Absolutely! Here's a polished and immersive Chapter Three for your story, keeping the tone consistent with previous chapters:
Chapter Three: Luck Be a Fighter Tonight
Day two in this borrowed body—and I was starting to really settle into it.
The muscle memory was definitely still there. I woke up before dawn without an alarm, made myself a simple breakfast, and went out for a jog like it was second nature. By the time I got back, sweat-soaked and energized, I felt like this life was becoming… mine.
As I cooled down, my mind drifted toward the side mission:
Befriend or bribe someone with authority to help win the match.
That basically meant cheating.
Not through performance-enhancing drugs or anything like that—no, this was something else. Manipulating the system, finding leverage, exploiting relationships.
So I turned to the internet for answers.
Nothing.
Just event dates, ticket prices, and useless promotional fluff. No staff lists, no referees, no backstage peeks. They were either very secure, or very boring.
After lunch, I headed to the Absolute Martial Training Center—today was a martial arts training day. I arrived early and practiced the Extremely Basic Body Strengthening Manual as usual.
About fifteen minutes later, the other students gathered and formed into a disciplined grid formation. The martial arts training itself wasn't new to Garen; he had already learned nearly all the techniques. No wonder this body had been chosen for the tournament.
Still, I had to work through some dissonance. The muscle memory was there, but I had to match it with my understanding. It felt like taking the wheel of a race car when you'd only driven an old sedan. Familiar, but not quite yours yet.
We moved through forms, strikes, and defensive stances. As I repeated each motion, my execution improved—not because of talent, but because the body remembered.
Then came sparring.
I was excited. This was the true test.
Instead, I got paired with a skinny new guy who looked like he had wandered in by mistake. I exchanged a single blow and dropped him with raw strength. Sparring was over. No challenge. No test. Just another checkbox ticked.
After the session, I stayed back in the gym, training until I couldn't lift my arms. Then I went home and collapsed onto the bed.
The Next Day
I was getting used to the rhythm.
Run. Train. Manual. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
On my morning jog, I stopped at a vending machine to grab a candy bar. The machine malfunctioned—and dropped everything from the slot.
Dozens of candy bars tumbled down.
I grabbed as many as I could carry and took off grinning like a bandit.
That's when it hit me.
My luck stat.
Was this just a funny accident, or the result of the 14.5 Luck I had invested in?
Back home, I sat and thought.
How could Luck really help in a martial arts tournament? Lucky hits? Weak opponents? Maybe even... rigged outcomes?
I wasn't sure yet, but I decided to start pushing the boundaries.
That night, instead of lazing around, I searched the web for casinos, gambling dens, and betting venues nearby. I wanted to test the waters.
I picked a small gambling house. Played a round of Lucky 7.
For those unfamiliar: you bet on whether the next number is before seven, exactly seven, or after.
I walked in with 30 bucks. Walked out with 2,000.
No fancy tricks. Just pure gut feeling and outrageous luck.
As I walked home, I couldn't help but hum that GTA mission complete tune.
"Respect +."
The Next Day
Another martial arts day. Another round of sparring.
Again, I got a weak opponent—one who practically tripped over his own feet.
At first, I was annoyed. I wanted a challenge. But then it clicked.
This was the Luck stat again.
Even when I wanted a challenge, the system gave me the easiest path. Luck was protecting me… even if it wasn't what I wanted.
That night, I decided to go bigger.
I visited a larger casino. A real one. Bright lights, fancy tables, polished marble floors.
I bet modestly at first. Then I started winning. And winning.
By the end of the night, I had walked away with 20,000.
Jackpot.
I was practically floating when I left—until I noticed two men shadowing me.
At first, I played it cool.
When they started getting closer, I jogged.
They followed.
I turned into a side alley and picked up the pace. They started sprinting.
As the first guy entered the alley, I spun and delivered a brutal, full-force kick right to his chest.
He collapsed. Not sure if he was dead—but he wasn't getting up.
The second guy froze, eyes wide with panic. Then, with trembling hands, he pulled out a gun.
And fired.
Point blank.
Every. Single. Shot. Missed.
He stood there in stunned silence, staring at his empty barrel. I wasn't hit—not once.
He looked at the gun. Back at me.
I saw fear flood his face.
I didn't hesitate—I lunged forward and punched him with all the strength I had. He went down instantly.
Then I kicked him for good measure. Again. And again.
I ran, not wanting to wait around for the sound of gunshots to attract more trouble.
But as I fled, I had a strange thought:
People don't run toward gunshots. They run away.
By the time I reached a safe distance, I was panting, wide-eyed, and alive.
Luck.
Not skill. Not strength. Luck had saved my life.
Back in Garen's room, I stared at the ceiling. The buzz from the fight, the jackpot win, the bullets that missed—
It all spun around in my head like a wild dream.