The Academy's gym smelled like rubber mats, teenage hormones, and way too much ambition.
I was in the corner, gripping a dumbbell that weighed exactly one metric eternity.
Fifteen pounds. Okay, maybe ten. Whatever...
My fingers trembled, not from pain, but from pure betrayal. I looked down at my hands—the same hands that used to type 70 words per minute under pressure while sipping cold 3-in-1 coffee and calming down an angry customer in Canada who thought their internet buffer was a "personal attack from the Philippine government."
'Come on, grip,' I muttered, veins popping in my forearm like they were trying to evacuate. 'Don't embarrass me in front of the children.'
The children, of course, were all around me. Laughing, training, flexing their slightly-pubescent muscles like they were auditioning for a cereal commercial. And then came them.
A group of three cocky kids sauntered over, all wearing matching gym shirts that said "COMBAT IS LIFE" in bold neon letters. I couldn't tell if they were training or forming a boy band.
"Hey sword guy," one of them said with a smirk, chewing gum like he was getting paid for it. "You sure you picked the right class? Or are you just chasing clout?"
The second one chimed in, fake sympathy smeared across his face. "Maybe he thought the sword would magically raise his stats."
"Maybe he thought this was TikTok[1]," said the third, the smallest one, who somehow had the most energy for a guy who looked like he got his powers from Red Bull and spite.
I didn't flinch. Just kept smiling, still gripping that dumbbell like I was trying to file a ticket in Zendesk with a broken mouse and 10 tabs open.
"You know," I said, voice calm like a guy who's dealt with five angry customers before lunch, "a lot of people thought I wasn't cut out for my old job either. But I once de-escalated a Karen who threatened to sue the company. Over a billing discrepancy."
They blinked.
"I've also handled a supervisor who once wrote me up because my font size was inconsistent in internal notes," I continued, grinning through the strain. "So this? This gym? These weights? Your sarcasm? Buddy, it's a spa day."
They don't understand any of it lol. That threw them off for a second, but not for long.
I sighed and looked them in the eyes of a grown man tired of their third-rate teenage bullying phase.
"freak?"
What? 'Freak'? That left me sighing. These are third-rate bullies.
They were about to get riled up when CLANG—a loud metallic thud echoed from behind them.
Jerry.
Standing there like a medieval gym bro, broadsword slung across his back like he was born with it.
"You bothering him, bro?" he asked, cracking his neck.
The three bullies turned pale. They weren't exactly scared of me—but Jerry? Jerry looked like a side quest you regret accepting.
"N-No," the smallest one stammered. "We were just… let's go."
"Ye--yeah," said another.
"Tch," Jerry took a slow step forward, raising one eyebrow. The three backed off like they'd seen their GPAs dropping in real-time.
As they retreated, Jerry turned to me with a grin.
"Bro, you good?"
I set down the dumbbell—well, dropped it.
"Define good."
He laughed. "Man, you gotta work on that grip."
"Yeah, well," I said, wiping sweat from my brow.
Jerry nodded solemnly.
"Respect."
I plopped down on the bench, letting my arms dangle like limp noodles.
The truth was, I was struggling. But not because I regretted the sword. No, the sword was right. The sword was challenge. The sword was growth.
And also, just maybe, it was revenge for all those shift leads who micromanaged my status color on Slack.
This gym? This was just another support ticket.
Slowly, awkwardly, I picked the dumbbell up again. My arms trembled. My back hurt. My dignity was currently being held together with sarcasm and muscle fatigue.
But I was still smiling.
Because for once, I am the client bish~ with no micromanaging supervisors.
Not today.
•••••
The next morning, the academy bell screamed like it had just been ghosted by its crush.
I, however, was dead to the world.
When I finally opened my eyes, the sun was practically knocking on my window like, 'Hey, there'.
Everything hurt.
Muscles I didn't know existed were now sending hate mail directly to my brain. My arms were stiff. My legs creaked. My back had betrayed me. Even my eyelids felt like they'd done squats.
I looked at the clock portrayed like a hologram, then screamed internally.
[Theoretical Studies 101: In session]
"Shi–!"
Frantically throwing on my uniform like a man putting on pants during a fire drill. I nearly tied my belt to my arms and my socks to my neck. My hair looked like I had lost a wrestling match with a raccoon.
By the time I sprinted into the classroom–panting, sweating, very possibly dying–I looked like a cautionary tale.
Everyone stared.
The professor, a narrow-eyed man with a permanent scowl and a coat too dramatic for his height, adjusted his glasses and gave me the look of a man who wanted to deduct attendance points with prejudice.
"Mr. Felix, I presume?"
I stood at the doorway, hands on my knees, wheezing like a fax machine.
"P-present," I gasped.
The professor didn't even blink. "How nice of you to join us. Were you out late saving the world?"
"No, sir." I croaked. "Just... picking a fight with gravity."
There were a few giggles around the room.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Take your seat, Hero."
As I shuffled to the back, Jerry shot me a grin from two rows over and gave me a thumbs up. I replied with a twitching eyebrow and barely functional nod. My glutes were still on fire. You're my roommate you stupid shi–
The screen in front flickered to life as the professor launched into a lecture on "Magical Theory and Combat Alignment." Words like "mana channels," "core efficiency," and "latent affinity thresholds" buzzed in the air.
I understood none of it.
Not because it was difficult–okay, it was–but mostly because I was mentally responding to customer complaints in my head again. That or hallucinating a ticket escalation flowchart on the whiteboard.
'Dear Sir/Madam, thank you for your patience. I'm currently fighting off muscle death in a lecture hall with zero lumbar support. Kindly hold.'
The lesson continued. My notes were scribbles. My posture was tragic. But my resolve?
Still solid.
Sword was the right choice.
Even if I couldn't raise my arms to scratch my nose.
Even if I had to suffer through a room full of magical prodigies while I looked like I'd wrestled a vending machine and lost.
Because deep down, I wasn't here just to pass theory exams.
I was here to swing that damn sword.
Even if I walk funny the next morning.
[1] This is a Social Media Platform, just not sure if I'm allowed to use the right one.