The morning sun, a persistent and unyielding presence, had already climbed high into the sky, its heat beginning to permeate the small, one-story house. Tristan woke to the sound of his mother's cheerful humming from the kitchen, the scent of brewed coffee and fried fish a comforting assault on his senses. A quick glance at the wall clock told him it was already 10:00 AM, an impossibly late hour for him. Fortunately, it was Saturday. No classes. No long walk to Dasmariñas National High School with legs that still felt like lead.
He lay there for a moment, the dull ache in his muscles a constant, vibrating hum. He had pushed himself to the very brink yesterday, and his body was a battlefield of bruises and pain. But there was no regret, only a quiet sense of triumph. He had done it. The impossible run. The agonizing push-ups, sit-ups, and squats. He had completed the first mission.
The floating screen, his silent companion, was not there. For a moment, a wave of cold dread washed over him. Had it been a dream after all? A vivid, terrifying hallucination born of a desperate wish?
"System," he whispered, the word feeling strange and foreign on his tongue.
Nothing.
"System," he tried again, a little louder, a frantic urgency in his voice. "Show me my status."
And just like that, with a soft, ethereal chime, the screen shimmered into existence a few feet in front of his face. The glow was faint, barely noticeable in the bright morning light, but it was there, solid and real. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He hadn't imagined it. This was real.
He stared at the screen, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and trepidation. The text was sharp and precise, the characters glowing with an otherworldly light.
STATUS
Name: Tristan Herrera
Age: 14
Points: 10
His heart hammered against his ribs. Ten points. The reward for his grueling mission. He didn't know what they were for, but the word "points" itself held the promise of progress, of improvement. He looked down, and the screen, as if reading his mind, scrolled down to reveal a new set of information.
PHYSICAL
Speed: 25
Acceleration: 12
Strength: 8
Vertical: 11
Stamina: 13
Agility: 21
Tristan stared at the numbers, his mind a tangled web of surprise and understanding. These were his stats. His skills, quantified and laid bare for him to see. He had always known he wasn't strong, that his stamina was lacking, and his vertical leap was a joke. But to see the numbers, the cold, hard proof of his mediocrity, was a different kind of blow.
He focused on the numbers, a frown creasing his brow. His Speed and Agility were his highest stats, which made sense. He was quick on his feet, able to change direction and weave through defenders during pickup games. His Stamina, at a measly 13, was a testament to his struggle with the thirty-kilometer run. His Strength, at a pitiful 8, was his biggest weakness, the reason he was so easily pushed around on the court. He was all wiry frame and no muscle.
And then he saw it. A small, blinking prompt at the bottom of the screen.
"You have 10 points to spend. Would you like to upgrade your stats?"
A jolt of pure adrenaline shot through him. This was it. This was the reason for the points. He could spend them, use them to improve himself, to become better. He could level up. It was just like a video game, but the character he was upgrading was himself.
He focused his thoughts on the prompt, and the screen changed, presenting him with a new menu. He could select a stat and add points to it. He thought about his weaknesses. His strength. His stamina. He had pushed his body to its absolute limit yesterday, and his low stamina stat was the reason he had suffered so much.
He made his decision. He would address his biggest weakness first. He focused on the Stamina stat and, with a silent command, added seven of his ten points to it. The number on the screen shimmered, then changed.
Stamina: 13 -> 20
He felt a subtle, yet profound change ripple through his body. The dull, persistent ache in his muscles faded, replaced by a feeling of lightness and energy he hadn't felt in a long time. It wasn't a sudden surge of power, but a deep, foundational change. His lungs felt fuller, his limbs felt less heavy. It was like his body had been a car running on an empty tank, and now it had a full one. He couldn't wait to run again, to see how much faster and longer he could go.
He looked at the screen again, a newfound fire burning in his heart. He had three points remaining. He could save them, but he was too excited. He thought about his Strength, a paltry 8. He knew he needed to be stronger to compete with the bigger, older players on the court. To not get pushed around so easily. To be able to drive to the basket without fear. He focused on the Strength stat and added the remaining three points. The number changed once more.
Strength: 8 -> 11
The change was less dramatic than with his stamina, but he could feel it. A subtle tightening in his core, a hint of newfound power in his arms. He flexed his bicep, and it felt a little firmer, a little more solid. The number 11 was still a low score, but it was progress. It was a start.
He looked at his new stats, a satisfied smile spreading across his face.
