With all that free time—no family obligations, no domestic servitude, no constant low-level trauma—Phei had thrown himself into training with the intensity of a man possessed.

Because he was, kind of. Possessed by ambition. By hunger. By the desperate need to become strong enough that no one could ever make him feel weak again.

Kieran, the personal trainer, had given up trying to slow him down after day three.

"You're going to hurt yourself," the man had warned, watching Phei add another plate to the bar.

"Watch me," Phei had replied.

And Kieran had watched. With increasingly wide eyes. As Phei pushed past every limit that should have existed for a seventeen-year-old who'd been malnourished and neglected when he first arrived.

By the end of the week, he could bench press twenty kilograms each side in five sets of forty reps each.

Forty reps. Five times! Forty Kilos, altogether!

That wasn't normal. That wasn't even approaching normal. That was the kind of progress that should take months, not days.

But the system didn't care about "normal."

Every completed routine gave him stats. Every set, every rep, every burning muscle fiber contributed to numbers that translated into real, tangible growth. His body adapted faster than any human body should, like it was finally receiving the fuel it had been starved of for years and was determined to make up for lost time.

Kieran and Valentina—the hot instructor he did not choose had started joining some of his sessions—had stared at him like he was some kind of science experiment gone beautifully right.

"This shouldn't be possible," Valentina had murmured, watching him hold a plank position for ten minutes straight without shaking.

"And yet," Phei had replied through gritted teeth, "here we are."

The results are undeniable.

Phei looked down at his body—really looked—and barely recognized what he saw.

What the actual fuck.

His stomach, once a soft, undefined expanse that had basically been a "kick me" sign for bullies, now showed the distinct ridges of forming abs.

Not a full six-pack yet—patience, peasant—but the foundation was there: four soft almost invisible bumps pushing against skin that had tightened and firmed over the week, with the faint promise of two more lurking beneath a thin layer of remaining softness like shy virgins waiting for their debut.

His obliques had started carving in too, those diagonal lines framing his core like arrows screaming look lower, bitches.

His chest had filled out dramatically, pectorals developing actual shape instead of the vague suggestions they'd been before.

Real definition now—a visible line down the center where the muscles split, the outer edges curving with new mass. When he flexed, they actually moved. Slightly though, only for the keenest eye.

His shoulders had broadened significantly, deltoids rounding into three distinct heads—front, side, rear—each one visible when he raised his arms. His traps had grown too, those muscles connecting his neck to his shoulders now sloping with actual mass instead of the flat nothing they'd been before.

He looked wider.

Like someone who could actually fit well a doorframe instead of slipping through unnoticed like a guilty fart.

His arms—God, his arms—showed actual biceps now, peaks forming when he curled his fist, veins starting to snake across the surface when he flexed like nature's own fuck you to his former noodle status.

His triceps had horseshoed out, that distinctive three-headed shape becoming visible at the back of his upper arms.

Even his forearms had thickened, tendons and muscles creating visible lines from wrist to elbow—the kind of forearms that made girls think about being grabbed and held down.

Not that he was thinking about that.

Much.

His back had widened into a genuine V-taper—lats flaring out from his waist, creating that coveted swimmer's silhouette that screamed "I could pin you against a wall and you'd thank me."

His rhomboids and lower traps had filled in, giving his back actual texture instead of smooth flatness. When he twisted, he could see the muscles move under his skin like machinery coming to life—oiled, efficient, ready to ruin someone's day.

His legs had transformed from chicken sticks to actual pillars. Quadriceps now showed separation when he walked—that teardrop shape above his knee becoming visible like a smug little signature. His hamstrings had tightened and grown, creating a curve at the back of his thighs.

His calves—always the hardest to develop, or so the internet claimed—had started responding too, diamond shapes forming when he raised onto his toes.

Even his glutes had... well. Melissa had commented on those. Extensively. With her hands. Her mouth. Her—

Focus.

His posture had changed most dramatically of all. Spine straighter. Shoulders naturally pulled back instead of hunched forward in the eternal cringe of the bullied. He stood taller now—not because he'd actually grown in height, but because he was finally using all the height he had. No more shrinking or hunched back and shoulders.

No more making himself small to avoid notice.

He looked a bit like an athlete. Like someone who trained. Like someone who could actually throw a punch and have it mean something.

Eighty-two points in each physical stat now.

Strength: 82

Endurance: 82

Agility: 82.

Up from the pathetic sixties he'd started with. Up forty-two stat points in a single week.

Insane. Absolutely insane.

And that wasn't even counting what his Intelligence and Perception had grown to through all the studying and observation he'd been doing.

Intelligence: 160

Perception: 140

The reading. The research. The careful analysis of everyone around him. It had all paid off in numbers that made him feel less like a struggling student and more like a supercomputer wearing human skin.

Melissa had enjoyed the physical benefits more than anyone.

Every time she came to Sovereign Tower—which was often, now that Harold had stopped paying attention to her whereabouts years ago as long as he didn't smell something fishy—she got to experience the new-and-improved Phei firsthand.

The sex had evolved from "incredible" to "reality-breaking."

He could last longer now. Go harder. Recover faster. His stamina had become something approaching mythical, leaving Melissa a ruined, blissed-out mess after sessions that stretched for hours.

It had become routine: fuck her until she couldn't move, clean her up afterward like the gentleman-Dragon he was, put her to sleep in his emperor-sized bed, then let her sneak out before dawn to maintain the illusion of a faithful marriage.

Sometimes he went to the mansion instead, when Harold was at work and the kids were at school. Just him and Melissa and his pathetic excuse for a room, making memories that would replace all the terrible ones that space had given him.

Yes, the two times he went there were only the official ones when everyone was there, not the...

Sex therapy! He'd started calling it in his head. Reclaiming territory.

The yoga had helped too. Melissa had almost two decades of experience with flexibility training, and she'd become his personal instructor for the sessions that happened mostly in her pussy afterwards.

"Breathe," she'd murmur, adjusting his position with hands that always lingered longer than necessary. "Feel the stretch. Let your body open."

His body had opened, all right. In ways that were probably not part of traditional yoga curricula.

The system had been generous this week.

[7-DAY COMPLETION BONUS: +50 Points +10 EXP Title: "Morning Dragon"

[MORNING DRAGON: +10% effectiveness on all morning exercises Increased stat gains from dawn training sessions]

Phei had only gotten to enjoy that title's benefits today, but already he could feel the difference. His morning routine had hit different—harder, faster, more efficient.

The Dragon was rising.

From the routine alone, he'd earned 190 points and 45 EXP over the week.

Add that to the completion bonus, the small missions the system kept throwing at him like a sadistic personal trainer with a vendetta—

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