Starting to Gain Experience from Push-Ups Chapter 1 Side Flash Straight Punch
Whoosh!
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!
Fists slicing the air, feet rubbing against the rubbery surface.
Beneath the glaring spotlight.
A slim silhouette occupies the middle of the boxing ring, repeatedly performing lateral dodges and swinging strikes.
Straight jab, quick jab, hook strike, swinging blow.
Eyes locked in concentration, every punch and step executed with precision.
Even if a touch rigid, an undeniable sincerity shines through.
Each cycle brings tiny refinements, gradually enhancing his form.
Until fluidity and harmony take hold...
"Fang Cheng, get over here and help shift the mats!"
An abrupt shout breaks his absorbed training.
"On my way."
Fang Cheng halts, steadying his breathing for a bit.
Next, he grabs the nearby mop and bucket, descending from the newly wiped boxing ring.
"You seem really into boxing; why not try being a sparring partner? Pays way better."
"Nah, if his looks get ruined, we'd lose a ton of female members at the club..."
Amid the teasing from coworkers, Fang Cheng stays quiet.
Wordlessly, he lifts two foam mats and moves toward the storage area.
Hustling for thirty minutes.
Beyond the glass, the nighttime city glows faintly.
"Work's done at last!"
"How about grabbing a beer?"
"No can do, gotta pick up my girl..."
As chatter and punch-outs fade, the vast space quiets down.
Fang Cheng glances at the clock on the wall.
21:35.
Plenty of time left; perfect for a complimentary warm rinse.
In the staff shower zone, water soon rushes from the taps.
After ten minutes.
Dressed in fresh shorts, Fang Cheng treads on the tiled floor, emerging from the bathing section.
Bright bulbs illuminate the sinks, and the mirror shows his reflection.
Slim shoulders, a bit angular, skin fair and lacking tan.
Yet his features stand out sharper from this; high nose, slim mouth, giving off a delicate vibe.
Right now, wet strands of hair stick messily to his brow, veiling part of his gaze.
Viewed from any side, he fits the mold of a charming youth girls might swoon over.
"Being handsome doesn't help much when decent jobs stay out of reach..."
Fang Cheng offers a bitter grin, then swiftly towels his hair dry.
He rushes to don his jacket, gathers his belongings, slings his shoulder bag, and exits.
In the hazy darkness, neon lights pulse.
Proclaiming "Global Elite Fighting Club" in large font.
Barely outside the entrance, a chilly gust strikes, like tiny pins pricking his flesh.
Streetgoers hurry along, bundled tightly.
Fang Cheng flips up his jacket collar, pockets his hands.
Bag across his back, he quickens pace to the close bus halt.
Fingers crossed for the final ride.
Forecasts warned of winter's initial freeze sweeping East City on November 20th.
In this bitter chill, trekking home would mean illness by morning.
At the stop's cover, a handful of folks huddle, huffing warmth and shuffling feet.
A girl in short skirt and warm stockings sways to tunes from her pocket device, buds in ears.
Fang Cheng edges to a spot and waits in line.
Motionless and quiet, his azure canvas satchel buzzes with a chime.
"Mom..."
"I've had dinner, was tied up with extra hours."
Fang Cheng fishes out his mobile from the bag, chatting with his mom, a hospital caregiver.
"Did you send the funds?"
"All good, I landed an internship at a major firm, money's no issue—focus on grandpa's health."
"Yeah, yeah... Got it, look after yourself too, weather's turning frosty..."
Barely thirty seconds in, under her caring nags, Fang Cheng softly ends the call.
Lifting his view, he notices stares from the others landing on him.
Fang Cheng subtly shakes his head, tucking the costly gadget securely away.
Maybe to them, he passes as someone well-off?
This model's the latest from Noah Corp, released last year.
Slimmer than those old bulky ones, handles SMS, and costs less too.
He pinched pennies for two months' wages to snag a used one from sellers.
The outlay was purely to ease his job search.
These days, it mostly acts as a facade of success, with bills straining his wallet.
Such thoughts dim Fang Cheng's gaze.
Armed with a top-tier law degree, yet hampered by weak oratory and certain tricky factors.
A year and a half post-graduation, no ideal position yet.
Unwilling to lounge at home, he took gigs on the side, buckled down studying for grad school entry.
Recalling peers from wealthy homes.
Pre-diploma, parents slotted them into gov tests or prime company trials and top legal outfits.
Fang Cheng feels no jealousy.
For a low-born striver accustomed to self-reliance, tests offer the level field.
