Phei grabbed the gym clothes and headed for the elevator. Floor 95. The shared gymnasium.

The gym was empty at 6:15 AM.

Of course it is.

The kind of people who could afford to live on the top floors of Sovereign Tower weren't exactly the "wake up at dawn to exercise" types. They had personal trainers who came to them. Private fitness studios. Probably some experimental treatment that made muscles grow while they slept.

Their loss.

His gain.

But Phei wasn't here for luxury. He was here for the grind.

The space was ridiculous—naturally. High ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows with that same panoramic view he was starting to get used to, equipment that looked like it belonged in a spaceship rather than a gym.

Cardio machines lined one wall. Free weights and resistance equipment claimed another.

A lap pool glittered in an adjacent room. Sauna. Steam room. Probably a cryotherapy chamber hidden somewhere for good measure—because nothing said "recovery" like voluntarily freezing your balls off in a tin can.

Rich people and their masochism disguised as wellness.

Phei ignored most of it.

He had a routine. A system. A path to power that didn't give a shit how fancy the equipment was.

Stage One: Foundation.

He started with push-ups.

Arms burning. Chest screaming. Every rep feeling like someone was sitting on his back, laughing while they added weights.

Ten. Twenty. Thirty.

His form was better now—he could feel the difference, the new awareness in his muscles that came from stats he'd never had before. But "better" didn't mean easy. His body was still weak. Still pathetic by any objective measure.

Fifty. Seventy. Ninety.

Sweat dripped onto the mat. His arms shook. Everything in him screamed to stop, to rest, to accept that this was enough.

Fuck that.

One hundred. One twenty. One forty.

The last ten were agony. Pure, unfiltered suffering. He collapsed after one-fifty, gasping like a fish on dry land, every muscle in his upper body feeling like it had been put through a meat grinder and reassembled by a drunk.

One down.

He gave himself thirty seconds. Then rolled over and started sit-ups.

Same story. Same agony. Same refusal to quit.

Fifty. Hundred. One twenty-five. One fifty.

His core was on fire. Actually on fire. He was pretty sure his abs had developed consciousness just so they could tell him to go fuck himself.

Two down.

Thirty seconds of wanting to die. Then squats.

His legs were already tired from yesterday's swimming. From the stairs. From existing in a body that had been neglected for seventeen years.

Didn't matter.

Fifty. Hundred.

His thighs burned. His calves cramped. His knees made sounds that knees probably shouldn't make.

One twenty-five. One fifty.

He collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, legs splayed out in front of him like dead things.

Phei sat there, chest heaving, sweat pooling beneath him, and laughed.

Miracle. An actual fucking miracle.

One hundred and fifty of each. Three days ago, he couldn't have done fifty of any single exercise without wanting to cry. Now he'd tripled it.

The stats were working. The grind was paying off.

But we're not done yet.

Stage Two: Dragon Stamina.

Yesterday had been swimming. Today was running.

Phei dragged himself off the floor—which took considerably more effort than it should have—and made his way to the treadmills.

The machine was a work of art. Touch screen. Heart rate monitoring. Probably capable of brewing coffee if you asked nicely. He programmed in his target: 10 kilometers.

Double the requirement. Because fuck doing the minimum.

He started slow. Warm-up pace. Letting his battered legs remember how to function.

Then he increased the speed.

And kept increasing it.

One kilometer. Two. Three.

His lungs burned. His legs screamed. The city glittered outside the windows, indifferent to his suffering.

Four. Five. Six.

He hit the wall somewhere around kilometer seven. That point where your body stops asking nicely and starts demanding you stop. Where every step feels like running through concrete. Where the only thing keeping you going is spite and the refusal to quit.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

His vision tunneled. His heart hammered. Sweat flew off him with every stride.

Ten.

The treadmill beeped. Cool-down mode engaged automatically.

Phei slowed. Stopped. Stood there gripping the handles like they were the only thing keeping him upright.

Because they were.

[DING!]

[10KM RUN COMPLETE!]

[REWARD: +1 ENDURANCE, +1 AGILITY]

[STAGE TWO COMPLETE!]

[BONUS REWARD: +10 POINTS]

Phei stepped off the treadmill on legs that felt like overcooked noodles and promptly sat down on the floor.

Just... sat there. Breathing. Existing. Marveling at the fact that he was still alive.

Let's do the math.

