The rooster crowed again.
That ridiculous bird had become the unofficial alarm clock of my new life—loud, punctual, and oddly smug about it. I blinked awake, the ceiling beams still half-lost in the blue dawn haze. The air smelled faintly of dew and distant woodsmoke.
February 21.
A month since system intiation.
I lay still for a second, letting the morning sounds seep into me—sparrows chirping on the roof tiles, the kettle whistling faintly in the kitchen, someone sweeping the front yard. The village was waking up, slow and steady. So was I.
My body, though sore, moved easily now. The stiffness of my first days had melted into a rhythm—muscle memory shaped by twenty-nine mornings of martial drills and evening play. The kind of memory that hummed in the bones.
I rolled out of bed, rubbing my eyes, and sat cross-legged on the mat. "System," I whispered softly, more habit than an invocation. No screen appeared. Just a faint awareness—the hum beneath my skin, the quiet pulse that had become as natural as breath.
Everything had grown since that first day—skills, focus, control. But more than that, I had grown comfortable here.
I smiled faintly, remembering the day after my first class.
---
Flashback:
The school courtyard had looked like a festival ground—bright ribbons fluttering, chalk lines drawn across the field, teachers bustling about with clipboards. Children swarmed like happy bees, some still too nervous to understand what "competition" meant.
For me, it had felt both new and nostalgic.
Rohan had tugged my sleeve, eyes wide with excitement. "They said we can pick any three sports! Which one are you doing, Abhay?"
"All of them," I'd replied automatically.
He'd stared at me like I'd grown another head. "All? You can't do all!"
"Watch me."
That morning had been pure energy—sunlight gleaming on dust, laughter mixing with whistle-blasts. My first event was the 50-meter sprint. The field stretched like a golden ribbon ahead of us.
"Ready!"
"Set!"
"Go!"
Tiny feet thundered. Mine hit the ground like drumbeats, light and sure. The air rushed past, the cheers blurred, and somewhere within the rhythm, I felt the System's soft hum ignite.
> [Running – Skill Acquired]
[STR +1 | END +1 | AGL +1]
And before I even crossed the finish line, I knew I was ahead.
When I did, the cheers hit like a wave.
"Abhay Bharadwaj! First place!" the teacher announced.
Mother had been there, her hands clasped, eyes shining. Father's grin was pure sunlight.
But that wasn't the end.
Next came Kabaddi—dust flying, bodies tumbling, laughter echoing. The ground smelled of sweat and earth and joy. When my turn came, I slipped through the ring of kids like smoke, tapped, dodged, twisted—every move instinctive, precise.
> [Kabaddi – Skill Acquired]
[STR +1 | END +1 | AGL +1]
We won.
Then Cricket—the sound of willow meeting ball, Rohan yelling from the non-striker's end, Amrita cheering faintly from the sidelines. When I sent the ball soaring over the field boundary, her small gasp of delight had felt louder than the applause.
> [Cricket – Skill Acquired]
[STR +1 | END +1 | AGL +1]
And finally, Badminton—the light thwack of the shuttle, the graceful arcs it drew in air. That game wasn't about strength, but rhythm. The same rhythm I practiced in martial arts.
> [Badminton – Skill Acquired]
[STR +1 | END +1 | AGL +1]
By the end of the day, I stood at the podium with four ribbons and one very tired smile. Mother was near tears. Father's hands squeezed my shoulders, proud and wordless. Even Grandmother called me raja—her little prince.
That night, I'd stared at my ceiling unable to sleep, the glow of achievement mixing with something deeper—belonging.
---
The memory faded with the morning light. I exhaled slowly, stood, and began stretching. My limbs obeyed fluidly, each movement carrying the echo of a month's practice.
Pull-ups. Push-ups. Squats.
The routine flowed like a song I knew by heart.
Outside, Father's voice called faintly, "Abhay, ready?"
"Coming, Papa!"
I dressed quickly, tying my shoelaces with practiced speed. On the mirror's edge, a tiny note fluttered—my own handwriting.
> Discipline is freedom.
I grinned. Old me would have vomited at its site.
---
The scooter hummed to life, and the chill wind bit playfully at my cheeks as we rode through the waking village. Mist hung low over the paddy fields. Distant bells chimed from a temple across the river.
We reached Shukra Gurung's house just as the sun crested the hills.
The retired commando stood in his yard, bamboo staff resting across his shoulders, eyes sharp even in the soft dawn light.
"Morning, Sir," I said.
He gave me a brief nod. "Morning abhay. You look stronger."
"Muscles are shy, but they're learning to talk."
He snorted. "And your mouth's getting faster too."
Father chuckled, setting the scooter aside. "He practices that as much as the training."
"Good," Shukra said, half-smiling. "A warrior needs wit. Keeps him alive."
