The final bell at Seabrook High unleashed a tidal wave of students into the corridors, a chaotic merge request of hormones and backpacks.
Hanma Tanaka lingered by his locker, fiddling with the straps of his beat-up bag. The brass amulet in his pocket hummed softly, a low-key hype track for his soul.
It’d been a week since he’d last thrown hands in the sketchy alley behind school, jabbing two goons into submission with his trusty Quick Jab. That win netted him 50 Respect Points (RP)—a small stack of clout he was still learning to flex.
Today, though, the vibes were off. As Hanma weaved through the hallway toward freedom, a commotion snagged his attention. Near the lockers, Kenji Mori—better known as "Locker Larry" for his signature move of slamming lockers like a budget bouncer—towered over a scrawny freshman.
Bang! Another locker took a hit, rattling like an old car trying to start.
Larry was Seabrook’s resident petty dictator, extorting lunch money to fund his reign of mid-tier terror.
“Fork it over, nerd,” Larry grunted, slamming the kid’s locker shut again. “You know the drill.”
The freshman, a bespectacled beanpole, hugged his books like they were a rare Pokémon card. “I—I need it for lunch, man. Please…”
Hanma’s pace faltered. His pulse kicked up, the old fear subroutine looping in his chest. But something else pinged his system too—a memory of Yahim, that slick freshman who’d dismantled bullies like he was swatting bugs.
Yahim didn’t hesitate, didn’t crash under pressure. He just acted. Hanma’s fingers grazed the amulet, and a rogue spark of resolve booted up.
“I’m done yeeting myself out of these situations,” he monologued internally. “Yahim wouldn’t dodge this commit. Neither will I.”
He shut his eyes for a hot second, syncing with the amulet’s vibe. A glowing blue UI popped into his headspace:
The Back Alley Bodega
[Moves] [Items] [Status]
He flicked to [Items]:
[1] Energy Drink (20 RP) - Temporarily increases attack power.
[2] First Aid Kit (30 RP) - Heals moderate health.
[3] Reinforced Backpack (50 RP) - Minor defense boost.
[4] Study Guide (40 RP) - Minor defense boost.
[5] Lock Pick Set (60 RP) - Unlock side opportunities.
[Back]
He mentally clicked [1] Energy Drink.
A jolt zapped through him—like he’d mainlined a Red Bull in 0.2 seconds flat. His arms felt snappy, ready to pop off.
[Purchased Energy Drink. RP: 50 - 20 = 30]
Hanma strode forward, slotting himself between Larry and the freshman. As he squared up, game-like stats flickered into view above Larry’s head: Level 5, with a green health bar maxed at 50 HP. It was straight out of a RPG—except this boss fight was IRL.
“Level 5? I’m still rocking the tutorial build,” Hanma thought, swallowing hard. “No level display for me yet. Am I even Level 1? Gotta play this smart.”
“Hey, Locker Larry,” Hanma said, voice steady despite the butterflies DDoSing his gut. “Leave him alone.”
Whispers erupted—Who is he?
“Dude’s either a yakuza heir or really bad at transferring schools!” —A conspiracy theorist clutching a half-eaten protein bar.
“Ten bucks says he’s got a tragic backstory and a katana in his locker.” —An anime club VP adjusting her glasses.
“S-Senpai noticed me…!” —A first-year clutching her chest, ignoring the fact Hanma hadn’t looked at anyone.
“New rule: if you beat up Larry, you gotta date my sister.”
“Save the drama for gym class. Some of us are trying to nap.” A lanky student yawned from inside an open locker, sunglasses askew.
“Bravery? More like buffet—Larry’s gonna eat him!”
“Five-second rule!”
“New record if he lasts till ‘four’!”
“Plot twist: the freshman’s ghost will avenge him in the next chapter.”
Larry froze, then sneered like a troll spotting a noob. He shoved the freshman aside—the kid bolted with a quick “thanks, dude” glance.
“Tanaka?” Larry scoffed, cracking his knuckles. “What’s this, a side quest? You tryna be the protagonist now?”
“Not your call,” Hanma shot back. “Back off.”
"Lookie here— trash playing hero!" He cracked his walnut-sized knuckles, biceps flexed, and the seams of his jersey tensed. “Gonna mail your teeth to your mom, Pretty Boy!”
—“Wait—does his mom want the teeth?” A mathlete whispered. “What’s the shipping cost? Let’s calculate his funeral expenses—”
Larry laughed, a glitchy bark. “Bold move for a script kiddie. Let’s see your uptime.” He swung a meaty fist at Hanma’s dome.
Hanma’s brain pulled up the menu on instinct:
Your Known Moves:
[1] Quick Jab - Quick, low damage.
He tapped [1], and his body yeeted into action. The Energy Drink juiced his speed—his fist zipped out, smacking Larry’s cheek with a pop. The bully stumbled, caught off-guard.