No battles over ties, assets, or flashy resumes.
Still, a twinge of reluctance stirs...
Tilting upward at the narrow sky peeking past soaring towers.
Fang Cheng narrows his eyes, a spark in his stare.
This realm, unlike his former, feels oddly off.
Both flaunt advanced society, thriving urban hubs.
Though tech advances lopsidedly, wealth gaps yawn wide, tensions simmer hot.
In the Great Xia Republic now, elite clans grip key paths, hoarding vital shares.
Layers of society harden to the point of universal gripes yet utter powerlessness.
Everyday fighters banking on grit to rise face steep odds...
"Burp~"
A disheveled man in his forties, face flushed from booze, sidles up unseen and plants himself next.
The stench of liquor and grime hits hard.
Fang Cheng peeks over, shifts away a bit.
Fellow waiters mirror the dodge.
But the inebriate, unaware, keeps swigging from his brew tin.
Idly, he mutters then turns to tease the close woman.
His speech crude and offensive.
He even yanks at the girl's hem, sending her bolting scared.
Shameless, the drunk roars with laughter, flings the drained can curbside.
Witnessing, Fang Cheng merely creases his brow, saying nothing.
Long exposed to life's grit, his outlook matches the cool pragmatism of bystanders.
Lately, with economy slumping, fringes expand, security wanes.
A fresh gang brawl even hit headlines.
"Like this rotten climate..."
Fang Cheng puffs foggy air, eyeing a crew of strangely clad teens opposite, lost in thought.
"Oi, kid, what's that about?!"
A sharp yell shatters his musing.
The boozer jabs at a close bin.
A scrawny child clings to a stuffed, worn pouch.
Her soiled cheeks show fear and bewilderment.
"Hands off my stuff?"
The drunk demands once more.
She catches on, eyes the fresh-scavenged can, whispers shyly,
"Figured you tossed it..."
"Tossed? That's what your folks teach—snatch without permission?"
"Um... Here, take it back..."
She ducks her head, extends her chilled, chapped fingers with the penny can.
The drunk smacks it from her hold.
"Your grubby paws ruined it—can't sip now. Nasty, rude pest..."
Bus waiters furrow brows, biting tongues.
Grumbling more, the drunk stirs old grudges, rage building.
"Blast it, that witch scorns me, strays, and now you tiny thing mocks me too!"
He yanks the bag away.
"Stop, please!"
The child clutches her scavenged trove fiercely.
Too weak, she hugs it close, dropping to knees.
Fang Cheng's scowl tightens, nearly knotting.
He draws a deep breath, pivots.
"Mister, that's plenty."
"Huh? Me?"
The drunk pauses, releases, faces him with a glower.
Fang Cheng reins in anger, aims for even tones:
"Everyone's struggling—cut each other some slack."
Yet the plea fans the drunk's fire instead.
"You punk, who're you to preach? Cop? Loaded? Drop the high horse!"
Spittle flies with his shove at Fang Cheng.
Fang Cheng reels back, shoves in return.
In the tussle, the sot erupts in wild fury.
"Soft lad fights back—I'll end you!"
Using his heft, he hurls a fist.
Fang Cheng's pulse races, eyes widen.
Ring boxing flashes in thought.
On reflex, he drops stance, rotates torso, unleashes back-hand strike.
Bang!
A dodging straight hit slips by the wild arm, thuds firm on the snout.
"Ah—"
The drunk yelps, clutches face, dazed.
Ears ring, flavors of sweet, tangy, sharp, bitter flood mouth.
Crimson rivulets trickle from nose.
He probes the red, stares.
Fury and shame boil, he curses vilely, charges anew.
Bang!
Identical blow, same target.
The drunk totters, plops on rear, clarity cutting through haze.
He hacks bloody spittle, a tooth perhaps loose.
Utterly shocked a delicate sort bested him.
Frozen, advance or flee undecided.
Fang Cheng halts, shakes head with a sigh,
"Mister, chill's deepening—go home."
Then, faint police wails echo afar.
The man startles, bolts up, flees.
Vanishes quick.
Onlookers and walkers gawk, murmur in awe.
Fang Cheng regains poise, retrieves dropped bag, dusts it quietly, rehanges it.
He regards the girl's tearful yet smiling visage.
No gain or thanks, yet a novel feeling wells up.
Heat blooms in his core, akin to a flame kindled in icy eve.
It thaws him, lights the frosty gloom.
Fang Cheng's gaze shifts.
Text like a system notice pops up.
[You bested a rival of equal level, boxing proficiency +20]