Steven's room was dim and quiet, lit only by the pale yellow glow of his desk lamp. The pool of light it cast flickered slightly, its edges swallowed by the shadows crawling along the walls. Several textbooks lay sprawled across the desk—history, biology, chemistry, and math—each one peppered with scribbles and underlines, the pages now soft and slightly dog-eared from constant flipping.
Steven leaned back in his chair, arms dangling loosely at his sides, head tilted toward the ceiling. His eyes were glazed, not out of boredom, but from pure mental fatigue. He had spent the last few hours doing something he'd rarely done voluntarily before: studying. Not out of obligation, not because of grades, but because it suddenly felt… achievable.
[Reading History Textbook. Skill Unlocked: Basic History Understanding (Intermediate Level). Proficiency +1. Current Progress: 25/100.]
[Reading Biology Textbook. Skill Unlocked: Basic Biology Understanding (Intermediate Level). Proficiency +1. Current Progress: 30/100.]
The soft, mental chimes of the system notifications echoed faintly in his head, oddly comforting now. Familiar.
Steven closed the last book with a sigh and rubbed his temples. "Even this system can't fix exhaustion," he muttered under his breath.
[The system is enhancing the host's cognitive absorption rate and neural retention. High-efficiency knowledge integration increases energy expenditure. Mild fatigue is expected. Four to five hours of rest is recommended for optimal recovery.]
Steven snorted, amused. Even the system sounded like a well-meaning tutor. Robotic, sure—but oddly considerate. He didn't argue. His eyes were already drooping.
He flopped onto his bed and pulled the blanket over his shoulders. The room was still, except for the quiet ticking of the wall clock and the distant sound of a car rolling down the street. For once, his mind wasn't racing. No worry about exams. No dread for the next day.
Just one simple question playing in his thoughts before sleep took him:
What's next?
Steven awoke to a soft, golden light pouring through the slits in his curtain. The city outside was still wrapped in the hush of early morning, birdsong just beginning to build into the day. His alarm hadn't gone off. His parents were still asleep. Yet Steven was already wide awake.
He blinked up at the ceiling, then sat up slowly, surprised by the lightness in his limbs. His body felt… different. Not sore, not sluggish. Energized. As if his sleep had been deeper, more efficient than usual.
He climbed out of bed and gave a long, slow stretch. His back popped. His arms felt stronger than he remembered. His thoughts, too, were sharp—crisp and quick, as though his brain had just finished a full reboot.
"This… feels amazing," he said aloud.
Without really thinking, he dropped to the floor and started doing push-ups.
[Doing Push-Ups. Strength +0.2. Upper Body Strength +0.5.]
[Doing Squats. Strength +0.2. Lower Body Strength +0.5.]
[Doing Curl-Ups. Strength +0.2. Core Strength +0.5.]
Steven blinked at the notifications appearing before him. "Even exercise gets me stat bonuses?"
His curiosity bloomed. After a few more sets, he jogged outside into the cool morning air. The neighborhood was still quiet—just the distant whirr of a street cleaner and the occasional bark of a dog.
He reached the local park, a patch of green nestled between rows of sleepy apartment buildings. There, he began testing himself—jogging laps, practicing footwork, mimicking boxing combos he remembered from TV fights and old YouTube clips.
[Running. Stamina +1.]
[Practicing Boxing. Combat +1.]
[Doing Punches. Arm Strength +1.]
[Doing Kicks. Leg Strength +1.]
[Practicing Footwork. Agility +1.]
His shirt clung to his back, soaked through, but his breaths came smooth and controlled. Each movement felt more purposeful than the last. He wasn't fast or strong—yet—but he could feel himself improving. Tangibly. Quantifiably.
By the time he finished, he'd completed a hundred push-ups, a hundred squats, fifty curl-ups, a ten-kilometer jog, and a half-hour of drills.
He walked back home with a strange mixture of exhilaration and calm. The sun was a little higher now, the streets coming alive as the city woke.
