Chapter 3
The next few months were a blur of calculated agony and iron discipline.
Guided by Silas's ancient wisdom on endurance, lessons learned from a time when men fought duels and survival demanded physical prowess and the modern information available on his screen.
Remy began a gruelling transformation
He used his Foresight not just for money but to optimise every aspect of his new life.
He identified which stocks would surge, which currencies would fluctuate, and which cryptocurrency plays would yield returns. Within two weeks, his account had swelled to $50,000. Within a month, $200,000.
He moved carefully, never drawing too much attention, spreading his trades across multiple platforms and accounts.
But the physical transformation was harder than any financial play.
He started running in the pre-dawn hours when the streets were empty, and no one could see him struggle.
The first morning, he made it only two blocks before doubling over, gasping, his lungs burning like he'd inhaled acid. His knees ached. His ankles screamed. Everything hurt.
"Again," Silas commanded, appearing beside him on the empty sidewalk. "The pain is temporary. Weakness is forever unless you burn it away."
Every step was a battle against his own weight, his own history, his own self-loathing.
But with every drop of sweat that soaked through his cheap t-shirt, he felt the "ugly, fat Remy" melting away like wax from a candle.
He used the Foresight to perfect his diet, seeing exactly how his body would respond to different foods, knowing which supplements would work and which were snake oil.
The weight began to drop, first five pounds, then ten, then twenty.
After three weeks of running, when he could finally manage three miles without stopping, he joined a local MMA gym on the south side, not too far from his college, called "Warrior's Path."
He paid cash for a six-month membership, hiding his face under a hoodie as he filled out the paperwork.
"You ever train before?" asked Coach Martinez, a stocky man with cauliflower ears and a scar across his eyebrow.
"No, sir," Remy mumbled.
"Well, you got a lot of weight to move around. This ain't gonna be easy."
"I know," Remy said. "I'm not looking for easy."
He began learning the fundamentals of Taekwondo and Muay Thai, his body screaming in protest as he forced it into unfamiliar positions.
The other fighters are lean, muscled, and confident.
They looked at him with barely concealed amusement. The fat kid is trying to play fighter.
Let them laugh, Remy thought. They won't be laughing in three months.
"Your balance is off," Silas would critique, appearing in the corner of the gym where only Remy could see him, his translucent form standing beside the heavy bags.
"You're telegraphing that right cross. See the blow before it lands. Use the gift."
During sparring sessions, Remy learned to let his eyes flash gold for just a split second.
He would see his opponent's jab coming a full second before it launched, and he would know exactly where the leg kick was aimed before the hip twisted.
He ducked, weaved, and countered with precision that shocked his training partners.
"How did you," one of them stammered after Remy landed a perfect liver shot that dropped him to his knees.
"Lucky guess," Remy said, extending a hand to help him up.
But it wasn't luck. It was divine intervention married to brutal, relentless work.
The months blurred together in a haze of sweat, discipline, and transformation.
Remy's alarm went off at 4:30 AM. every single day.
He would run five miles. Meal prep of lean proteins, vegetables, and complex carbs measured to the gram.
Gym by 6:30 AM for strength training. Classes until noon. Trading and market analysis in the afternoon, his Foresight letting him execute plays with supernatural precision.
MMA training in the evening. Study. Sleep. Repeat.
His bank account swelled from thousands to hundreds of thousands to millions.
He played the Forex markets like a virtuoso, turning twenty-four-hour predictions into a financial empire.
He bought cryptocurrency at valleys and sold at peaks with perfect timing.
He executed option plays that veteran traders would have called impossible.
By month two, he had $2 million. By month three, $8 million.
He moved most of it into safer investments, diversifying, and planning for the long term.
This wasn't just about getting rich. It was about building an unshakeable foundation.
And his body transformed with equal precision. The fat melted away, revealing muscle that surprised even him.
His face, once round and soft, developed sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline.
His shoulders broadened. His arms, which had always been weak and soft, became corded with lean muscle.
He grew four inches as his posture corrected, and his spine finally straightened properly.
"Look at you," Silas said one morning as Remy examined himself in the mirror.
"From caterpillar to butterfly. But remember, the most beautiful butterflies are also the most deadly."
By the time the school break was nearing its end, the man in the mirror was a complete stranger.
Gone was the soft jawline and the slumped shoulders.
Gone were the acne scars, cleared up by the expensive dermatologist he could now afford.
And Gone was the shame in his eyes.
In their place stood a tall, muscular youth with an athletic build that belonged on a fitness magazine cover.
A six-foot-two, 185 pounds of lean muscle, with a presence that commanded attention.
His gaze held the weight of the future itself, a golden glint that never quite faded even when he wasn't actively using the Foresight.
His bank account showed $12.4 million across various accounts and investments.
"It's time to go back," Remy said, running a hand through his neat, professionally styled haircut.
He stood in his new apartment, a sleek, modern space in the city's revitalised downtown, with floor-to-ceiling windows and furniture that didn't creak or smell like mildew.
"They won't recognise you," Silas noted, a hint of a smile on his ghostly face.
"The transformation is complete. You are no longer the boy who stood on the things they bullied."
Remy walked to the window and looked down at the parking garage where his new car waited.
A matte-black Audi R8, subtle enough not to scream "new money" but impressive enough to make a statement.
He'd bought it two days ago, taking delivery with a quiet satisfaction that felt nothing like the desperate hunger he'd once felt.
"Good," Remy replied, his reflection in the window showing a man he barely recognised.
"I don't want them to recognise the victim. I want them to see someone completely new.
And when they finally figure out who I really am..." He smiled, and it wasn't a kind expression.
"I want them to fear the man I've become."
Silas nodded slowly. "Revenge is a poison, boy. But justice... justice can be medicine for a wounded soul.
Just remember which one you're pursuing."
"I'll remember," Remy said. But as he looked at his reflection, at the strong jaw, the confident posture, the expensive clothes, the golden eyes that could see tomorrow, he wasn't entirely sure he was telling the truth.
Tomorrow, he would return to campus. Tomorrow, the world that had broken him would meet the man he had forged from the pieces.
Tomorrow, everything would change.