Yesterday's Rewards (Night Swimming):

+1 Endurance +1 Agility +10 Points

Today's Morning Rewards:

Stage One (Push-ups, Sit-ups, Squats):

+1 Strength (push-ups) +1 Endurance (sit-ups, squats) +5 Points

Stage Two (10km Run):

+1 Endurance +1 Agility +10 Points

Total Gains (Yesterday + Today Morning):

Strength: +1 Endurance: +5 Agility: +2 Points: +25

Not bad for less than twenty-four hours of grinding. His stats were climbing. Slowly, painfully, but climbing.

The Dragon rises.

The gym showers were, predictably, incredible.

Rainfall heads pouring down like judgment from a very indulgent god. Perfect water pressure that could probably strip paint if you asked nicely.

Temperature controls that responded to voice commands because apparently even showers needed to be high-tech in this building—"Hotter," and the water obeyed like a well-trained submissive.

Phei stood under the deluge for longer than strictly necessary, letting it pound the soreness out of his muscles, watching the sweat and exhaustion swirl down the drain like the last remnants of the boy he'd been.

When he finally stepped out, he felt almost human again.

Time to get ready for war.

Back up to his condo. Through the living room with its ridiculous sectional and its eighty-five-inch TV that probably had its own ego. Up the spiral staircase. Into the walk-in closet.

The Ashford Academy uniform waited for him exactly where she'd left it.

Phei dressed with care. White shirt first—crisp, fitted, actually his size for once instead of Danton's hand-me-downs that had always made him look like a kid playing dress-up in his big brother's clothes.

He left it untucked. Deliberate.

Casual in a way that said I know the rules, I just don't care.

The tie came next. Navy and silver stripes, the Academy colors. He knotted it properly—Melissa's fingers had guided his yesterday, her breath warm against his neck as she'd murmured instructions—but kept it slightly loose. Not sloppy. Stylish.

Trousers. Dark gray, fitted, breaking perfectly over his new shoes.

He caught his reflection in the closet's full-length mirror and paused.

Holy shit.

He looked... good?

Not just "acceptable" or "presentable" or "at least he tried." Actually, genuinely good.

Charisma 90. That's what the stat said now. And apparently, that means something visible.

His face had continued its subtle evolution. Sharper angles. More defined jaw. Eyes that seemed to catch the light differently—deeper, more intense, the purple almost predatory. His skin had a healthy glow instead of that perpetual sickly pale.

He was still skinny—couldn't change that overnight—but it was a different kind of skinny now. Lean rather than scrawny. Like someone who was athletic rather than someone who'd been forgetting to eat.

Hot skinny instead of pathetic skinny. There's a difference, apparently.

Phei ran his fingers through his hair, remembering Melissa's instructions from yesterday.

"Don't try to tame it. Work with it. Let it fall naturally, just—there, like that. Keep your forehead clear but let the rest do what it wants. Messy but intentional. Like you just rolled out of bed but in a sexy way, not a homeless way."

He'd practiced until she was satisfied. Now he replicated the effect—dark hair falling across his face in artful chaos, his middle forehead clear to show off his eyes while the rest framed his features in stylish disarray.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

The blazer came last. He didn't put it on—just grabbed it, slinging it over one arm. The weather was warm enough, and besides, the look was better this way. Casual. Confident. Like he had somewhere better to be but was gracing Ashford Elite Academy with his presence anyway.

Phei grabbed his new school bag—leather, stylish, probably cost more than a semester's textbooks—and checked the time.

7:00 AM. Sharp.

Perfect.

He made his way to the kitchen, grabbed something quick—an energy bar and a bottle of water, because the elaborate breakfast this kitchen deserved would have to wait for a day when he wasn't on a schedule.

One last look in the mirror by the elevator.

Sharp. Stylish. Actually attractive for once in his miserable life.

The charity case was gone. In his place stood someone else entirely.

Ready for school.

Ready for war.

Ready for whatever the fuck Paradise wants to throw at me.

Phei pressed the elevator button and watched the city sprawl below him through the floor-to-ceiling windows, waiting for his ride down to the world he was about to turn upside down.

The doors opened with a soft chime.

He stepped inside, hit the button for the lobby, and let himself smile.

Let's see how Ashford Elite Academy handles the new Phei Maxton.

Bet they're not ready.

Bet they're not ready at all.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.