STATUS
Name: Tristan Herrera
Age: 14
Points: 0
PHYSICAL
Speed: 25
Acceleration: 12
Strength: 11
Vertical: 11
Stamina: 20
Agility: 21
He closed his eyes, a wave of excitement and pure, unadulterated hope washing over him. This was real. This was his chance. He had been given a gift, a system to help him achieve his dream. He opened his eyes, and with a silent command, the screen disappeared.
He climbed out of bed, his movements no longer stiff and painful, but fluid and energetic. He felt alive, ready to take on the world. He went to the bathroom, washed his face, and then went to the kitchen. His mother, her hands already busy with the morning's chores, looked at him with a surprised smile.
"Look at you, my son," she said, her voice warm and loving. "Waking up so early on a Saturday. You must be feeling better after your… long run yesterday." She said the last part with a hint of a playful smirk, a silent acknowledgment of his strange behavior.
"I am, Ma," he said, a genuine smile on his face. "I feel great."
"Well, since you're so full of energy, can you help me with the laundry today?" she asked.
"Of course, Ma," he said without hesitation.
Their family's small laundry service was a constant, grueling part of their lives. The clothes, bundled in large sacks, were a familiar sight in their living room. Tristan helped his mother carry the heavy sacks to the small, makeshift laundry area behind their house. His new strength, even at a low level, was noticeable. He carried the sacks with an ease that would have been impossible just yesterday.
"You're getting strong, my son," his mother said, a look of pride in her eyes. "You're growing up."
Tristan just smiled, a secret burning in his chest. "Maybe I am, Ma," he said.
They spent the next few hours washing clothes, the rhythmic scrubbing of his mother's calloused hands a familiar soundtrack. Tristan scrubbed and rinsed, his movements quick and efficient. His new stamina allowed him to work for hours without feeling tired, a stark contrast to his old self, who would have been exhausted after just a few sacks.
After they were done with the laundry, his mother handed him a small amount of money. "Here," she said. "Go buy yourself some merienda(refers to a light meal or snack, typically eaten between main meals like lunch). You deserve it."
"No, Ma," Tristan said, pushing the money back into her hand. "You need it more than I do."
"Nonsense," she said, her voice firm. "You worked hard. Go. Besides, you need your energy. You can't be dreaming of becoming a basketball star on an empty stomach."
Tristan's heart swelled with love and gratitude. He took the money, and with a final kiss on her cheek, he went to his room.
He had no intention of spending the money on food. He knew he needed to save it, to be responsible. His dream was not just a selfish indulgence anymore; it was a path, a way to help his family.
He sat down at his small desk and, with a silent command, the system screen appeared again. He knew there had to be more. He scrolled through the menu, his fingers tracing the holographic interface. He found a new log, a new mission, a new challenge.
MISSION 2: FUNDAMENTAL TRAINING 2
Objective:
* 50 Push-ups
* 50 Sit-ups
* 50 Squats
* 50 Kilometer Run
Time Limit: 7 days
Failure: System Deletion
Reward: 10 Points
A fresh wave of determination washed over him. Fifty kilometers. His mind immediately went back to the agonizing thirty-kilometer run. He knew it would be a monumental challenge, but he also knew that with his new stamina, it was no longer an impossible feat. The time limit was seven days. A week. That was a relief. He didn't have to push himself to the brink of collapse in a single day. He could plan, he could train, he could get stronger.
The fire inside him, the fire that had been a faint glimmer before, was now a roaring blaze. He knew, with a certainty that was both thrilling and terrifying, that if he finished all his missions, if he kept leveling up, if he kept getting stronger, maybe, just maybe, he could achieve his dream. He could be a professional basketball player. He could be a star. He could make his parents proud.
He didn't need to start now. He had seven days. He had all the time in the world. He dismissed the system screen and, with a new sense of purpose, opened his schoolbooks. He would study his lessons, he would do his homework, he would be a good son. But in the back of his mind, the words of the system, the promise of a better future, were a constant, burning reminder.
He had a mission. And for the first time in his life, he felt like he was on the right path.
The afternoon passed in a blur of focused studying. He finished his homework, reviewed his lessons, and even got a head start on next week's assignments. He was no longer a boy who was just decent at school. He was focused. He was determined. He was a player in a game with a promise he couldn't ignore.
Later that evening, after a warm dinner with his family, he went to bed. The ache in his muscles was gone, replaced by a quiet sense of readiness. He closed his eyes, and a new image, a new dream, filled his mind.
Not of missed shots and sideline benches, but of slam dunks, of three-pointers, of the roar of a crowd. Of his name, Tristan Herrera, echoing in a crowded arena.
He knew it was a long road. He knew it would be a grueling, painful journey. But for the first time in his life, he wasn't afraid. He had a system. He had a path. He had a chance. And that was all he needed.