The sun had long since dipped below the horizon by the time Tristan arrived home, the last fiery streaks of orange and purple fading into a deep, velvety black. The fatigue from a long day of school and an even longer afternoon of practice was a pleasant, humming ache in his muscles, a testament to his hard work. The familiar sights and sounds of their small, one-story house greeted him like a warm embrace.
He stepped inside, and the comforting aroma of pork sinigang(is a delightful sour soup made with pork ribs, vegetables, and tamarind-flavored broth), his favorite, filled the air. His mother, Linda, a kind woman with a constant, reassuring smile, was in the kitchen, a wooden spoon in her hand as she stirred the pot. His father, Armando, sat at the small table, a newspaper in his hands, his face tired but peaceful.
"Tristan, you're home," Linda said, her voice warm and welcoming. "Dinner is almost ready. Go and get a head start on your homework."
Tristan nodded, a genuine smile on his face. He loved these quiet moments, the simple, comforting rhythm of their family life. He went to his room, the space now feeling less like a place of lonely dreams and more like a command center for his new life. He pulled out his books and, with a new-found focus, began to do his homework. He was a student, an athlete, a son, and he was getting better at all of them.
After he finished his assignments, he went back to the kitchen. His mother was placing a steaming bowl of pork sinigang on the table, the sour, savory smell making his stomach growl in anticipation. His father folded his newspaper and smiled at him.
"Sit down, son," Armando said, his voice a low, tired rumble. "Let's eat."
They ate in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the clinking of spoons and the quiet hum of the city outside. After a while, his father broke the silence.
"How was your training, Tristan?" Armando asked, a look of genuine curiosity on his face. "You've been working hard. I can see it in your eyes."
Tristan felt a swell of pride. He had been so focused on the system, on his stats and missions, that he had forgotten to share his progress with the people who mattered most. He took a deep breath, and with a new-found confidence, he told his father everything. He told him about the intercolor basketball league, about their new team, about their plans to win.
A strange look, a mix of nostalgia and pride, crossed his father's face. "The intercolor league," Armando said, his voice soft, almost a whisper. "I remember that. I competed in that, too. In the midget division, just like you."
Tristan's eyes widened. He had never known this about his father. He had always seen him as a tricycle driver, a hardworking man, but never as a boy with a dream, a basketball player.
"Really, Tatay?" Tristan asked, his voice full of an excited disbelief.
Armando nodded, a faint smile on his lips. "Yes, my son. It was a long time ago. At our time, there were only eight teams in our division. The format was a Round Robin tournament, where every team played each other once."
"A Round Robin tournament?" Tristan said, his mind working quickly, processing the information.
"Yes," his father continued. "The winner was determined by their win-loss record. The top teams would then advance to the playoffs, where it was a single-elimination tournament." He took a slow sip of his sinigang, the steam a warm kiss on his face. "We did well. We were a good team. But we lost in the end. We lost to the team that eventually won the championship. It was a tough loss. I was heartbroken."
Tristan looked at his father, a new respect and understanding blooming in his heart. His father wasn't just a man who worked hard to provide for his family. He was a man who had once been a boy with a dream, a boy who had once played the same game, on the same court, for the same league.
"It's good that you're joining, son," Armando said, a quiet fire in his eyes. "Win or lose, it's a memory you'll carry with you forever. Just don't forget to enjoy the game. The friendships. The camaraderie. That's what really matters."
Tristan just nodded, a lump in his throat. His father's words were more than just a piece of advice; they were a legacy, a passing of the torch from one generation to the next.
They finished their dinner, the conversation a comfortable mix of their day and their shared past. After they finished eating, Tristan, as was his custom, washed the dishes. He then said a quiet goodnight to his parents and went to his room, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.
The mission log was still there, a silent challenge. He had finished the run, the pushups, and the sit-ups. Only one task remained. He had to do his squats. He had plenty of time, but he knew he couldn't wait. He had to finish it. He had to earn his reward.
He got down on the floor, his muscles protesting with a familiar, but manageable, ache. He did his squats, one after another, his body a blur of determined motion. His new-found Strength and Stamina made the task easier than he had imagined. The pain was there, a dull, nagging presence, but he pushed through it, his mind a focused loop of determination. He was a new person, a new athlete.
He finished the fiftieth squat, his legs trembling beneath him, and a loud, triumphant chime sounded in the air. The floating screen shimmered, and a new message appeared.
MISSION 2: FUNDAMENTAL TRAINING 2 - COMPLETE
Reward: 10 Points
A wave of pure, unadulterated relief and triumph washed over him. He had done it. He had completed the mission. He had earned his reward. He lay on the floor for a moment, his chest heaving, a small, satisfied smile on his face. He then sat up and, with a silent command, he accepted the reward.
The screen shimmered again, and a new message appeared.
10 Points added to your account.
Tristan's heart hammered against his ribs. Ten points. He had a total of ten points to spend. He had earned them, and now he could use them to get stronger, faster, better. He could level up.
He focused his thoughts on the screen, and the interface, as if reading his mind, changed to show his current stats.
STATUS
Name: Tristan Herrera
Age: 14
Points: 10
PHYSICAL
Speed: 25
Acceleration: 12
Strength: 11
Vertical: 11
Stamina: 20
Agility: 21
He looked at the numbers, a feeling of quiet pride swelling in his chest. His stats, his progress, was all laid bare for him to see. He was no longer just a boy with a dream; he was a boy with a system, a tool to turn that dream into a reality. He had earned these points, and he knew he would spend them wisely. He had a mission to win, a team to lead, and a dream to chase. And for the first time in his life, he felt like he was on the right path.
The floating screen, his silent, holographic companion, was a constant reminder of the new reality he inhabited. It was a secret, a strange, beautiful gift that he would use to change his life. He was a basketball player, a singer, a student, a son, and a new kind of boy, a boy with a secret, a system, and a dream that was no longer just a dream. He was living it.