He turned to me. "Come. Let's see how alive your stance is today."
---
The drills began.
Footwork—sharp.
Punches—measured.
Breath—steady.
Dust rose from the yard with every pivot. The bamboo staff whirled through the air, tracing arcs of discipline.
A month ago, I'd stumbled. Now, the movements came smooth, natural, instinctive.
Shukra's eyes followed closely. He wasn't smiling, but I could sense his approval in the way his corrections grew rarer.
"Good," he said finally. "Your center holds. You've built strength the right way—inside out."
I grinned. "I had a good teacher."
"Hmm. Don't flatter me yet. Let's spar."
We moved into position. The first few exchanges were light—testing reflexes. Then faster. My arms blocked automatically; legs shifted to balance. For a brief, perfect moment, everything aligned—timing, breath, thought.
I countered one of his strikes without hesitation, stepping inside his guard and touching his wrist lightly, exactly as he'd shown me last week.
Shukra froze. Then raised an eyebrow. "That wasn't luck."
"No, Sir."
He straightened, circling me slowly. "Do it again."
We repeated the move. Once. Twice. Perfect each time.
When we stopped, he stood silent for a while, studying me with the faintest furrow on his brow.
Father, who had been watching from the veranda, walked over. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing wrong," Shukra murmured. "Only—your son's learning faster than I expected. He copies after seeing once or twice. That's… rare."
Father looked proud but confused. "He's always been like that. Picks up things quick."
Shukra's gaze lingered on me, then softened. "He has focus. And control. But more than that—clarity. Most children move because they're told. He moves because he understands."
Father smiled quietly. "He takes after his mother in that."
I pretended not to hear, hiding a grin.
Shukra chuckled finally. "Well, Mr. Bharadwaj, if he keeps this up, he'll outgrow my lessons in a year."
"Outgrow?" Father laughed. "You mean he'll become a small martial monk?"
"Maybe," Shukra said, eyes still thoughtful. "Or something more."
---
By the time training ended, my shirt was soaked, my arms trembling pleasantly. I sat on the steps sipping water while Father spoke with Shukra under the banyan tree. Their voices drifted faintly.
"… discipline like that isn't taught," Shukra was saying. "It's chosen. And your boy—he's choosing it every day."
Father replied softly, "He's… different, yes. But kind. That's what matters."
"Keep it that way," Shukra said. "Strength without kindness turns hollow."
I smiled faintly at that. Wisdom came easy to the old soldier.
---
After Father and I left, the ride back felt slower, calmer. The village was fully awake now—children running barefoot, women carrying water pots, the faint buzz of morning chatter.
When we reached home, the smell of breakfast pulled me straight to the kitchen. Parathas again—golden, crispy perfection.
Mother smiled as I entered. "There's my little champion."
"Champion of hunger, yes," I said solemnly, sitting down.
Uncle Rajiv was already at the table. "You train every day and still eat like a goat. Impressive."
"I burn calories philosophically," I replied.
Grandmother laughed from her chair. "Let him eat. Growing boys need strength."
As I bit into the paratha, I remembered the smiles they'd all worn during the Sports Festival—faces lit with pride, eyes soft with love.
That warmth was still with me, even now.
---
After breakfast, Father was preparing to leave for work. His small workshop had grown busier lately—local orders for wooden furniture, decorative panels, even some tools for nearby shops.
He looked at me before leaving. "Study hard today, champ."
"Yes, Papa."
"And don't start another debate with your teachers."
"No promises."
He shook his head, smiling, then left.
Mother packed my tiffin with careful precision—parathas, an apple, and a small box of halwa.
"Don't trade this with Rohan," she warned. "He'll just give you chips."
I blinked innocently. "Hypothetically, if the chips are good—"
"No."
"Yes, Ma."
---
On the ride to school, I watched the road wind past—bamboo fences, paddy fields glistening under sunlight, a few goats arguing existentially by the path.
The gates of St. Xavier's came into view, bright and familiar. Children streamed in, laughing, running.
I smiled. This place, once foreign, now felt like a second home.
The bell rang as I entered. Rohan waved wildly from across the yard. "Abhay! Over here!"
"Morning!" I called, jogging over. "You look like you didn't sleep."
"I was dreaming about math monsters,abhay" he said gravely.
" Then good luck trying to escape math monster this life rohan" I mused.
He grinned. "You talk weird, but it's funny."
"Thank you. I try."
Amrita joined us, ribbons bouncing as she walked. "You two always talk nonsense so early?"
"Yes," I said. "It's part of our balanced breakfast."
She giggled, shaking her head. "You're both impossible."
And just like that, the morning began—with laughter and chatter and the quiet thrum of friendship deepening.
The classroom smelled faintly of chalk and ambition. Sunlight streamed through the open windows, painting golden squares on the floor. Our class teacher, Mrs. Mary, was already at the board, writing neatly in big cursive letters.
