Thirty-five minutes.
That was how long it took to claw his way through Stage 1 of the Dragon Rise routine.
Fifty push-ups.
Fifty sit-ups.
Thirty squats.
On paper, it was laughable. The kind of warm-up a half-decent body knocked out before breakfast, maybe while scrolling its phone and feeling smug about it.
Unfortunately, Phei's body was not half-decent.
It was seventeen years of spite-fueled undernourishment, chronic stress, and routine violence compacted into bone and scar tissue. A body that had learned endurance through survival, not strength.
Muscle reduced to a rumor.
Power something it remembered being done to it, not something it could generate.
The push-ups were a war of attrition.
Twelve.
That was all he managed before his arms gave out and he face-planted into the mat like a dropped corpse.
Two minutes of lying there, lungs tearing at the air, sweat stinging his eyes, before he could force himself back up.
Eight more.
Then five.
After that, dignity abandoned him entirely. Singles. One miserable rep at a time. Thirty-second rests between each, arms shaking like they were actively plotting an escape from his shoulders.
The sit-ups were worse.
There was no core—just skin stretched thin over bone and bad memories. Every rep sent a spike of pain straight through his spine, like it might fracture out of spite. His neck cramped. Hip flexors burned like they'd been baptized in acid. He had to stop every ten, swallow bile, wait for the room to stop trying to spin him into the floor.
Squats were the only mercy.
He managed those unbroken—somehow—though by rep twenty his legs felt like wet concrete and his form was probably an OSHA violation. If anyone had been watching, they'd have either corrected him or called an ambulance.
But he finished.
Every rep.
Every second.
Every miserable, shaking breath of it.
Then the system flared to life.
[STAGE 1 COMPLETE!]
[Time: 35 minutes]
[Rewards earned: +1 Strength, +1 Endurance, +5 Points]
[Applying stat increases…]
Warmth bloomed in his chest, spreading outward like slow whiskey through his veins.
Not cinematic.No glowing aura. No divine choir.
Just… real.
His arms stopped trembling quite so violently. The fire in his muscles dulled from blowtorch to deep, manageable ache. Breathing came easier. The crushing exhaustion eased just enough that he could straighten without swaying like a drunk on a bad night.
One point of Strength.
One point of Endurance.
He looked down at his arms.
Still skinny. Still lean. Still nothing that would intimidate anyone with a functioning skeleton.
But they felt different. As if something internal had shifted—one infinitesimal step away from useless, one microscopic inch closer to capable.
[Current Stats:]
[Strength: 66/100]
[Endurance: 66/100]
[Points: 670]
Still weak. Still below average.
But better than thirty-five minutes ago.
And right now, that counted as a win.
He grabbed a towel from the rack—one of those obscenely plush ones that probably cost more than his entire old existence—and wiped the sweat from his face. His reflection stared back at him: flushed, drenched, chest heaving.
But conscious. Upright. Here.
Not unconscious in bed while his woman waited alone in the dark.
7:12 AM.
Shower. Change. Eat. School by 8:30.
The shower in his tiny bathroom was a joke. Water pressure weak as a dying heartbeat. Temperature fluctuating between scalding and arctic with malicious enthusiasm. The showerhead sputtered like it had emphysema.
Still, the heat slammed into his shoulders and back, steam filling the cramped space like absolution. He stayed under it longer than he should have, letting it punish the soreness.
Muscles ached properly now.
The good kind of pain.
The kind that meant effort instead of endurance.
It hurt.
It felt bloody brilliant.
He dried off, turned toward the closet to grab his uniform—
And stopped.
The new one.
Melissa's.
It hung pristine, tags still attached. Dark navy blazer with the Ashford crest embroidered on the breast pocket. Crisp white shirt. Navy trousers tailored to his frame instead of drowning it. A tie striped in navy and silver.
Quality fabric. Real tailoring. The kind the other students wore—the ones whose families bought new instead of inheriting other people's leftovers.
He pulled it on piece by piece.
And with each layer, something shifted in the cracked mirror.
The trousers fit. Actually fit—hemmed clean, hugging his legs instead of swallowing them. The shirt lay flat, no billowing, no awkward folds. The blazer settled on his shoulders like it belonged there.
Because for once, something actually did.
He knotted the tie and met his own gaze.
Those violet eyes still looked unreal, like expensive contacts someone had forgotten to take out. But now they weren't the only thing worth looking at.
