The glowing screen hovered silently in the darkness, a sentinel of a new reality. Tristan lay in his bed, the covers pulled up to his chin, his heart a frantic drum against the cage of his ribs. It was 4:00 AM. The city of Dasmariñas was still in a deep slumber, the usual cacophony of tricycles and vendors replaced by a hushed quiet broken only by the occasional barking of a stray dog. The air, even indoors, was cool, a characteristic crispness that came with January in the Philippines. It was a month of cold winds, and Tristan could feel the chill seeping through the cracks of their small window.
The mission parameters, stark and unforgiving, burned into his mind: 30 push-ups, 30 sit-ups, 30 squats, and a 30-kilometer run. Time limit: 1 Day. And the most terrifying part of all: Failure: System Deletion. Tristan didn't know what "System Deletion" meant, but the words themselves were a cold, final threat. He knew, with a sinking certainty, that this wasn't a game to be taken lightly.
His classes at Dasmariñas National High School started at 7:00 AM. He had a mere three hours to complete the most grueling part of the mission and still make it to school on time. A thirty-kilometer run. The thought alone was enough to make his muscles ache in protest. He could barely run a few laps around the barangay court, let alone an entire marathon-in-miniature.
But the alternative—the thought of letting this chance slip away, of returning to his mediocre, frustrating reality—was even more unbearable. He thought of his parents, their calloused hands and tired eyes, the quiet sacrifices they made for him. This wasn't just about his dream anymore. It was about proving to himself, and to them, that he could be more than just a boy with a fleeting ambition.
He slowly, carefully, pushed the covers back. The floorboards, cool against his bare feet, creaked under his weight. He moved with the stealth of a cat burglar, not wanting to wake his parents in the next room. His father, a tricycle driver, had been up late, and his mother, a laundress, would need all the rest she could get before her long day began.
He tiptoed to the small, shared bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and then slipped on the same worn-out sneakers he'd worn yesterday at the court. He grabbed a faded shirt and a pair of shorts, his school uniform folded neatly on a nearby chair. He paused for a moment, a wave of foolishness washing over him. Was he really about to do this? Was he really going to trust a floating, holographic screen that had materialized out of thin air?
A glance at the shimmering window, which had followed him from his room, was all the answer he needed. The mission log was still there, the text a silent accusation. Time remaining: 23:59:45. The countdown had already begun.
He grabbed the house keys and, with a final, lingering look at the peaceful, sleeping form of his parents, he slipped out the front door.
The cool night air hit him like a physical force, a sharp shock to his system. He pulled the door shut behind him, the soft click of the lock feeling unnervingly loud in the pre-dawn quiet.
The streets of Dasmariñas were a different world at this hour. The usual chaos was absent. The streetlights cast long, lonely shadows, and the only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the distant, rhythmic chirping of crickets. He started his run, his first steps a hesitant shuffle. He wasn't a runner. He didn't have the form, the stamina, or the experience. All he had was a desperate, burning desire and a floating, holographic screen demanding he push past his limits.
He set a slow, steady pace, his arms pumping in a clumsy rhythm. The wind, as promised by the calendar, was a cold caress against his skin, raising goosebumps on his arms. He took a familiar route, a circular path that took him past the town plaza and towards the main thoroughfare. He didn't know where a thirty-kilometer route would take him, but he knew he couldn't just run in circles. He had to go far, and he had to go fast.
After what felt like an eternity, his calves began to burn. His lungs ached with every breath, the cold air a sharp sting. He had to stop. He leaned against a lamp post, his body heaving, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. He glanced at the floating window, which shimmered faintly a few feet in front of him, as if waiting for his command. He focused his thoughts on it, and the screen changed, showing him a simple progress bar.
Run: 5.2 km / 30 km
He groaned. Five kilometers. He had barely scratched the surface, and his body was already screaming in protest. He had to keep going. He couldn't fail. The thought of "System Deletion" was a cold hand on his shoulder, pushing him forward.