"Good Morning, Class One!"
"Good morning, Ma'am!" we chorused, some voices sleepy, others bursting with too much enthusiasm.
Rohan's "good morning" cracked halfway, making half the class giggle.
Mrs. Mary smiled. "All right, children. Today we begin with English reading."
I opened my thin, freshly covered book, the one that smelled like new paper and hope. My fingers traced the lines absently, eyes flicking over words that already felt like old friends.
As Mrs. Mary began reading aloud, I followed silently, absorbing cadence and rhythm—the melody of language. When she asked, "Who wants to read next?", I looked and saw no one answering
Then Mrs Mary looked around and called "Abhay dear,you read next!"
I replied "ok ma'am"
I stood up, held the book straight, and began reading.
"The sun rises in the east and sets in the west…"
The words came clear and even, almost automatic. My voice was steady—not loud, not shy, just natural.
Mrs. Mary's brows lifted slightly. "Very good, Abhay. You read very clearly for your age."
I smiled faintly, sitting back down as a soft flicker passed through my mind—
[English – Experience Gained +10]
Rohan leaned over, whispering, "You sound like Papa when he reads the newspaper."
"Maybe I was a newspaper in my last life," I whispered back.
He snorted, trying not to laugh.
Mrs. Mary raised an eyebrow. "Anything to share, boys?"
Rohan shook his head rapidly. "No, Ma'am! Just…app...appre... appreciating English!"
The class giggled.
Mid-Morning: Math Period
Numbers never intimidated me; they were like obedient little soldiers, always marching where I wanted them to.
When Mrs. Mary (who also taught Math) started explaining addition with pictures of apples and oranges, I was already doing double-digit sums in my notebook, half for fun.
She noticed. "Abhay, finished already?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Let me see."
She glanced at my work, then blinked. "You did all of page 10?"
"Just for practice," I said innocently.
A few kids stared. To them, I probably looked like a sorcerer who spoke fluent subtraction.
Mrs. Mary smiled slowly. "You're a very quick learner, dear."
Rohan leaned over again. "You have math magic?"
"Not magic," I whispered. "Just patience."
He squinted. "That's worse."
[Mathematics – Experience Gained +15]
Lunch Break
We ate under the neem tree behind the school. The shade was cool and full of chatter—dozens of kids unwrapping their tiffins, swapping food like little merchants.
Rohan offered me some of his chips. I traded him half a paratha (Mother would forgive me… probably).
Amrita sat cross-legged beside us, carefully cutting her apple slices in half before eating them. "You play Kabaddi in the field later?" she asked.
"Of course," I said, mouth full. "Victory needs maintenance."
Rohan raised his hand dramatically. "Team Abhay versus Team Rohan!"
"You'll lose again," I said cheerfully.
He pointed his spoon at me. "Overconfidence is the enemy of success!"
"Experience is the mother of confidence," I replied.
He blinked. "You talk like my grandfather."
Amrita giggled. "Maybe he's both your grandfather and your friend."
[Charisma – +3]
Afternoon: Sports Period
The bell rang and chaos followed.
We all rushed to the playground—a sprawling field of grass and uneven dirt patches, the kind that made every run unpredictable and every fall hilarious.
The PE teacher, Mr. Das, had the kind of whistle that could shatter glass. "Line up, everyone!"
We obeyed—mostly.
The games began with a 100-meter dash. My legs were eager, muscles thrumming with the memory of past runs.
"Ready—set—go!"
Feet pounded. Dust flew. The wind wrapped around me like an old friend.
This wasn't about competition anymore—it was rhythm, the joy of motion.
[Running – Experience Gained +25]
[Running – Level Up! Lv.3]
[+3 STR | +3 END | +3 AGL]
I crossed the line first, but this time the cheers didn't drown me—they grounded me.
Next came Kabaddi. The circle of children crouched, chanting "Kabaddi-kabaddi" in sing-song rhythm. My breath steadied, my eyes traced the gaps, the openings.
Tag. Dodge. Pivot. Escape.
Every motion felt sharper, tighter than before.
[Kabaddi – Level Up! Lv.3]
[STR +3 | END +3 | AGL +3]
Then Cricket—a familiar bat, a friendly sun. The ball came fast, I met it cleanly, and it flew—soaring beyond the fence, landing somewhere near the mango trees.
"Six!" shouted Rohan.
[Cricket – Level Up! Lv.3]
[STR +3 | END +3 | AGL +3]
Badminton followed. My reflexes had grown quicker, my eyes tracking the shuttle like a hawk. Each strike carried precision, not power.
[Badminton – Level Up! Lv.3]
[AGL +3 | STR +3|END+3]
By the end, I was sweating, laughing, and very aware of my mother's "don't overdo it" echoing somewhere in my brain.