His face was less hollow. Jawline sharper—or maybe it was
Not model-tier. Not the kind of face that stopped traffic or turned heads on the street. But good. The kind of good that earned a second glance instead of being looked right through.
Charisma 75. It was showing.
7:34 AM.
Phei shouldered his new backpack—sleek leather, courtesy of Melissa's quiet spree—and descended the stairs. The kitchen stretched empty and pristine, too early for the family's parade of entitlement. Maria hadn't arrived to start breakfast. Just him, the faint ghost of last night's dinner lingering in the air, and the endless marble that had never been his before.
He snatched a protein bar from the pantry—Danton's, fuck him—and devoured it while filling a water bottle. Stomach growled for more, but time was a thief. He'd scavenge something at school.
The stat warmth had faded by the time he'd showered and dressed, but a residue clung. Muscles still screamed with every movement, but beneath the ache lay something new: solidity. A body that could endure slightly more than it could yesterday.
Now he just had to survive a school day without anyone noticing he could barely lift his arms above his head.
7:41 AM.
Out the door before demands or insults could pin him down.
The walk to Ashford Elite Academy was twenty minutes on the main road, fifteen through the park. Phei chose the park.
Legs protested every step. Thighs burned from squats. Core throbbed from sit-ups. Arms felt tenderized. But underneath the pain hummed something unfamiliar.
He wasn't winded. Wasn't gasping by the halfway mark like always. That new 66 Endurance was doing quiet, invisible work.
Small. Subtle. Real.
Progress.
The autumn morning bit crisp, leaves crunching under proper leather shoes—not the worn-out trainers he'd suffered in. Early sunlight sliced through the trees in golden shafts. Paradise looked almost beautiful when it wasn't actively trying to break you.
Other students drifted toward campus. Cars purred by, drivers dropping off the entitled. And the girls.
He'd trained himself not to look. Looking meant wanting. Wanting meant pain in a place like this.
But now his eyes betrayed him.
A brunette ahead, dark hair spilling over the Ashford blazer like ink. Her white shirt unbuttoned one too many, revealing the delicate hollow of her collarbone and the shadowed promise of cleavage. The pleated black skirt swayed with each step, flashing glimpses of toned thighs that caught the light.
Another passed going the opposite way—black hair in a high ponytail that bared an elegant neck, small stud earrings glinting. Blazer fitted to accentuate a narrow waist flaring into hips the skirt did nothing to conceal. A pendant necklace vanished into the valley between breasts that strained the white fabric.
A third walked with a friend, auburn hair catching sunlight like copper, longer strands framing her face. Shirt conservatively buttoned, but her stride radiated confidence, calves curving above ankle socks.
Phei forced his gaze forward.
Down, boy. Focus.
Yet the Daddy's Ability pulsed at the edges of his mind, whispering possibilities. These girls were in the target range. Two or three positive impressions, and they'd feel that inexplicable pull.
Not now. Not yet. He had enough chaos without adding more targets.
Still. It was intoxicating to let himself see them. To acknowledge that Ashford Elite Academy was full of beautiful girls who'd never spared him a glance.
That might be changing.
Because as he walked, something else stirred. Subtle. Unmistakable.
People were looking at him.
Not everyone. Not dramatically. But here and there—a glance that lingered, a head turning slightly, eyes tracking him instead of sliding past like he was air.
A girl with long black hair and striking features glanced up from her phone. Her gaze caught on his face, those violet eyes, and she blinked—a small double-take before looking away.
Another waited by the park entrance, casual disinterest shifting as he approached. Posture straightened subtly. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in that unconscious bid to look better.
Dominance Aura. Charisma 75. The quiet upgrades the stats had carved into him.
He wasn't invisible anymore.
The realization settled like the warmth from earlier. Small. Barely noticeable.
But there.
Ashford Elite Academy sprawled across ten acres of Paradise's most coveted real estate like a small university campus cosplaying as a high school.
Multiple buildings were stitched together by covered walkways of tempered glass and steel, the grounds manicured to a pathological degree.
Lawns trimmed within an inch of their lives. Shrubs sculpted like they'd failed auditions for Versailles. Facilities so overfunded they made most actual universities look like night schools with aspirations.
The main academic building loomed at the center of it all, three stories of neo-classical arrogance. Marble columns thick as ancient oaks.
Stone imported from quarries that probably billed by the jet-load. Windows that cost five figures apiece and caught the morning light with the singular goal of blinding anyone insufficiently wealthy to look away in time.
Phei stepped through the entrance at 8:15, granting himself fifteen minutes before first period.