Champion

I launched myself at Viktor, throwing punches with all the enhanced strength the system could give me. One, two, three solid hits landed, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of doubt cross the Viking's face.

But as all good things do, my thirty seconds of superhuman strength came to an end. The system's timing sucked, because just as I was feeling like I might actually win this, Viktor landed a counterpunch that felt like a sledgehammer to my chest.

I stumbled back, my breath ragged, my vision blurring. The crowd was a cacophony of noise, but it all seemed distant, underwater almost. I shook my head, trying to clear the fog, knowing I had to stay conscious, stay fighting.

Viktor advanced, sensing my weakness. He threw another punch, but this time, I was ready. I ducked under it, channeling every bit of training Mark had drilled into me, and countered with an uppercut that came from my toes.

The impact was solid, and Viktor's head snapped back. The crowd went absolutely ballistic. I could barely hear the ref as he started the count.

One... Two... Three...

Viktor was on his knees, shaking his head, trying to regain his senses. I watched, my own body screaming in protest, as he struggled to find his footing.

Four... Five... Six...

He was up on eight, his eyes narrowed, the fight far from over in his mind. But the bell rang, signaling the end of the round, and we both staggered back to our corners, the world spinning just a bit slower for both of us.

Mark was grinning as I approached, a towel and water bottle in hand. "You're doing it, Damon! You're actually doing it!"

"Yeah," I panted, "just trying not to die at this point."

The break was too short, my body too weary, but as the bell rang for what I prayed would be the final time that night, I squared my shoulders and met Viktor in the center of the ring.

This was it. The last round. Everything I had, everything I'd learned, it all came down to this moment. And as we circled each other, the crowd holding their breath, I knew this was where I'd prove myself.

Not just to the crowd, not just to Mr. Long or the sinister figures in my life, but to myself. Damon Ashburn wasn't just some pawn in their games. I was a fighter. And I'd fight until there was nothing left.

As Viktor and I traded blows, the world reduced to just the two of us, our fists, and the relentless ticking of the clock, I knew that no matter how this ended, I'd already won. Because I'd stood up, I'd fought back, and I'd survived.

And when the final bell rang, echoing like a gunshot through the arena, I threw my hands up, the pain and exhaustion drowned out by the sheer, unadulterated joy of having faced my fears head-on.

The decision was split, but who the hell cared? I'd just gone toe-to-toe with Viktor "The Viking" and lived to tell the tale. As the referee raised my hand, the crowd erupted like a volcano of human voices. Just who the fuck was this guy, Damon Ashburn? Apparently, the new badass on the block in Dragon City.

Stumbling back to my corner, I felt like a rock star after a world tour—exhausted, exhilarated, and aching in places I didn't know existed. Mark was beaming, his face a split image of pride and relief.

"Holy shit, man, you did it!" he shouted over the noise, slapping me on the back. It was a slap that almost sent me face-first into the canvas. "You're insane, Damon, but damn if you aren't impressive!"

Catching my breath, I leaned on the ropes, soaking in the reality. "I can't believe it myself... feels like I just crashed a bike into a wall and walked away to talk about it."

The crowd was still chanting, some screaming my name, others just yelling out of sheer adrenaline. Looking around, I spotted faces filled with awe and shock. Yeah, I'd made a name for myself tonight. Damon Ashburn wasn't just some no-name underdog anymore. I was the guy who danced with a Viking and didn't get pillaged.

As the arena started to clear out, the weight of my bruises and the night's battles began to really sink in. Every step was a reminder from my body saying, "Hey asshole, remember when you thought this boxing thing was a good idea?" Yeah, I remembered, and I'd be having words with myself later.

Grabbing my gear, I turned to leave the ring when Mark grabbed my shoulder. "Hey, don't forget, we're hitting Paddy's Pub. First round's on you, champ."

"First round?" I snorted, pulling on my hoodie. "After tonight, I'm buying the whole damn bar if I have to."

Laughing, we made our way through the corridors of the arena, heading towards the night that was still young and apparently thirsty for celebration. As we pushed through the doors, the cool night air slapped me sober. Well, sober-ish.

