Chapter No.3 The Body Cheats

The first light of dawn crept over Kamagasaki, pale and reluctant, casting a dusty golden hue over the rooftops like a worn-out blanket. Chimneys from distant factories coughed thin trails of smoke into the cold air, painting the sky in soft strokes of grey and ochre. The city stirred below, not with joy—but with fatigue, like an old man waking for another thankless day.

On the rooftop of Sunshine Orphanage, twelve-year-old Ryuji Kanzaki opened his eyes to the cloudy morning above.

But something was different.

Not the sky. Not the concrete beneath him.

Him.

He blinked. Once. Then again. His ribs didn't throb. His shoulders didn't scream from yesterday's chores. The stiff ache of sleeping on cold cement had vanished.

Instead, his body felt… tuned. Like someone had reached inside during the night and realigned every joint, every tendon, every nerve.

He sat up slowly, half-expecting a twinge of pain in his lower back.

Nothing.

Only smooth motion, like a well-oiled machine coming alive.

Ryuji exhaled and flexed his fingers. His hands—calloused and small—still looked like those of a street kid. A twelve-year-old raised among filth and scraps. But the way they moved? Too smooth. Too steady.

He clenched a fist.

Tight. Controlled.

No shaking. No stiffness.

Just raw potential coiled beneath skin and bone.

He rose to his feet, letting his legs stretch out as he balanced on the narrow ledge of the rooftop. This spot had always made him hesitate, if only for a second—an instinctive fear of falling. Not today. Today, his balance was exact. Effortless.

He dropped down onto the rooftop proper, landing on the balls of his feet.

No jolt. No pain. Just grace.

His eyes narrowed.

This isn't adrenaline. This is something else.

He crossed to the edge and looked down. The orphanage courtyard was mostly empty—only a stray cat nosed at a cracked rice bowl someone had tossed yesterday. The breeze stirred a torn curtain in one of the broken windows.

Ryuji crouched, then pushed off.

He jumped.

Five feet down.

He landed like a shadow.

No stumble. No knee-buckle. It was as if gravity respected him now.

His pulse quickened. Not from fear. From something hotter. Wilder.

Exhilaration.

"What… the hell…?"

He took off into a sprint across the lower rooftop. Just to test it.

One, two, three steps—and the edge was already there. He pulled back just in time, skidding slightly, breath fogging the air.

Not from exhaustion.

From the surge.

I'm faster.

He turned, jogged back, then jumped down again—two stories this time. His legs coiled midair. He landed and rolled with practised ease.

But he didn't have practice. Not real practice.

Not unless you counted dodging bullies and hiding in dumpsters.

Yet his body… moved like it remembered something he didn't.

A different rhythm. A deeper strength.

Arthur—the man he had once been—had lived behind screens. Days of ramen and instant coffee. Nights spent clicking, tapping, typing. He had known plenty about combat systems in games. But real punches? Real balance? Real stamina?

No.

That life had been slow. Comfortable. Safe.

But this?

This was feral. Instinctive. Dangerous.

The body he now inhabited wasn't just fit—it was wired for survival.

Suddenly, a familiar voice floated up from below.

"Ryuji! Breakfast's ready!"

Miss Hanae. Warm and tired. Always the first awake.

He blinked, and just like that, the spell broke. The world came rushing back. Cold air. City noise. The distant honk of an early truck. He couldn't afford to look weird. The others might not understand—but they would notice. And noticing meant questions. Questions meant trouble.

He turned, climbed back up to the rooftop ledge, and descended quietly into the orphanage.

⸻

Inside Sunshine Orphanage, the world felt sharper. Brighter.

More real.

The hallway floors creaked the same way, but the sound grated now—too loud. The aroma of breakfast filled his nostrils with surprising depth: miso broth, scallions, steaming rice. Before, he would've described it as "smells good." Now?

It was like scent had a texture.

He stepped into the dining room and moved to his usual spot—a scratched wooden table by the window. His food was already waiting: two rice balls and a bowl of miso soup.

Simple. Barely enough for a boy his age.

But something about the meal felt… sharper.

He reached for the chopsticks.

Even the weight of them was different. His fingers adjusted automatically to a firmer, more efficient grip. Like his motor skills had jumped a few years forward in development.

He dipped one rice ball into his soup, took a bite, and tried to focus on the taste. The warmth. The balance of soy and seaweed.

The soup tasted the same.

But he tasted more.

"Soup's good today," he said, trying to keep his voice even.

Miss Hanae glanced over from the kitchen, strands of hair falling from her loose bun. "Glad you think so," she said with a tired smile.

She always looked tired, but her warmth never faded. Her apron was stained from countless meals, her hands rough from work, but she moved like she carried the whole orphanage on her back—and somehow didn't mind the weight.

Ryuji watched her for a moment longer than usual.

Strength came in many forms.

⸻

After breakfast, chores began.

Ryuji's task was the worst of them all—hauling water to the rooftop tanks. The pump out back was rusted, the buckets cracked, the ladder narrow and slick with bird droppings. Most kids tried to trade this chore away.

But Ryuji didn't flinch.

He filled both buckets to the brim, water sloshing over the sides.

Yesterday, he'd barely managed one up the stairs.

Today?

He gripped both with one arm and jogged to the stairwell.

By the time he reached the rooftop—sprinting two steps at a time—he wasn't even breathing hard.