Quick Jab lands! Larry HP: 50 - 15 = 35 (Energy Drink buff applied)
Larry blinked, more salty than hurt. “You little—!” He roared back with a wild haymaker, all brute force and zero finesse.
Hanma juked left, the punch whiffing like a tweet that got ratioed.
Larry’s overreach left him wide open—Hanma fired another Quick Jab, nailing his nose. Tears welled in Larry’s eyes as he staggered.
Quick Jab connects! Larry HP: 35 - 15 = 20
“Cut it out!” Larry snarled, voice nasal and mad. He swung a desperate Forehand Smash, aiming to flatten Hanma’s chest. But Hanma read the telegraph—dancing back, he let the fist sail past, a total airball.
[Larry uses Forehand Smash! Miss detected.]
“This dude’s moveset is predictable as hell,” Hanma mused. “One more hit should end him.”
He darted in, landing a final Quick Jab to Larry’s chin. The Energy Drink gave it extra oomph—Larry’s head rocked back, and he crashed to the floor, out of juice.
-Quick Jab hits! Larry HP: 20 - 15 = 5
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
Locker Larry is DOWN!
Hanma loomed over him, catching his breath. A crowd had spawned, buzzing like a Discord server after a meme drop. The freshman flashed a thumbs-up before dipping out.
“Next time, grief someone your own size,” Hanma said, cool as a freshly deployed app.
Larry just groaned, too wrecked to clap back.
Incident: Hallway Bullying - Victory!
Rewards:
Respect Points Earned: 40
RP Total: 30 + 40 = 70
Your Stats:
Health: 100% (No damage)
Respect Points: 70
Known Moves: Quick Jab
Active Effects: None
The crowd thinned as Larry hauled himself up, pride in shambles. Word of Hanma’s win would ping through Seabrook’s social graph by lunch tomorrow. He adjusted his bag and rolled to class, the amulet purring against his thigh.
Later, at his desk, Hanma summoned the Bodega again:
The Back Alley Bodega
[Moves] [Items] [Status]
He scrolled [Moves]:
[1] Strong Hook (30 RP) - Slower, medium damage punch.
[2] Leg Sweep (40 RP) - Medium damage, chance to knock down.
[3] Judo Throw (50 RP) - High damage, interrupt attacks.
[4] Power Kick (60 RP) - High damage, slow, chance to stun.
[5] Dodge & Counter (70 RP) - Defensive, counter-attack.
[6] Focus Strike (80 RP) - Very high damage, slow charge.
[7] Environmental Attack (90 RP) - Use surroundings in a fight.
[Back]
With 70 RP banked, he snagged [1] Strong Hook. His arms tingled as the move downloaded—a slower, meatier punch now in his arsenal.
Learned Strong Hook! RP: 70 - 30 = 40
Hanma kicked back, a quiet swagger taking root. “Every fight’s leveling me up,” he thought. “Yahim proved this school’s issues can be patched. Maybe I’m the hotfix it needs.”
For once, he wasn’t dreading tomorrow’s runtime. He was hype to see what bugs—or bullies—he’d squash next.
<hr>
The clock had long since ticked past midnight, and the streets of Seabrook lay shrouded in a damp, eerie silence.
The faint glow of streetlights flickered against the wet pavement, casting long, distorted shadows that danced with every gust of wind.
Yahim pedaled his bicycle through the empty roads, the soft whir of the wheels blending into the night’s stillness.
He’d just delivered his final parcel of the shift—a small, unremarkable package that belied the effort he’d put into maintaining his cover as a late-night courier.
To the casual observer, he was just another student scraping by, but Yahim’s strength and speed pushed the bicycle far beyond human limits, a subtle flex of abilities he kept carefully restrained.
Money was a necessity in this human society, a fact Yahim accepted with his usual analytical detachment.
Despite his origins—where survival didn’t hinge on currency—here, it was the key to blending in, to fund his mission.
The bicycle deliveries were efficient, unobtrusive, and kept suspicion at bay. As he coasted down a deserted street, the cool air tugging at his dark jacket, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number he knew by heart.
The call connected instantly. “Yahim,” came the voice, steady and composed. “How did the night go?”
“Efficiently,” Yahim replied, his tone flat, as if reporting data. “The deliveries are complete. How are things on your end?”
“Managing well,” the voice answered. “The food cart is steady. With the funds we’ve saved—your earnings and mine—we can expand soon. Perhaps a second location.”
Yahim’s mind ticked through the logistics. Expansion meant deeper integration, a stronger foothold in this world. “Good. That aligns with the plan.”
A brief pause, then: “When will you return to the house?”
Yahim’s pedaling slowed slightly. “House?”
“Yes,” the voice said, a hint of satisfaction threading through it. “I’ve secured a place for us. It’s modest, but it’ll serve.”
For a moment, Yahim felt an unfamiliar jolt—surprise, followed by a faint warmth he couldn’t quite categorize. A home? “That’s… unexpected. Good work. I’m on my way.”
He ended the call, slipping the phone back into his pocket.
The mysterious figure on the other end was his butler, Alfred, a loyal ally managing a small food cart business built from Yahim’s savings. While Yahim worked the streets, Alfred handled the details Yahim had little patience for—finances, permits, human interactions. It was a partnership of necessity, born from Yahim’s need to delegate and Alfred’s unwavering competence.
The streets grew narrower as Yahim pedaled toward the address Alfred had secured, the atmosphere thickening with a creeping unease. Dim lights buzzed overhead, and the air carried the faint scent of rot and rain. To most, it would’ve been unsettling, but Yahim was unfazed. Fear was a human construct he observed rather than felt. His hyper senses scanned the night, attuned to every rustle, every whisper of movement.
Then, a sound pierced his focus—a faint, desperate cry from an alley ahead. Yahim braked sharply, the bicycle skidding to a halt. His head tilted, ears honing in. “Please… don’t hurt her…” The voice was frail, breaking under strain.
Silently, Yahim dismounted and approached the alley. His eyes, sharp as a predator’s, took in the scene: an old man, ragged and trembling, knelt on the ground, clutching at a thug’s leg.
Nearby, two others pinned a young girl—perhaps fourteen, likely his granddaughter—to the pavement. Her wide eyes glistened with terror as the men loomed over her, their laughter harsh and guttural, like hyenas taunting prey.
One thug spat at the old man, sneering, “You’ve got nothing left, old timer. We’re taking what we want.”
The old man sobbed, his hands shaking. “She’s all I have… please…”
Yahim stood at the alley’s edge, observing with his usual clinical detachment. He’d seen suffering before—analyzed it, cataloged it—but this time, something shifted. A slow burn ignited in his chest, unfamiliar and raw. Rage.
It puzzled him. In his tribe, his society, such acts were unthinkable—dishonorable, inefficient, a violation of merit-based order. This wasn’t just wrong; it offended a deeper instinct he hadn’t known he possessed.
The thugs’ cackling grated against his senses, and Yahim decided.
In a blur too fast for human eyes to track, he was among them. One moment, he was a shadow at the alley’s mouth; the next, he stood between the attackers and their victims, a towering figure radiating quiet menace.
His hyper senses caught every detail—their ragged breaths, the clink of a knife, the tremor in their hands. They didn’t see him coming.
The thugs jolted, startled. “Who the hell are you?” one barked, flashing a knife.
Yahim’s blue eyes locked onto him, unblinking, intense enough to make the air feel heavy. “Let her go,” he said, voice low and even.
The thug laughed, stepping forward. “Or what, kid?”
“Yes,” Yahim replied simply.
Before the man could blink, Yahim struck. His hand shot out, seizing the thug’s wrist and twisting until the knife clattered to the ground. A pained yelp escaped the man.
Yahim started executing attack protocol with the speed of Chrome devouring RAM. The first thug''s defense algorithm was still buffering when Yahim''s fist executed a critical exception in the guy''s face architecture.
BOOM!
That wasn''t just a punch; it was a denial-of-service attack that factory-reset the man''s jawbone settings to "absolutely wrecked."
His teeth exploded from his mouth in a bloody spray.
The thug’s head whipped back, neck snapping audibly as he flew five feet into the alley wall, crumpling like a ragdoll.
The other thugs charged—one with a stick, the other with a knife—but Yahim flowed between them effortlessly.
The second thug swung a bat, but Yahim’s reflexes kicked in. He ducked under the swing, then launched an uppercut with devastating strength. The thug’s head rocked upward, teeth cracking and flying as his skull rattled. Blood poured from his ruined mouth as he staggered, only for Yahim to follow with a brutal haymaker to the temple. The man spun, collapsing in a heap, his face a pulpy mess.
The third thug charged, knife in hand. Yahim sidestepped with superhuman speed, grabbing the man’s wrist mid-strike. With a twist of his iron grip, he snapped the thug’s forearm—bones splintering like dry wood. The man screamed, dropping the blade, but Yahim wasn’t done. He yanked the thug forward, wrapping an arm around his leg, and slammed his knee down. The joint buckled with a wet crunch, the tibia and fibula breaking clean through. The thug collapsed, shrieking, clutching his mangled leg.
“Feel that?” Yahim’s tone was almost instructional. “That’s terror. Remember it.”
Yahim turned back to the second thug, now crawling away. He stomped down with precision, pinning the man’s hand to the ground. A sharp twist of his boot crushed the fingers, bones popping under the pressure. Then, seizing the thug’s ankle, Yahim wrenched it sideways—the snap of breaking tendons echoed as the leg twisted unnaturally. The man’s screams faded into choked sobs.