He pushed off the lamppost and started running again, his movements less fluid, more of a determined, painful slog. He was no longer running; he was enduring. The sun began its slow ascent, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The city, slowly, was waking up. Tricycles began to appear, their engines a familiar drone. Market vendors started setting up their stalls, and the smell of fresh bread and brewed coffee began to waft through the air.
Tristan's legs were leaden weights now. His feet, in their old sneakers, felt bruised and raw. He had long since left the familiar paths of his barangay. He was running through unfamiliar streets, the houses and buildings a blur of color. He wanted to stop. He wanted to curl up on the side of the road and sleep. But the progress bar, which he checked with every passing kilometer, was his relentless master.
Run: 18.7 km / 30 km
Just a little more. He told himself. Just a little more. His body felt like it was on fire, every muscle screaming in agony. His breathing was a ragged, painful gasp. He was no longer running for the points, or for the system. He was running because he had to. Because the alternative was to go back to being the boy on the sidelines, and he just couldn't do that.
He pushed himself, one foot in front of the other, his mind a foggy haze of pain and determination. He saw the sign for his barangay, a small, triumphant landmark. He was almost home. He was almost done.
The final stretch was a blur. He ran on pure adrenaline and a will he hadn't known he possessed. He rounded the corner to his street, the finish line a blurry, beautiful sight. He staggered to a stop in front of his house, his legs giving out beneath him. He fell to his knees, his body trembling with exhaustion.
He glanced at the floating screen, a tear of relief and pure exhaustion welling in his eye.
Run: 30 km / 30 km
MISSION 1: FUNDAMENTAL TRAINING
Objective: Completed
* 30 Kilometer Run - SUCCESS
A small, electronic chime sounded, and the screen shimmered, the text changing.
Reward: 5 Points
Mission Log Updated: Push-ups, Sit-ups, Squats remaining.
Tristan didn't care about the points or the remaining tasks. He had done it. He had completed the impossible. He crawled to the front door, unlocked it with a fumbling hand, and slipped back inside. He somehow made it to the bathroom, the shower a blissful, painful release against his tired muscles. He got dressed in his school uniform, every movement a fresh stab of agony. He couldn't feel his legs. They were a dull, throbbing ache. He managed to eat a few spoonfuls of rice, but his stomach was too knotted with exhaustion to accept much more.
He left for school, a walking testament to his morning's ordeal. Every step was a careful, deliberate effort. He walked with a slight limp, his body a collection of aches and pains. He saw Marco waiting for him at the school gate, his best friend's usual lanky, easy confidence a stark contrast to Tristan's current state.
"Hoy, Tris! What happened to you, man? You look like you just fought a carabao," Marco said, a mischievous grin on his face. "Did you fall off your bike or something?"
Tristan managed a weak, pained smile. "Something like that," he mumbled. "Just... a really long run."
Marco's grin faded into concern. "A run? You went for a run at 4 AM? You're crazy, man. I told you, all passion and no practice."
"I practiced," Tristan said, a hint of defiance in his voice. "A lot."
Marco just shook his head, a mix of admiration and bewilderment in his eyes. "You're unbelievable. C'mon, let's get to class. Ms. Budbud's going to kill us if we're late."
They walked to their classroom, their steps in sync, one of easy confidence, the other of sheer, raw determination. The floating screen, a silent secret, was now just a whisper in the back of Tristan's mind, a constant reminder of the new reality he inhabited.
Their first subject was Science, with Ms. Budbud, a strict but fair teacher. Tristan tried his best to listen, but his mind was a foggy mess of exhaustion. The rhythmic drone of Ms. Budbud's voice was a lullaby, and he had to fight with every fiber of his being to keep his eyes open. He was a small, exhausted warrior in a battle against sleep, his body a battlefield of aches and pains.
He made it through the day, a walking zombie. The bell for their last class, History, was a sweet, melodic sound. He gathered his things, his movements stiff and slow. Marco walked with him to the school gate.
