Chapter 11: Non-Human Novel
Zack walked to his seat like a prisoner heading toward the gallows.
No one said his name. But they didn't have to. The sideways glances. The smirks. The whispers just loud enough to reach his ears — it was all written on the walls like ancient graffiti that never faded.
"…if someone wrote a novel about that guy, it'd be filed under non-human fiction…"
"More like urban disaster."
"He probably sleeps in a trash bin. Look at that uniform…"
Zack didn't react.
He'd learned that silence was armor. Let them laugh. Let them run their mouths. At least it meant they weren't throwing fists.
He slid into the old seat in the back — the one no one else claimed. Desk chipped. Chair slightly wobbly. Just like always. From this angle, the rest of the classroom felt like another planet — one where everyone was sharper, cleaner, richer, allowed to belong.
Professor Halstrom didn't spare him another glance. He tapped twice on his holopad, and a digital projection bloomed in the air beside him — pale light etched in runes, diagrams, and flowing script. The title at the top of the glowing page read:
[Spiritual Cultivation Arts: The Foundational Path]
"Now that we're all present…" Halstrom began, tone laced with steel, "…we can finally discuss the backbone of any true warrior."
He stepped forward, folding his hands behind his back.
"Spiritual cultivation arts — they are the structure behind strength. The bones beneath the muscle. Without them, your body may gain Spirit Points… but it won't evolve correctly."
The projection shifted. Lines turned into silhouettes — human figures frozen mid-pose, their limbs marked with glowing patterns that looked like pathways of fire flowing through veins.
"When someone absorbs Spirit Points — from defeating spirit beasts, from rare resources, or through ancient treasures — their raw potential increases. But without discipline… without refinement…" His voice grew colder. "They burn themselves out. Mutate. Collapse under their own weight."
A quiet chill settled over the class.
Zack leaned forward slightly. Not enough to be noticed. Just enough to listen.
Professor Halstrom continued.
"That is where spiritual cultivation arts come in. Structured movements. Breathing techniques. Energy circulation paths. Passed down through bloodlines and noble legacies. The truly complete ones?" He paused, lips curling into something sharp. "Only the top families possess those."
A ripple of murmured envy echoed through the room.
The projection changed again. The glowing human forms now pulsed with light — each spark highlighting a motion, a strike, a stillness.
"But cultivation alone isn't everything," Halstrom said. "Some arts birth skills. Specific techniques. These are what we call spiritual skills."
He raised one finger, and a second diagram unfolded — this one simpler, narrower. A single glowing strike, condensed into a blur of movement.
"These spiritual skills are derived from the larger cultivation arts… but far less complete. They are fragments. Sparks, not flames. Effective, yes. Some even deadly. But they cannot replace a full foundation."
He turned toward the class, his eyes locking on no one and everyone all at once.
"You may learn spiritual skills. Some of you already have. But unless you've inherited a full cultivation art — unless your family name means something — you will always be a shadow of what you could've been."
Zack stared at the hologram, something cold curling in his stomach.
No family legacy. No inherited techniques. No noble name.
All he had were bruises, hunger… and a hacked system window that gave him daily quests like a fitness app with a god complex.
He blinked.
[Remaining Quests: 100 Pushups | 100 Situps]
[Reward: +1 Extra Mod Point]
He sighed, quiet and bitter.
'Right. Because nothing says elite martial legacy like a hundred damn situps.'
Lunch break arrived like a false promise.
The bell rang, chairs scraped, chatter erupted — and the students of Black Haven Private filed out with the ease of people who didn't have to think twice about food.
Zack stayed seated for a second longer than the rest. Just long enough to pretend he had something to do. A bag to rearrange. A shoe to adjust. Anything to delay walking into the open.
Eventually, he rose.
His stomach growled like a small trapped animal — desperate and ignored. It was the same sound it made every day around this time, and he'd long stopped finding it funny.
He hadn't eaten a single thing since morning.
Scratch that — since yesterday's dinner.
If half a pack of salted crackers and cold water counted as dinner.
Zack pulled his hoodie tighter over his uniform shirt. It barely hid the way his uniform sagged in some places and pinched in others — an awkward fit for an awkward body. The cheap fabric had faded from too many washes, and the second-hand shoes he wore had soles that flapped a little when he walked too fast.
And yet, somehow…
He was still fat.
Not heavy, not thick-built, not round — just plain old, frustratingly fat. The kind that didn't make sense when you skipped two meals a day and jogged three kilometers before class.
He scratched the back of his head, annoyed at his own reflection in the glass wall of the hallway.
"Maybe I'm built like a starving cow," he muttered under his breath. "Just standing around and magically producing body fat…"
He walked toward the courtyard, staying close to the edges, out of the flow of students. Most didn't notice him. The ones who did glanced quickly, then turned away. Conversations didn't pause when he passed — they simply bent around him, like water around a rock.
Zack Tennyson had no friends.
Not a single one.
Was it the way he looked? Probably. The other students treated appearance like currency. And Zack? He was bankrupt.
Was it his energy? His vibe? His awkward silences and slouched posture?
…Maybe.
But more than all of that, it was her.
Samantha McPherson.
The name alone had weight.
Top of her class, elite background, spiritual cultivation prodigy… and easily the most untouchable girl in the entire school. Smart. Gorgeous. Deadly talented. Practically made of gold dust and sword light.
Zack hadn't just crushed on her.
He'd been obliterated by his crush on her.
And like every dumb story in every tragic schoolyard tale, he'd tried to act on it. Tried to say something. Tried to be brave. One time.
One moment of misplaced courage — and she'd crushed him like a fly on the window of a high-rise.
That was the incident.
The one that sealed his fate.
He didn't even blame her anymore. Not really. People like Samantha were built to soar. People like him? Just extra gravity for everyone else.
Still.
It hurt.
Especially because the rest of the school hadn't forgotten. And they sure as hell didn't let him forget, either.
He sat down on a shaded bench, far from the main tables. There were no spirit beasts here, no life-threatening encounters, no mod orbs glowing in the darkness — but this place had its own brand of survival. A slower, quieter one. The kind that starved you little by little.
Zack reached into his pocket and pulled out a single, slightly crumpled energy bar. He stared at it like it was a relic from an extinct civilization.
"…Bon appétit," he muttered, unwrapping it.
Halfway through the bite, a familiar chime echoed in his head.
[Remaining Quests: 100 Pushups | 100 Situps]
[Reward: +1 Extra Mod Point]
Zack narrowed his eyes.
"You know what," he muttered to no one. "Maybe that mod hack is a sadistic fitness app after all."
He stared at the half-eaten bar.
Then down at his stomach.
Then up at the sky.
"…I swear, if I ever meet the system developer in person… I'm throwing hands."