The first thug, somehow still conscious, staggered up and slashed at Yahim with a shard of glass. The jagged edge tore across Yahim’s chest, blood welling briefly. The thug’s eyes widened in triumph—until the wound sealed shut in seconds, Yahim’s regenerative abilities erased the damage. His skin was sturdy as brick, unyielding beneath the fleeting cut.
Yahim grabbed the thug by the throat, lifting him off the ground with one hand. The man clawed at Yahim’s arm, but it was like scratching steel. With a snarl, Yahim drove his fist into the thug’s ribs—once, twice, three times. Each strike cracked bone, the final blow caving in the ribcage with a sickening snap. The thug wheezed, blood bubbling from his lips as Yahim dropped him, broken and gasping.
The fight ended as swiftly as it began. Yahim stood over the wreckage of the thugs—limbs twisted, hands and legs shattered, toothless mouths drooling blood.
Yahim turned to the old man and girl, who stared at him, stunned, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and trepidation.
He knelt beside the fallen thugs, methodically looting their pockets—cash, wallets, and a gold chain. A small fortune emerged, and Yahim’s mind clicked through possibilities.
“This will expand the business,” he murmured, his tone calm and clinical. A bigger food cart operation could fund more, protect more.
He rose, facing the victims. “Are you hurt?” His voice softened, just slightly, though his towering presence cast a shadow over them.
The old man shook his head, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his face. His hands trembled as he spoke, his voice low and unsteady. “N-no… thank you. You saved us.” His gaze flickered nervously to the brutalized thugs, then back to Yahim, a hint of fear lurking beneath his gratitude.
The girl, still trembling, whispered, “Who… who are you?” Her voice quivered, and she took a small step back, her body tense as if caught between marveling at his strength and shrinking from its raw, terrifying power.
“Someone passing by,” Yahim said. He studied them—their tattered clothes, the hollow look of desperation. “Where do you stay?”
The old man’s gaze dropped. “Nowhere. We’ve been on the streets since the fire took everything.”
Yahim frowned. Homelessness was inefficient, a flaw in this society’s structure. “Come with me,” he said. “I have a place. You’ll stay there.”
The old man blinked, incredulous. “You’d… help us? Why?”
“It’s logical,” Yahim replied, tilting his head as if the question baffled him. “You need shelter. I have it.”
The girl hesitated. “We don’t want to trouble you…”
“You won’t,” Yahim said, decisive. He helped them up, his strength gentle now, protective.
As they left the alley, he glanced back at the thugs, still cowering. The lesson was delivered.
The house sat on a quiet street, a modest two-story building with chipped paint and an unkempt yard. Yahim hadn’t seen it yet, but it felt like progress—a base for his mission.
As they approached, the door swung open, revealing Alfred. Tall, impeccably dressed, his graying hair neatly combed, the butler exuded calm authority. His eyes widened briefly at the sight of the old man and girl trailing Yahim.
“Master Yahim,” Alfred said, voice smooth. “Guests?”
“They’ll stay with us,” Yahim replied. “Prepare rooms.”
Alfred’s surprise flickered, then vanished behind a gracious smile. “Of course, sir.” He turned to the pair, bowing slightly. “Welcome. I’m Alfred. Please, come in.”
The old man hesitated, overwhelmed. “We can’t repay you…”
“No need,” Alfred said warmly. “Master Yahim’s decision is mine to honor.”
Inside, the house was sparse but functional. Alfred led the old man and girl to the kitchen, setting out tea and leftover food cart meals—warm rice and spiced meat. The girl’s hands steadied as she ate, her fear easing. The old man smiled faintly, murmuring thanks.
Yahim watched from the doorway, arms crossed. The cash from the thugs weighed in his pocket—a jackpot to grow their operation. A second cart, maybe a small eatery. More resources to protect this fragile human world from threats they couldn’t fathom
.
Alfred joined him, voice low. “A good deed tonight, sir.”
“Necessary,” Yahim corrected. “They were vulnerable.”
Alfred’s eyes held a knowing glint. “More than that. You’re starting to care.”
Yahim’s brow furrowed. “Care?”
“For them,” Alfred said. “For the humans you’re here to shield.”
Yahim didn’t answer immediately. He watched the girl laugh softly at something Alfred said, the old man’s shoulders relaxing. The warmth in his chest returned, illogical yet persistent.
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “It’s… inefficient.”
Alfred chuckled. “Humanity often is, Master Yahim. But it’s a strength, not a flaw.”
Yahim turned away, stepping into the night to survey their new domain. He wasn’t human—not fully—but something was shifting.
His mission to protect, once a cold directive, was thawing into something more. And as the house glowed softly behind him, he wondered if that was part of his evolution too.