4. Ability: Hand-to-Hand Combat

Principal Ulysses sat at his desk, his face expressionless, illuminated by the hazy white light streaming through the window.

Bob, bandaged up after the nurse’s examination, sat fuming on the sofa, waving his fists as he angrily complained.

Dean, with a large bump on his forehead and a dazed expression, stood rooted to the spot, but his mind had already plunged into the system, eager to examine the prompts he’d neglected during the ambush. A sweeping series of notifications now filled the once-empty battle log at the bottom of the interface:

You initiated an attack on your target.

You have entered combat.

You used a special weapon—a glass bowl—to ambush Bob from behind.

You wrapped your arms around Bob’s waist and threw him to the ground.

Your right fist struck Bob’s nose.

You hit Bob’s left eye and the corner of his mouth with your left…

…

A second enemy, Hook, joined the fray, launching a flying kick at your left shoulder…

…

Ding!

You have unlocked a new ability—Combat lv0 (0/100): A comprehensive fighting skill blending boxing, wrestling, sanda, kickboxing, Jeet Kune Do, martial arts… and armed combat. This ability boosts your efficiency in attacking, defending, and dodging with both body and weapons, enhances your training progress, and slightly increases your physique, strength, and agility with each level gained.

Proficiency +1

Combat lv0 (1/100)

Dean took a deep breath, his cheeks flushing with excitement. The system hadn’t let him down—a single fight had awakened a new ability. The description sounded anything but simple, though he’d need to test its effects. And if there was a combat skill, perhaps there were others—like marksmanship? If each skill upgrade could boost his attributes, he’d eventually become superhuman.

A bright path seemed to unfold before his eyes.

But he noticed something else: after gaining the combat ability, the system’s ability slots now read 1/5. What did that mean? Could he only have five abilities at most right now?

…

Ulysses tapped his pen against the desk, snapping Dean from his thoughts. His tone was stern, tinged with reproach.

“Dean, I’ve always thought highly of you. Unlike those kids who waste away at parties, getting high, and chasing girls, you’re smart, diligent, and have never sought trouble. You set your sights on college early, have clear goals, and act with impressive drive.

“But your behavior today was disappointing. You attacked Mr. Bob, owner of the baseball field, in front of everyone, causing a seriously negative impact!”

“Sorry…” Dean replied stiffly. “I shouldn’t have hit him in front of others.”

I should have beaten him to a pulp in private!

Ulysses nodded, believing Dean had recognized his mistake.

“But I can’t stand to see a promising student’s future ruined. As this is your first offense, I’ll give you a chance—apologize sincerely to Mr. Bob and sign a letter promising not to harass him again.”

“No! His offense against me is unforgivable! If you let him off so easily, I’ll withdraw my sponsorship!” Bob’s face was dark and stormy, his words more command and threat than anything else.

Ulysses rubbed his temples in frustration.

“Thank you for your consideration… but I’ll pass on the apology,” Dean said, seeing the principal’s dilemma but shaking his head.

In the past, he’d probably have caved and apologized after a struggle. But the system’s changes had pointed him in a new direction. Following the standard curriculum here, he hadn’t acquired any skills. Yet one fight had triggered his combat ability.

So he should center his life around the system—chart a new course entirely!

College was no longer essential.

“And I must correct you on one point—I didn’t attack him without reason…”

Dean raised his voice, anger and anguish trembling through him, his body shaking uncontrollably.

“For years, this bastard has harassed me incessantly. It’s given me severe psychological issues—I have nightmares every night, seeing his ugly face!”

“Dean, your accusation is serious. Are you sure? I suggest you consider carefully.” Ulysses sighed, lowering his head to stare at his entwined fingers.

He’d heard rumors before, but what could he do? White students bullying Asians—cops wouldn’t care, might even join in the mockery. At best, a well-meaning officer might scold the white kid and lock him up for a few days, then let him go.

…

“Shut up! You have any proof? If not, watch out for a defamation suit!” Bob threatened viciously.

“You won’t admit your past actions,” Dean said, thinking of the incident he was investigating. Staring into Bob’s eyes, he pressed on, a hint of nervousness in his voice. “Then what about yesterday? You and two baseball players forced me into your precious red sports car and spent hours humiliating me! That’s kidnapping—it’s a crime! You should be in jail!”

But Bob only crossed his arms and scoffed, offering no answer.

“Kidnapping? I was just giving you a ride home out of kindness—you were so moved you cried. I have plenty of friends who can vouch for that.”

…

Dean fell silent, realizing he’d get nothing out of Bob this time. Maybe he should change targets.

“Bob, since you’re not seriously hurt, let’s leave this matter for now,” Ulysses concluded. “Dean, you’re dismissed for the afternoon. Go home and reflect. Bring your apology letter tomorrow.”

He gave Dean a look, signaling him to leave quickly.

“Bob, you stay… there’s a spot for the Rattlesnakes team tour…”

“Hey, don’t be so quick to leave.” Bob suddenly leaned in, threatening in a low voice, “You gutter trash, you’ve gone too far today. You don’t realize how serious this is, but you’ll find out soon enough. Ha!”

…

“Dude, what happened?” Rust greeted him anxiously outside the office. In the hallway corner, several students—including the Asian girl who’d turned him down that morning—peeked over curiously, but scattered when Dean glanced their way.