He set the buckets down and exhaled through his nose.

It felt too easy.

He leaned over the railing and looked down.

Three older boys were standing near the wall, watching. Their eyes narrowed.

"Is that… Kanzaki?"

"No way. Kid's on something."

"Tch. Show-off."

Ryuji gave them a lazy wave and yawned. "Buckets were half full," he lied.

One of them, Satoshi—a lanky teen with a mean streak—crossed his arms.

"Liar," he muttered.

Ryuji didn't reply. He didn't need to. He just turned and walked back across the rooftop, moving without effort, muscles humming under his skin like a silent engine.

But the whispers were beginning.

He could feel the shift in the air. The suspicion. The envy.

He'd have to be careful.

⸻

Back in the dorm room, Ryuji sat cross-legged on the futon, hands in his lap. The other kids were out cleaning or bickering over cards. The silence was a rare gift.

His fingers tapped restlessly on his knee.

He couldn't sit still. His limbs itched to move. His pulse thrummed with a quiet electricity.

This body wants to fight.

Not out of aggression—but because it could. It craved movement. Stress. Challenge.

He stood up.

Squats first. One. Two. Ten. Twenty. Still no burn.

Push-ups. Standard. Diamond. Explosive. He paused between sets, waiting for the sweat. Nothing.

He pivoted into shadowboxing. Awkward at first. But then something kicked in—timing, rhythm, instinct.

Left jab. Cross. Hook. Duck. Pivot. Kick.

Fast. Clean. Flowing.

He threw one punch full-force.

The air moved.

The sheet on the nearby bed fluttered.

He froze, chest heaving slightly.

"This isn't puberty," he muttered. "This is…"

He didn't finish.

There had been no flashy system interface. No tutorial. No stats or levels. No glowing swords.

Just a quiet shift.

Like the world had taken pity on a broken boy and re-wired him for war.

Or maybe it wasn't pity at all.

Maybe it was fate.

He walked over to the cracked window and peered outside. Kamagasaki stretched before him—alleys soaked in stale beer and piss, neon lights flickering over rusted signs, businessmen stepping over drunks like trash.

Girls barely older than him leaned on corners.

Yakuza in sharp suits loitered like predators.

This city wasn't built for heroes. It was a hunting ground. A jungle disguised as concrete.

"Power like this…" Ryuji whispered, voice almost trembling, "could change everything."

He tightened his fist.

But he also knew power drew eyes.

Eyes led to questions.

And in Kamagasaki, questions could get you buried.

He sat back down, trying to let the adrenaline fade.

But it didn't fade. Not completely.

The storm inside his muscles—inside his blood—it was still there.

Coiled. Waiting. Eager.

This was no longer just survival.

This was the beginning.

The body cheats.

But now, so would he.

⸻

Later that day, the sun hung low and sickly over Kamagasaki, like an overripe melon ready to rot. Ryuji slipped out of Sunflower House through the back gate, heart pounding with anticipation. The orphanage's courtyard lay empty and silent—the other kids still napping or lost in their chores. He felt a twinge of guilt for leaving without permission, but necessity outweighed hesitation. His body still pulsed with that strange power, and he needed to understand it—needed to test it in the field.

He threaded through narrow alleys slick with yesterday's rain, past shuttered shops and graffiti-stained walls. The air was thick with the smell of damp concrete and stale cigarettes. A lone black cat watched him from the shadows, its yellow eyes reflecting a world without mercy. Ryuji kept his head down, senses on high alert: every footstep, every distant shout, every flicker of movement.

Soon, he reached the pachinko parlour where he'd first met Takeshi. The neon sign blinked erratically, as if unsure whether it still had enough juice to advertise temptation. Takeshi leaned against the flickering lamppost, cigarette dangling from his lips, surrounded by the usual motley crew of older boys. They eyed Ryuji with a mixture of curiosity and thinly veiled hunger.

"Late," Takeshi said without looking up, flicking ash onto the cracked pavement.

"Had to clear my head," Ryuji replied, trying to keep his voice steady. Herealisedd how tightly he gripped his backpack straps—inside was the only food he'd managed to scavenge: a day-old convenience store onigiri and a pack of instant coffee granules. Survival, he reminded himself, came first.

Takeshi exhaled a plume of smoke. "I got something," he said finally, kicking at a loose stone. The others leaned in. "But it's risky. High reward if you pull it off."

Ryuji swallowed. "Tell me."

Takeshi glanced around like he expected someone to be listening. "There's a street vendor near the train tracks—old man, sells yakitori from a cart. He's got connections. Pure cash business. Tonight he's meeting someone. A rumour says it's a middle manager from one of the local yakuza clans. He carries sixty, maybe seventy thousand yen on him."

Ryuji's pulse quickened. Sixty thousand yen could buy nearly two months' worth of rice for Sunshine Orphanage. Even after Takeshi's cut, it would still be more than what he'd ever stolen. And yet… He hesitated. The memory of the ex-yakuza enforcer—Shigeru "Claw" Nakajima—flashed in his mind. One clean hit, Takeshi had said. No warning. He goes down. You bounce. But what if this man was stronger? More alert?

Takeshi shrugged. "Your choice. Feels up to you?" He flicked the cigarette into the gutter, crushing it under his boot. "We do this at nine. Be ready."

Ryuji nodded. "I'll be there."