Back inside, he stepped into the bathroom and let the cold shower cascade over him. The water was bracing, but the way it jolted his body awake felt oddly cleansing.
[Taking Refreshing Shower. Charisma +0.2.]
He laughed. "That's ridiculous. But I'll take it."
Downstairs, the house was quiet. The small restaurant attached to their home—Heavenly Dine—was still shuttered. His parents, Morris and Natellie, were likely still catching a few more hours of sleep before the morning prep work.
Steven wandered into the kitchen, towel still hanging over his shoulder. The sunlight streaming through the small window caught the edge of a glass bowl, making it shimmer faintly. The air smelled faintly of spices and something warm—residual scents from last night's dinner, maybe.
He glanced at the neatly arranged spices, the cutting board, the pots stacked to one side.
"If the system works with studying and training," he muttered, "why not cooking?"
Steven rolled up his sleeves.
He filled a pot with water and set it to boil. From the fridge, he gathered vegetables—carrots, peas, corn, green beans, capsicum—and began slicing them with cautious intent.
[Preparing Soup. Skill Unlocked: Basic Cooking (Intermediate Proficiency: 23/100).]
[System Guidance Activating…]
A subtle shift occurred. His movements became more fluid, like invisible hands guiding his own. The knife in his grip didn't feel so foreign. The vegetables began falling in uniform slices, rhythmic and clean.
[Cutting Vegetables. Skill Unlocked: Knife Handling (Intermediate Proficiency: 11/100).]
[Boiling Vegetables. Skill Unlocked: Temperature Control (Intermediate Proficiency: 13/100).]
[Deboning Chicken. Skill Unlocked: Deboning (Intermediate Proficiency: 11/100).]
He worked quietly, the only sounds being the bubbling of water and the steady thud of his knife against the board. He deboned a piece of chicken, then seared it in a pan with ginger and garlic, adding mushrooms and chopped spring onions. The aroma blossomed instantly, rich and comforting.
He added the vegetables to the broth, seasoned it carefully—just a pinch of salt, pepper, crushed garlic, a hint of lime juice.
The noodles were next. He half-boiled them before dropping them into the broth, letting them soak up the flavors. On the side, he stir-fried the meat and mushrooms with a splash of soy sauce, garnishing the bowl with a pinch of chili flakes and coriander.
By the time he plated everything, the kitchen was alive with color and fragrance. Steam curled from each bowl. The broth shimmered golden. The vegetables sat brightly against the noodles, the meat glistening with a perfect sear.
Footsteps approached. His parents entered the kitchen in their slippers, looking groggy and puzzled.
"Steven?" Natellie asked, blinking at the stove. "Are you… cooking?"
Steven nodded, trying to sound casual. "Just trying something new."
They exchanged a look, then sat down as he handed them each a bowl.
The moment the first spoonful touched their lips, the kitchen fell silent.
"This is..." Natellie stared down at the bowl. "This is really good."
Morris took a bite of the noodles. Then another. He set the spoon down and looked at his son in disbelief. "Did you follow a recipe?"
"Not exactly," Steven replied. "Just experimented a bit."
His father leaned back, eyes wide. "This is better than what I used to serve at the hotel downtown."
Coming from Morris Blake, once the sous-chef at one of Charlestown's top-tier restaurants before the family hit hard times, that wasn't a throwaway compliment.
Steven smiled, but didn't say much.
He made another batch, slowly demonstrating each step while they watched. He didn't rush. The system didn't take over—it simply guided. Every move felt earned. And this time, they tried their hands at the process too.
Natellie's eyes sparkled. "We haven't had people lining up for our food in months. If we add this to the menu…"
"It might bring people back," Morris finished. "Yeah. It just might."
They worked together over the next hour, cooking in sync for the first time in months. The kitchen, once heavy with quiet frustration, felt light again—buoyant with hope. Pots clattered, spices flew, laughter returned.
Steven glanced at the restaurant space through the swinging kitchen door. Empty tables. A faded chalkboard menu. Dust in the corners.
But today, it felt different.
Because today, he wasn't just dreaming of change.
He was cooking it.