Chapitre 2: Healthy Body Healthy Mind
When Dick made sure Clara and the others left, probably off to another shopping spree that would carve a deeper hole in his father's wallet, he slipped out of his room. He moved through the mansion like a ghost, careful to avoid the servants. Even they didn't bother hiding their disdain for him—side glances, whispered jokes behind his back. He felt their loathing seep through the walls. But right now, they were the least of his problems.
Dick entered the training room, a cavernous space lined with mirrors and top-tier equipment. His father, Sirius, had spared no expense, making sure this room was stocked with the latest machines and tools for peak physical fitness. Not for him, of course. This place wasn't for Dick. It was for his sisters, for their boyfriends, and for Sirius himself—anyone but the overweight, acne-scarred son who could barely climb a flight of stairs without wheezing.
Dick's eyes flicked to the row of barbells. He tried to picture himself lifting them, but his arms already ached from just looking. He snorted bitterly. It wasn't like his father had ever cared whether he stepped foot in here. In fact, Sirius would probably laugh if he saw Dick try. "Fat fuck can't even run a mile," his dad had once muttered under his breath, not bothering to hide his disappointment. Sirius didn't speak to him unless it was to deliver another reminder of his failures.
The old man had made it clear time and time again: "You're a disgrace, Dick. Look at your sisters. Look at their boyfriends. That's what real success looks like. You? You're just a burden."
Even now, the words echoed in his mind, fueling the anger simmering beneath his skin. Dick clenched his fists, feeling his nails bite into his palms.
The task list scrolled up in front of him, urging him on:
["Task 1: Complete a workout."
"Task 2: Implement basic hygiene and grooming habits to boost Charm."
"Task 3: Research topics to boost Intelligence."]
It sounded so simple on paper. But reality was a bitch. His body was weak, pathetic. He could barely make it through a session of cardio without feeling like he was dying. He stared at the barbell again, his breath shallow.
Then a new quest popped up:
[Side Quest: 'Endurance Boost.' Objective: Run for 15 minutes without stopping. Reward: +1 Endurance Points.]
Dick's lip curled into a half-smirk. It was laughable. Fifteen minutes might as well have been a marathon. But what choice did he have?
He stepped onto the treadmill, his fingers hovering over the start button. "Fuck it," he muttered, pressing it before he could talk himself out of it.
The belt began to move under his feet, slowly at first, then faster. His legs felt heavy, like someone had filled them with concrete, but he kept moving. Sweat trickled down his back, his breath coming out in short, painful bursts. Each step was a reminder of his failure—of how weak he was, how far he had to go.
But the system didn't care about his pain. It only cared about progress.
"14 minutes remaining," the voice droned on.
He cursed under his breath. "Fuck, all that was just a minute?" Dick glanced at the timer on the treadmill—fourteen minutes left. Every step felt like a thousand pounds. His calves already burned, and his breath came in ragged bursts, sweat soaking his shirt in blotches. His overweight body pulled him down, each stride more painful than the last.
"Come on, Dick... keep it together," he muttered through gritted teeth. His vision blurred as the sweat dripped into his eyes, his legs wobbling under him. His lungs were on fire, his chest heaving like it was about to explode.
12 minutes remaining...
Every second stretched into eternity. He wanted to quit, to collapse right there and let the treadmill swallow him whole. But the screen flashed in his mind again, urging him forward. Dominance. Control. This was about breaking the chains they'd wrapped around him his whole life.
The next two minutes were pure agony. He clutched the treadmill's handles, gasping for air, legs trembling. He could already hear Clara's voice in his head. "What are you doing, slacking off already? You're not even half the man your father is."
He gritted his teeth. Fuck them. Fuck them all. If he was going to change, it started here, right now, even if it killed him.
8 minutes left...
The countdown was mocking him, the treadmill whirring under his feet like a predator toying with its prey. But there was no turning back now. Not after the system had finally given him an out. He couldn't let that slip through his fingers.
6 minutes...
His knees buckled, almost giving out, but he forced himself back upright. Sweat poured down his face, soaking his shirt, turning it into a second skin. His breaths came in sharp, ragged bursts, each one a battle. He wasn't just running against his body anymore; he was fighting against years of abuse, years of being the punching bag.
He stumbled, catching himself on the treadmill's railing. His vision swam, dark spots dancing in front of him. His legs ached like they were being stabbed with each step.
2 minutes left...
His breath came out in desperate gasps now. It felt like his chest was going to cave in, his lungs burning for air.
1 minute...
His legs felt like jelly, threatening to give out, but he forced them to keep moving, one foot in front of the other. This isn't for them. It's for me. He wasn't just running for the stat boost. This was the first time in his life he had something more than just a fleeting escape through games.
The treadmill beeped, the timer hitting zero. He collapsed, gasping, barely catching himself on the railing before he hit the ground. His chest heaved, the sweat dripping off his body in waves. Every muscle screamed in pain, but through the exhaustion, a tiny flicker of satisfaction burned. He'd done it.
[Quest complete. +1 Endurance.]
The screen flickered in his mind, the reward registering. It wasn't much, but it was something. For the first time in his life, he'd earned a win.