We hadn't taken more than a few steps when my phone buzzed in my pocket. A text message, glowing ominously against the screen. It was from Mr. Long. "Impressive performance, Mr. Ashburn. But remember, the game's just begun."

"Son of a bitch doesn't know when to quit, does he?" I muttered, showing Mark the message.

"Guess you're playing in the big leagues now, man. Mr. Long's not the type to let talent go unnoticed... or untested," Mark said, his tone a mix of warning and wonder.

I shoved the phone back into my pocket, my buzz from the win fizzling slightly. "Yeah, well, he can wait. Tonight's about celebrating, not scheming."

"That's the spirit," Mark agreed, clapping me on the back again. This time I was ready and managed to stay upright.

Paddy's Pub was buzzing when we arrived, the kind of buzzing that only comes with late nights and too many shots of whiskey. As we walked in, a cheer went up from a corner booth where some of our gym buddies were gathered.

"There he is! The man of the hour!" they shouted, raising their glasses.

I grinned, my fatigue temporarily forgotten as I made my way over. "Keep it down, you'll ruin my humble reputation," I joked, sliding into the booth.

Laughter and beer flowed, stories of the night's fights mixed with exaggerated tales of past glories and spectacular failures. It was the perfect end to a day that had seen more ups and downs than a soap opera.

As the night rolled on, my brain kept circling back to the system, to the badass new skills I'd bagged, and the juicy rewards waiting to be claimed. It wasn't until the laughter had dialed down and the pub had started to feel like the morning after a Vegas bender that I sneaked out to check on my haul. I slipped into the alley behind the pub and fired up the Broke Man's System—this shimmering holographic screen that popped up like some sci-fi shit right in front of my eyes, hidden from prying ones.

[Ding! Congratulations! You've completed the mission: Boxing Tournament: Win 1st Place]

[Reward: 10 EXP and Master Boxing]

The familiar ding echoed in my ears, and a grin spread across my face. My EXP shot up from 35 to 45 out of 100 toward the next level of this crazy game. Not too shabby for a night's work.

[Mission]

[Master Boxing]

[Completed: 100%]

[Reward: 30 EXP and 10 Attribute Points]

Another notification blazed up, and my grin turned into a full-blown smirk. That boost jacked me up to 75/100 on the EXP scale. Plus, the system dumped a sweet 10 attribute points into my lap, and I was all too ready to play god with my stats.

I zipped through the interface, sprinkling those points like a damn fairy godmother: 5 into Strength, giving me a solid 7/100; 3 into Dexterity, bumping that up to 5/100; and the last 2 into Health, finally putting me on the board with 2/100. I felt charged up, like I'd just mainlined some cosmic juice. It was fucking addictive, feeling myself get stronger, faster, tougher.

"System, what's the next clusterfuck of a mission?" I muttered, half-expecting some wild new shit to pop up.

[No new missions currently available. Please stand by.]

"Stand by? That's new," I laughed to myself, a flicker of relief washing over me. No new missions meant a hot minute to catch my breath, to strategize without the system throwing me to the wolves.

Just as I was about to shut the hologram down, my phone buzzed in my pocket like it had a bee up its ass. Another cryptic message from Mr. Long lit up the screen.

"Enjoy your victory, Damon. But remember, every champion's throne is the most coveted seat in the house."

"Jesus, who writes your material, Long? A Bond villain?" I scoffed, pocketing the phone. The guy had a hard-on for the dramatic, but he wasn't wrong. Tonight had catapulted me into the spotlight, and not just as a boxer. I was knee-deep in a game way bigger than I had signed up for, with stakes sky-high.

I strolled back into the pub, the warm buzz of the room hitting me like a welcome hug compared to the cold chess game brewing outside. Mark flagged me down, sliding a fresh pint across the table.

"Everything cool?" he asked, eyeing me with that 'you've got shit on your mind' look.

"Cool and complicated," I replied, taking a greedy swig of the beer. "But let's shelf the complicated shit for tomorrow, Mark."

He lifted his glass, and I clinked mine against it with a grin. "To tomorrow, then. Let's make it a fucking epic one."