Once a lamb turns lion, no one wants to provoke him.

Dean shook his head, trying to look nonchalant. “At worst, expulsion. But it was worth it to turn that bastard’s face into a pig’s head.”

With the knowledge of the future in his mind, Dean couldn’t believe he’d fail to carve out a path for himself.

Rust grimaced, forcing a smile as he punched Dean’s shoulder. “You were awesome in the cafeteria! Hardly anyone dares mess with that jerk, but you broke the record! Bro, I’m proud of you!”

“Thanks for the praise. Now, where are Bob’s two sidekicks?”

“You mean Hook and Zewar? Probably training at the baseball field.”

Dean shook his head inwardly. He’d leave them alone for now. It was time to organize his gains, test his combat skill, and plan for tomorrow—time to go.

But he was unsure if his home was safe. Bob’s final words had left a heavy weight on his mind; the guy had deep connections. And this was the wild ‘80s in America—crime was rampant.

Who knew if Bob would retaliate?

As the old saying goes, “Treat the enemy lightly in strategy, but seriously in tactics.” The revolution is far from success—one must be cautious when necessary.

“Rust, we’re good friends, right?”

“Of course.” Rust gulped, a hint of nervousness on his handsome face. “But I don’t have your tremendous bravery.”

“Relax, I won’t drag you into trouble. I just want to crash at your place for a night.”

Rust visibly relaxed, his eyes lighting up. “You’re more than welcome. Grace will be delighted.”

…

That afternoon, Rust went back to class while Dean headed for the campus park to try out his new ability.

The sun blazed down, Las Vegas’ temperature climbing to thirty-two degrees. In the park, beneath the vast, umbrella-like branches of a giant elm, Dean stood on the grass—chin tucked, eyes sharp, gazing at the dark gray trunk. He hunched his shoulders, left foot forward, right heel raised behind him, left arm guarding his cheek with his fist just above his shoulder, right arm poised before his chest…

He held the stance for ten seconds.

Bang!

He drove off his right foot, sliding his left forward, and shot his left arm in a straight punch, striking the bark dead-on.

Retract.

He repeated the drill over and over, circling the elm in a slow shuffle—forward, back, side-stepping.

But every time he moved his feet, his upper body wobbled out of form, awkward and clumsy as a toddler learning to walk.

His punches and steps were poorly coordinated—clearly a novice.

But with no one to watch, he could give it his all.

Half an hour later, sweat streamed down his jaw as Dean bent over, catching his breath and checking the system log, brow furrowed.

Was my stance that off? Why is proficiency increasing so slowly?

Under the tree, he’d spent half an hour experimenting alone—flailing at first, then switching to the military boxing he’d learned in training, recalling a few college boxing classes from his previous life, even mimicking the “no-rules fighting” of the legendary Chen He’gao he’d seen online, with branches for weapons and primal shouts.

He tried every fighting style he’d ever witnessed, throwing himself into every move, but after half an hour of sweat-drenched practice, his combat proficiency had only crept from 1 to 3.

This was nothing like the cafeteria brawl, where ten seconds had earned him a point.

Leaning against the elm, Dean pondered—ordinary training was far less effective than all-out combat.

To get better, he needed a real opponent. Practicing alone wouldn’t cut it.

Two paths lay ahead.

Find a worthy opponent and fight for real.

Or join a boxing gym and learn proper techniques.

…

“But I don’t even have a dollar to my name—no way I can afford boxing lessons…”

Dean resigned himself to the first option: find an opponent—in other words, pick a fight!

Faces flashed through his mind.

Rust? No, I won’t punch a friend.

Bob? Not yet. The situation’s unclear; best not provoke him now.

His two sidekicks?

Yes.

One of them. Tomorrow.

And I need to get yesterday’s secret out of them.

…

All afternoon, Dean persisted with his dull, clumsy drills around the elm, never slacking for a moment—a feat his old self would have found impossible. Back then, he had no patience or talent for fighting, at most watching MMA matches online.

But now, with the battle log, every punch, every step, every drop of sweat became tangible progress.

His combat proficiency rose from 3 to 9.

His punches started to feel different.

During training, a mysterious current seemed to flow within, gently correcting his movements.

Ha!

He exhaled sharply, breath hissing, his body moving almost instinctively—driving off the ground, twisting his hips, coiling his waist, and rolling his shoulder through a straight left.

The punch cut through the air like a shell.

Legs, waist, back, shoulder, fist—his lean muscles, once flat beneath his T-shirt, now corded as one.

Bang!

His fist struck a bush, branches quivering.

Sweat flew from his tousled hair as he reveled in the sensation. Hours of work, and the awkward disconnection between his upper and lower body had lessened.

His breathing had grown steadier.

Ordinary boxing trainees could never achieve this much in a week, let alone an afternoon.

Even more, he found himself instinctively using techniques he’d only ever seen on fight shows—never formally learned.

Suddenly, Dean realized the combat ability was more powerful than he’d imagined—it was rapidly converting every scrap of fighting knowledge he’d ever encountered into practical skills, and boosting his training efficiency…

So that’s what “increased training efficiency” means.

Even the dullest drills became enjoyable.

Until dusk.

…

Ring-ring-ring—

A crisp bell sounded along the path between the shrubs.

Rust waved excitedly from his bike, and Dean hopped on to follow.