He dragged himself off the treadmill, collapsing onto the cool floor, his body shaking from the effort. A sharp pain radiated through his legs, but it was worth it. He had started something. 'I'm going to change this time. I have to.'
Dick smirked, pushing himself to his feet, his body protesting every movement, so he just lay on the ground, his chest heaving as he gulped down deep, shaky breaths. The room spun. He laughed. It came out rough, raspy—like something broken finally snapping free.
"I'm more durable now," he muttered, the words barely audible over the pounding of his heart. The system hadn't lied. The pain coursing through his legs was real, but so was the strength building beneath the fatigue.
But then his thoughts cut in, bitter as ever. "Where's my GP?" The system had rewarded him the endurance boost, sure, but those five points? Nothing. "Running like a pig doesn't count as a workout? Pissing yourself doesn't count either?" He shook his head, trying to chase the thought away, but it lingered, like every insult Clara or Jessica had thrown at him since he'd been stuck in this goddamn house.
He forced himself to sit up then to stand up. He walked over to the dumbbells, the lightest pair his pudgy fingers could find. He grunted as he picked them up, the weight already making his arms tremble. "How do you even use these things?" he muttered, trying to remember what little he'd seen in anime workout montages. Not like he'd ever bothered to pay attention to the gym scenes before.
He held them out awkwardly, his sagging belly brushing against the bench as he tried to balance. His eyes narrowed, replaying the humiliation from earlier, Clara's voice slicing through his mind. Jessica's laughter still rang in his ears. That smug witch would pay. So would Melissa and her twisted head games. Emily? Even her cold indifference stung worse than any slap. Every step-sister had something coming their way.
But first, the guys. Dick's lip curled at the thought of them—Jessica's jock of a boyfriend, Ryan, always shirtless, showing off his sculpted abs. He was everything Dick wasn't: tall, ripped, and perfect. Melissa's boyfriend, or lapdog, Daniel, wasn't much better—a law student with a smug, intellectual vibe. His words cut like knives, subtle but sharp. And then there was Emily's boy-toy, Kyle, the cocky high school athlete who dated Emily for her looks. Dick's grip tightened on the dumbbells as he imagined outsmarting them all, stealing everything they held dear.
"Fuck them," he growled through gritted teeth, pushing the dumbbells up. His arms screamed in protest, but he ignored it. The system wanted him to grind, so grind he would.
Dick let the weights crash onto the floor with a loud clang after a few minutes. His arms burned, muscles twitching under the strain as he sucked in deep, ragged breaths. That makeshift workout was brutal, but it was something—more than he'd done in years.
The word "enemy" stuck, thinking about the main quest. What did it mean? Who? He felt his teeth grind as he mulled it over. His mind cycled through the obvious candidates. Clara, his stepmother. That cold bitch ran the house like a twisted kingdom, always keeping him under her perfectly manicured thumb. Or maybe Jessica, his older step-sister, with her razor-sharp tongue and mocking laughs.
But what if "enemy" didn't mean them? His own father came to mind. Sirius Graves, the wealthy workaholic who never gave a shit about him. Dick smirked, pushing the thought aside. His step-sisters' boyfriends made perfect targets, too. Ryan, Daniel and Kyle.
A chuckle escaped his lips, the taste of vengeance sweet in his mouth. These assholes were all riding high, completely blind to how things could change. They wouldn't even see it coming.
And then there were the staff. The servants who worked in the mansion—there was something delicious about the thought of taking them down, too. Oliver, the driver, and his wife Rachel, who worked as a maid. Dick thought of Jonas, the head butler who prided himself on kissing Sirius's ass, and Jonas' girlfriend, Stacey, another maid who Sirius occasionally fucked.
Maybe his first target could be more subtle, more under the radar. There was Marc, the chef, whose loud, booming voice made sure no one forgot who ruled the kitchen. Marc's wife, Serena, managed the finances of the estate. They were older, but even Marc had the habit of looking at Dick with thinly veiled contempt.
And then, there was Mr. Fisk, the gardener—another older man who hardly spoke, except to throw a grunt Dick's way whenever he asked for help. But Fisk's daughter, Lana—now that was a different story. She was around Dick's age, staying at the mansion while she went to university in the city. Quiet, soft-spoken, and always reading a book in the garden, she ignored him like the rest, but her dismissive glances stung all the same.
His mind raced with possibilities. Clara had to be the main conquest, of course—there was no way around that. His father's trophy wife.
He could already see it playing out: her ice-cold exterior cracking as he slowly chipped away at her self-control. David Trent, the smug real estate mogul she was fucking on the side, wouldn't know what hit him once Dick started pulling Clara's strings. Trent strutted around in his expensive suits like he owned the world, but once Clara was under Dick's thumb? Trent would be just another casualty.
But the system— Dick's thoughts flicked back to the "enemy" directive. It wasn't just about tearing Clara down. The system wanted dominance, wanted humiliation. And the best way to humiliate someone like Clara was to turn her affair into his own victory.
Dick stepped out of the room, his legs still shaky from the rush of adrenaline after his first "workout." His body felt sore, drenched in sweat, but that didn't matter.
The house felt empty, silent except for the distant hum of the air conditioning. Good. He needed some space. With Sirius away for business, Clara and the girls would be out doing what they did best—burning through more money than most people made in a year.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone