My Boxing System: The Undisputed Champion

Here's an expanded Chapter 2, building on the previous continuation and increasing

The heavy thud of gloves striking bags filled the gym, a rhythmic symphony of effort and determination. Troy stood awkwardly in the middle of the bustling space, clutching the hand wraps Marcus had handed him. His eyes darted nervously around, observing the fighters around him. They moved with a sense of purpose—punching, weaving, and shadowboxing with fluid precision. To Troy, they looked invincible. He felt painfully out of place, like a sheep that had wandered into a den of wolves.

"Wrap your hands, kid," Marcus barked, snapping Troy out of his daze.

Troy fumbled with the wraps, unsure how to use them. He tried winding them around his fingers, but the material slipped and bunched awkwardly. Marcus, watching from a distance, sighed and walked over.

"Here, let me show you," Marcus grumbled, kneeling in front of him.

Troy flinched at first but then relaxed as Marcus grabbed his hands. The older man's rough, calloused fingers worked quickly, wrapping Troy's hands with practiced ease. "The wraps are your first line of defense," Marcus explained. "They protect your knuckles and keep your wrists stable. Without them, you're asking for a broken hand or worse."

Troy nodded, a flicker of gratitude surfacing amidst his nerves. "Thanks."

Marcus stood and jerked his head toward a worn, sweat-stained punching bag in the corner. "Now, let's see what you're made of. Start with the basics. Jab and cross. Keep it simple."

Troy hesitated before walking to the bag. He raised his fists clumsily, mimicking what he'd seen others do. His first punch landed with a weak slap, barely moving the bag.

Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose. "Kid, that was terrible."

Troy's face burned with embarrassment. "I've never done this before," he muttered.

"That much is obvious," Marcus replied dryly. "Alright, listen up. Boxing is more than just swinging your fists like a wild man. It's about balance, technique, and timing."

He stepped behind Troy, adjusting his stance. "Spread your feet shoulder-width apart. Bend your knees a little. Keep your weight balanced—neither too far forward nor too far back. And always keep your hands up. Elbows in. Protect your chin."

Troy followed Marcus's instructions, his posture feeling awkward but slightly more stable.

"Good. Now, throw a jab," Marcus ordered.

Troy snapped his left hand out, the motion stiff and hesitant.

"Faster," Marcus said.

Troy tried again, this time with more speed. His fist connected with the bag, making it tremble slightly.

"Not bad," Marcus admitted. "Now add a cross. That's your right hand. When you throw it, pivot on your back foot and twist your hips. Your power doesn't come from your arm—it comes from your whole body."

Troy nodded and gave it a shot. His first attempt was weak, but with a few corrections from Marcus, his second punch sent a satisfying ripple through the bag.

"There you go," Marcus said with a hint of approval. "Now put it together. Jab, cross. Jab, cross. Build a rhythm."

Troy started slowly, his movements clumsy and robotic at first. But as he continued, he began to find a rhythm. Each punch felt slightly more natural than the last. Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes, but he didn't stop. For the first time, he felt like he was doing something—fighting back, in his own way.

---

After what felt like hours, Marcus called out, "Alright, that's enough for today."

Troy dropped his hands, panting heavily. His arms felt like lead, his muscles burning from the unfamiliar effort.

"You've got a long way to go, kid," Marcus said, crossing his arms. "But you've got guts. Keep showing up, and you might actually learn something."

Troy managed a weak smile. "Thanks."

"Be here tomorrow at six sharp," Marcus said. "And don't be late."

As Troy stepped out of the gym, the cool evening air hit his face like a blessing. His body ached in ways he didn't think possible, but there was a strange satisfaction in the pain. The System's voice chimed in his mind, startling him:

"Task complete: Begin basic training. Reward unlocked: +1 Strength, +1 Endurance."

He stopped in his tracks, blinking in confusion. "Strength? Endurance?" he whispered. He didn't feel stronger—at least, not physically—but there was a subtle change in him. A spark of energy, a sense of lightness that hadn't been there before.

---

The walk home was quiet. Troy passed familiar streets, the neon lights of the corner store reflecting off puddles from an earlier rain. He paused for a moment to look at his reflection in the window. The oversized hoodie still hung loosely off his frail frame, but something in his expression had shifted. Determination burned in his eyes—a faint ember that refused to die out.

By the time he reached his apartment, exhaustion had set in. He collapsed onto the couch, his body aching as he stared at the cracked ceiling. His mind drifted to school.

He hadn't been to class in days. Skipping had become a habit—a way to avoid the daily torment from Trayvon and his goons. But now, he had a new excuse. Boxing. It felt like a lifeline, something he could finally call his own.

---

The next morning, Troy stood at the edge of the schoolyard, debating whether to go in. The familiar sight of students milling around only filled him with dread. He hadn't turned in any assignments, and he knew the teachers were starting to notice.

"Troy!" a voice called out.

He turned to see Jay Carter jogging up to him, his backpack slung over one shoulder.

"You've been MIA, man. Where have you been?" Jay asked, eyeing Troy with concern.

"I've... just been busy," Troy said, avoiding his friend's gaze.

Jay frowned. "Come on, man. You can tell me what's going on."

Troy hesitated, then shook his head. "Not here. I'll tell you later."

Jay sighed but didn't push. "Alright. Just... don't do anything stupid, okay?"

Troy nodded and walked into the building, bracing himself for another day.

---

Math class dragged on, the teacher's voice a dull drone in the background. Troy stared out the window, his thoughts drifting to the gym. He could still feel the ache in his muscles from yesterday's training.

A crumpled piece of paper landed on his desk. He turned to see Trayvon smirking a few rows back, his crew snickering around him. Troy's heart sank.

"Hey, twig boy," Trayvon whispered loudly. "Heard you've been skipping. What, too scared to show your ugly face?"

The laughter that followed was like a knife twisting in Troy's gut. He clenched his fists under the desk, his nails digging into his palms.

One day, he thought. One day, I'll make them regret every word.

---

That evening, Troy returned to the gym, determination burning in his chest. Marcus greeted him with a grunt, nodding toward the ring.

"Today, you're gonna work on footwork. Get in there."

Troy obeyed, stepping into the ring. Marcus began demonstrating how to move—light on his feet, always balanced, always ready.

"Boxing starts from the ground up," Marcus said. "You can have the best punch in the world, but if your footwork sucks, you're dead in the water."

Troy mimicked Marcus's movements, stumbling at first but gradually finding his rhythm. Sweat poured down his face as he shuffled back and forth, his legs burning from the effort.

The System chimed again:

"Progress: Footwork training 15% complete."

Troy grinned through the exhaustion. For the first time, he felt like he was making progress—not just in the gym, but in his life.

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