Cory Grant glanced at his stamina progress bar.
It was nearly full.
If he wanted to push it over the edge quickly, weight training wouldn't be the answer tonight. Too much strength work at his age, still in the middle of physical development, could hinder his growth.
At fifteen, he stood at 5'8" (173 cm). By the main story timeline, he'd only hit 5'10" (178 cm). But Cory dreamed of more—of hitting 6'1" (185 cm) and finally standing tall among giants.
The only way was to build himself carefully: balanced nutrition, disciplined rest, and exercises that boosted stamina and mobility rather than stunting his growth.
So tonight, he chose running.
---
The moon glowed overhead, sharp and silver. Lamplight spilled down the empty streets as Cory jogged, his shadow weaving in and out of the trees that lined the road.
He fell into a steady rhythm: two steps, one breath. Efficient. Smooth. Safe.
Sweat rolled down his temples, soaking dark patches into his T-shirt. His breathing grew heavier, chest tight—but he kept pushing, kept checking that glowing bar. Each time it moved forward, his spirit surged.
"Come on… just a little more," he muttered between gritted teeth.
At last, the invisible system chimed:
**[Stamina: 65 → 66]**
A sudden tremor swept through his body. Energy flooded back into his veins, washing away the leaden weight in his legs, calming his burning lungs. For a moment he felt lighter than air—untouchable.
He shut his eyes, focusing on that wave of euphoria. *Refreshing!*
It was almost addictive. The adrenaline rush of leveling up was stronger than he could've imagined. Now he couldn't wait to experience the next upgrade.
"Just as I thought," he realized. "Increasing stamina restores energy completely."
The possibilities danced in his head. Imagine saving a level-up until the closing minutes of a big game—suddenly refreshed while everyone else was collapsing. A hidden edge no opponent could see coming.
Of course, he knew better than to rely on it. Gaming the system meant slowing down long-term growth. And once stamina hit higher levels, it might take weeks just to bump a single point.
Still, the discovery left him buzzing.
"Run again."
With restored strength, Cory lengthened his stride, pounding the pavement until he finally reached home past ten o'clock.
---
The moment he stepped inside, hunger growled viciously in his stomach.
His mother, **Marianne**, emerged from her room, covering a yawn.
"Cory, you're back so late… You must be starving."
"Yeah," he admitted with a tired smile.
"Go shower first. Don't catch a cold. I'll make you noodles."
"Mom, you've worked hard."
She waved him off gently. "This is family—you don't need to thank me."
---
By the time he stepped out, hair damp from the shower, steaming noodles waited at the table. Golden fried egg, thin slices of pork—the aroma alone made his mouth water.
"You trained hard," Marianne said warmly. "Eat, then get some sleep. Oh—by the way, your father spoke with your homeroom teacher. He arranged a one-month leave so you can focus."
The chopsticks froze in Cory's hand. His chest swelled, eyes stinging slightly. His parents had already gone this far for him…
"I understand. Thanks, Mom. You should rest—you've got work early tomorrow."
She smiled. "Alright. Just remember—leave the bowl in the sink."
---
He devoured the noodles, each bite tasting better than any luxury meal. After washing up, Cory returned to his room, ready to turn off the light when—
**Knock, knock.**
"Cory, still awake?"
It was his father's voice.
He opened the door to find **Samuel Grant** holding a shoebox.
"I bought you something," Samuel said. He handed the box over, a hint of weariness in his voice. "I'm no expert with sneakers, so I asked the mustached shopkeeper for advice. Try them—see if they fit."
Cory lifted the lid. His breath caught.
**Air Jordan 7.**
The very sneakers Jordan wore on his way to his second NBA title.
Inside gleamed a pair of brand-new red-and-white kicks. Sleek design, high-grade synthetic uppers, grooved soles for grip and bounce—they were top-of-the-line for the era.
Cory slipped them on. Snug. Comfortable. The cushioning felt alive beneath his feet. Lighter than anything he'd ever worn.
"They fit perfectly, Dad."
"Good," Samuel said with a small nod. He patted Cory's shoulder, stifled a yawn, and shuffled toward bed.
Cory lingered, staring at his father's slightly hunched back as it faded into the hallway.
Clutching the new shoes, his resolve hardened.
He would not let their sacrifices be for nothing.
He would repay this love—not with words, but with victories.
And that, he thought, would be the greatest gift he could ever give them.