The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism novel Chapter 17

Chapter 17: 17 | A Week of Getting My Ass Kicked and All I Got Was This Lousy Stat Increase

I spent the next week getting my ass kicked so thoroughly I should’ve been hospitalized.

Day two after The Butt Incident™ started like this: Sloane knocked me down seventeen times in thirty minutes. I kept getting up. She kept putting me back down. By attempt eighteen, she was actually getting pissed.

"Why do you keep standing up?" She shoved me hard enough to send me stumbling back three steps.

"Because you keep knocking me down." I wiped blood from my split lip. "Seems pretty straightforward."

The morning sessions were brutal. Sloane wasn’t holding back anymore. Each punch came with extra spice, every takedown delivered with unnecessary force. But I noticed something – beneath her anger was genuine instruction. She wasn’t just beating me up; she was teaching me how to take a hit, how to fall properly, how to protect vulnerable areas.

I was learning. Slowly, painfully, but learning.

The evening sessions were different. Less rage, more technical. She’d walk me through forms, correct my stance, show me how to throw proper strikes. Sometimes her hands would linger on my arms or shoulders when adjusting my position, and the Oracle Feed would helpfully inform me that her heart rate had increased.

Between sessions, when Sloane was off with friends or at her own training, I’d sneak back to the gym to work with Spectral Reach.

The first time I tried extending all three arms at once, I nearly blacked out. It was like trying to control six limbs simultaneously. My brain couldn’t process the input.

"Start with one," I muttered to myself, dismissing two of the constructs.

I focused on extending a single spectral arm, watching the pale amber appendage stretch out from my palm. It looked like a ghostly limb – translucent but solid, responding to my thoughts rather than muscle movement.

I practiced grabbing things. A water bottle. A towel. The punching bag. Each object required different pressure, different control. Too much force and I’d crush the bottle or rip the towel. Too little and I’d drop everything.

By day four, I could reliably manipulate one spectral arm while moving around the gym. I set up an obstacle course of sorts – chairs, exercise balls, resistance bands – and practiced navigating while grabbing targets with the construct.

When my normal arms burned with fatigue, Boundless Stamina kicked in. The recovery wasn’t instant, but the difference was night and day. Within minutes, I’d feel ready to go again.

My status screen showed the results:

STR: 17 | AGI: 18 | DEX: 19

INT: 17 | END: 21

Not bad for a week of getting demolished twice daily.

What surprised me most was Sloane. After that first awkward day, she never mentioned The Butt Incident again. But something had changed between us. Little moments of eye contact that lasted too long. Her hand staying on my shoulder after correcting my form. The way she’d find reasons to be in whatever room I was in.

The Oracle Feed confirmed what I was seeing:

〘 Subject Temptation Gauge: 46%. Stage: Attached. Subject is actively creating proximity opportunities outside of established training schedule. 〙

I wasn’t innocent either. I’d started making her favorite foods without being asked. Found myself looking for her when I entered a room. Thinking about her when she wasn’t around.

It was session ten – exactly one week since I’d woken up in this body – when something shifted again.

"You’re telegraphing your strikes," Sloane said, easily dodging my punch. "I can see them coming from last Tuesday."

"Maybe I’m being considerate. Giving you time to prepare."

She snorted. "How thoughtful. Try again, but this time without the billboard announcement."

I threw another punch, trying to keep my shoulder from twitching before I moved. Sloane slipped to the side and countered with a palm strike to my sternum.

Except this time, I saw it coming.

I pivoted, letting her palm graze past me, and grabbed her extended wrist. Using her momentum against her, I pulled her forward and swept her leg.

For a beautiful, glorious half-second, I thought I was going to put Sloane Fitzgerald on the mat.

Then reality reasserted itself. She twisted in midair, broke my grip, and somehow turned my sweep against me. My back hit the mat with enough force to knock the wind out of me.

Sloane straddled my chest, pinning my arms with her knees. Her face hovered inches from mine, pink hair falling in a curtain around us.

"Nice try," she said, grinning. "Almost had me."

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