend, offering him respite from the humid, warm gym he had holed himself in.

He pulled out his phone, noting the time— 6 p.m. He still had the evening ahead of him. But first, there was something he needed to check.

"Status," he said aloud.

[Notice: User, Valor. Interface does not require audible instruction.]

'Hm.'

The familiar interface then appeared before him.

-

Maro Dumont (Valor)

Race: Human

Strength: 5 

Agility: 5 

Endurance: 12 

Vitality: 6 

Intelligence: 10 

Luck: 1 

[Available Stat Points: 3]

[Renown: 53]

-

Satisfied with his progress, he closed the interface. Tomorrow was a new day, and there was still more to accomplish. As he walked home, he felt a quiet resolve settle over him.

[Time remaining: 18 hours.]

Ted was right. Improvement wasn't an overnight thing.