Flashback
The next few weeks had built this version of me—every morning a pattern, every evening a rhythm.
At dawn, I ran from our house to Shukra Sir's yard—across winding dirt lanes, past sleepy goats, and a half-awake tea stall owner who now waved by instinct.
The run was about two kilometers each way, enough to wake every muscle.
[Running – Experience Gained +10 Daily]
After that came martial practice—stances, breathwork, rhythm.
In the afternoons after school, I joined the other village kids. They'd gather near the open meadow behind our homes—no referee, no rules, just laughter, dust, and friendship.
Kabaddi one day.
Cricket the next.
Badminton under the setting sun when the air grew softer.
Every game sharpened me, shaped me—muscle and mind in quiet conversation.
Shukra Sir often said, "Real training doesn't end when you leave the yard. It begins when you play."
He was right.
[All Physical Skills – Continuous Experience Gained Over 15 Days]
By February 20, I'd felt the shift—speed faster, movements cleaner, endurance steadier like double that of my starting .
The System reflected it, yes—but I didn't need it to tell me. My body already knew.
Flashback end
By the time school ended, the sun had softened into gold. The air smelled of chalk dust and crushed grass.
Mother picked me up this time. She smiled as I ran up. "So, little warrior, how was school?"
"Peaceful battlefield," I said solemnly.
She laughed. "Only you can make peace sound like a battle."
We rode home through the narrow roads, the light fading to orange. Villagers waved. Children played by the roadside, shouting my name as we passed.
"Abhay bhaiya, tomorrow cricket match again?"
"Only if Rohan's mom lets him," I called back.
Laughter followed us down the lane.
At home, Father was already there, cleaning his tools. He looked up and smiled. "How was school?"
"Educational," I said, setting my bag down. "We studied, we ran, and I may have achieved enlightenment during math."
Mother rolled her eyes. "You says that about every subject."
"Consistency is key," I said earnestly.
Uncle Rajiv poked his head in. "Little philosopher strikes again!"
I grinned. "Better philosopher than freeloader, Uncle."
He gasped. "A dagger of truth from my favorite nephew!"
Grandmother laughed from her spot near the stove. "At least he spares no one."
Dinner was simple—dal, rice, and roasted vegetables—but it felt like a feast.
As I ate, the day's moments replayed in my mind like a gentle film—the laughter, the warmth, the quiet nods of approval.
When night settled, I sat by the small desk near the window, flipping through my English workbook.
Words flowed easily now. Sentences came unbidden, carrying rhythm and shape. I reached for the notebook where I'd been scribbling stories.
On the first page, a title gleamed faintly in pencil:
The Boy Who Lived.
Harry Potter. My old world's magic reborn in this small one.
I had started rewriting it, half from memory, half from nostalgia. But tonight, as the words formed again under my pencil, something felt different. They weren't just copied—they were mine. My phrasing, my tone, my soul.
[Writing – Experience Gained +20]
Lines built, paragraphs connected. The rhythm of storytelling returned—the heartbeat of another life finding voice through this small hand.
I paused, whispering softly, "Let's make it better this time."
From the kitchen, I heard Mother humming. Father was still sanding something in the yard, the rasp of the file rhythmic and comforting.
The night was warm, peaceful.
I closed my notebook, stretched, and looked up at the moon rising over the trees.
[Writing – Level Up! Lv.3]
[INT +1 | CHA +1]
The faint shimmer faded, leaving a quiet satisfaction behind.
Before bed, I opened the small system window mentally—habit, curiosity, gratitude.
STATS
STRENGTH: 34+2+3+24=63
AGILITY: 37+2+3+24=66
ENDURANCE: 42+2+3+24=71
INTELLIGENCE (IQ): 143.7+7.5=151.2
CHARISMA: 42+1
LUCK: 50
SKILLS
PHYSICAL SKILLS:
Martial Arts Lv.3
Running Lv.3
Kabaddi Lv.3
Cricket Lv.3
Badminton Lv.3
Craftsmanship lv 2
INTELLECTUAL SKILLS:
Reading Lv.3
Mathematics Lv.3
English Lv.3
Science Lv.3
Writing Lv.3
Computer Knowledge Lv.3
Drawing level lv3
The body was coming around nicely with height growing up exponential and also gaining muscle.but i have to control my strength as I am stronger then most of the adults while mind is also taking shape nicely with me taking 1-2 days to read and understand 2 books of around 100 pages(yeah! You bet I experimented on myself ).and I also have a felling that at around 170 stat my memory may become photographic.
A good balance—mind and body both learning, neither neglected.
But more than the numbers, it was the life behind them that mattered:
The laughter of friends, the wisdom of teachers, the warmth of home, the strength of routine.
I closed my eyes and whispered into the dark, "Step by step, one day at a time."
Sleep came easy