Bully Lord

Part-11

A wave of exhaustion washed over James. His hand, a dull throb radiating from every overworked muscle, felt like it belonged to someone else. But a triumphant grin stretched across his face. He had done it. Gritting his teeth through fatigue and discomfort, he had squeezed the stress ball a thousand times. 

The holographic screen pulsed in acknowledgment, and a message materialized in its familiar blue glow: "Congratulations! Mission Complete."  A surge of satisfaction washed over him. He had taken a step, however small, towards becoming stronger.

The screen then flickered, revealing a new window titled: "[Thunderclap Slap(F) EXP (0/100)]."  This was the reward, the mysterious skill he had been working towards.  "Thunderclap Slap" sounded impressive, but the "F" after it likely indicated a beginner's level. The "EXP (0/100)" suggested there was room for improvement, a way to level up this skill.

Intrigue battled with exhaustion in James' mind. What exactly was "Thunderclap Slap"?  How did it work?  A million questions swirled in his head, but his eyelids felt heavy, his body yearning for rest.  He decided to save his exploration for later.  With a final squeeze of the now-limp stress ball (more out of habit than necessity), James tossed it onto his desk and collapsed onto his bed, the holographic screen fading as he drifted off to sleep.

The scent of bacon and eggs wafted through the air, a familiar and comforting aroma that usually coaxed James downstairs with a rumbling stomach. This morning, however, his steps were slow and hesitant. His hand, though still throbbing faintly, felt a world better after a night's rest. He approached the breakfast table, where his mother sat, a worried crease etched between her brows as she sipped her coffee. Her usually vibrant eyes were clouded with concern, and a stray strand of hair had escaped her braid, a sign of her earlier distress.

"James, honey," she said, her voice laced with concern, "you looked awful yesterday. Are you feeling better?" 

James forced a smile, the memory of the alleyway attack churning in his stomach. "Just a little under the weather, Mom," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

His mother didn't seem entirely convinced. Her eyes scanned him from head to toe, searching for any hidden injuries or signs of illness beyond the paleness that seemed to have settled permanently on his face. He knew she wouldn't pry – James had always been a good kid, more interested in getting lost in the fantastical worlds of his books than the brutal realities of the schoolyard. He wasn't the type to skip class or hang out with rowdy troublemakers. Getting into fights, especially one that left him so visibly shaken, felt like such a cruel anomaly in his otherwise predictable life. It was a jarring departure from the gentle, polite boy she knew and raised, a son who wouldn't dream of disrespecting a teacher or talking back to an adult. The sudden shift in his demeanor, the guarded look in his eyes, gnawed at her. Yet, she also knew that pushing him wouldn't elicit the truth. James had always been fiercely independent, bottling up his emotions rather than seeking comfort. Perhaps, she thought, with a pang of helplessness, this was just a phase, a surge of teenage angst that would pass with time. But the worry lingered, a knot of unease tightening in her gut.

"Well, don't hesitate to tell me if you need anything at all, alright?" his mother said, her tone softening. She placed a plate piled high with scrambled eggs and toast in front of him. "Eat up, you look like you could use some fuel."

James nodded, grateful for his mother's concern. He forced himself to take a bite, the food tasting bland and unappetizing. His mind was preoccupied with the events of the previous night – the mysterious system, the brutal beating, and the strange new skill called "Thunderclap Slap."