"Are you sure you're okay, Tris?" Marco asked, his brow furrowed with genuine worry. "You should probably go home and rest. You look like you're about to collapse."
"I'm fine, Marco. Just tired," Tristan said, a lie that tasted like ash in his mouth.
"Alright, man. Just take it easy. See you tomorrow," Marco said, and with a final nod, he walked off in the opposite direction.
Tristan began his slow, painful journey home. The walk felt like a marathon. Every step was a new protest from his muscles.
He finally reached their small house and, after a quick, quiet entry, went straight to his room.
The floating screen was there, waiting.
MISSION 1: FUNDAMENTAL TRAINING
Objective: In Progress
* 30 Push-ups
* 30 Sit-ups
* 30 Squats
He looked at the list, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. He was so tired. He just wanted to sleep. But the threat of "System Deletion" was a cold, constant reminder.
He got down on the floor, the rough texture of the worn-out mat a familiar feeling. He put his hands on the ground, ready for his first push-up. The simple act of holding his body up was a monumental effort. He went down, his arms trembling, and pushed back up, a ragged grunt escaping his lips. One. He did another, and another, each one a fresh wave of agony. By the tenth, his body was shaking uncontrollably. By the twentieth, he was barely able to lift himself off the ground. He collapsed on the mat, his face a grimace of pain.
He rested for a moment, his breathing shallow and quick. He had to do this. He had come this far. He pushed himself up again, his movements slow and agonizing. He finished the thirtieth push-up, a small, triumphant sound escaping his lips as he collapsed once more, his arms feeling like they were about to fall off.
He rested again, the exhaustion a heavy blanket over his body. Then, with a herculean effort, he moved to the next task.
Sit-ups. He lay on his back, his hands behind his head. The first one was a struggle, his core muscles screaming in protest. He gritted his teeth, his jaw tight with determination. He didn't count anymore; he just moved, one painful sit-up after another, until the floating screen chimed.
30 Sit-ups - SUCCESS
Only squats left. He stood up, his legs trembling beneath him, and looked at the floating screen. He could do this. He knew he could. He positioned his feet shoulder-width apart, and slowly, carefully, began to squat. His knees felt like they were full of broken glass. The pain was immense, a sharp, stabbing sensation that ran from his hips all the way down to his feet. He finished the first one, then the second, each one a fresh kind of hell. But he pushed on, driven by the memory of the wishing well and the promise of the system.
He finished the thirtieth squat, his legs giving out beneath him as he collapsed on the floor. The floating screen shimmered, and a familiar chime sounded.
MISSION 1: FUNDAMENTAL TRAINING - COMPLETE
Reward: 5 Points
STATUS
Name: Tristan Herrera
Age: 14
Points: 10
Physical
Speed: 25
Acceleration: 12
Strength: 8
Vertical: 11
Stamina: 13
Agility: 21
Tristan stared at the screen, a wave of emotions washing over him. Relief. Exhaustion. And a strange, quiet sense of triumph. He had done it. He had completed the impossible. He had answered the call of the system.
He dragged himself to his small desk, his body aching and bruised, and did his homework, his mind still a bit of a fog. The numbers and words blurred on the page, but he finished it, a final act of duty before he allowed himself to rest. He didn't even bother with dinner. The thought of food was nauseating. He just wanted to sleep.
He climbed into his bed, the worn-out mattress a welcome embrace. His muscles ached, his head throbbed, and his body was a symphony of pain. But there was also a new feeling, a quiet, almost thrilling sense of accomplishment. He had done something incredible. He had pushed himself past his limits, and he had succeeded. He closed his eyes, the image of the floating screen still burned into his retinas.
He was no longer just Tristan, the boy with a faint glimmer of talent. He was something more. He was a player in a game he didn't understand, a game with a promise he couldn't ignore. And as he drifted off to sleep, a deep, restorative sleep free of frustrating dreams, he knew that this was just the beginning.