The hallway was alive with noise—clubs shouting for recruits, the echo of sneakers in the gym, and the dull thuds of gloves slamming into punching bags.
Ryan walked alongside Maya, the hum of competition in the air pressing on his chest like an invisible weight.
"So," Ryan began, trying to keep his voice casual, "this inter-club thing… are you gonna be my partner, or… y'know, my opponent?"
Maya's lips curved into a faint smirk, but her tone was matter-of-fact. "I'm in the kickboxing club, Ryan. You're in boxing. Of course, I'll be your opponent."
He blinked at her, the words sinking in slower than he wanted. "So… no chance you're switching teams?"
Her eyes softened for just a moment—then she looked away. "You wouldn't want me to. This is competition. I don't hold back, even for friends."
A bead of sweat slid down Ryan's temple, but not from the heat. He gave a small, awkward chuckle. "I see… guess I'll have to watch out for your flying kicks."
They parted at the gym entrance, her figure disappearing into the noise of the kickboxing club.
Ryan lingered in the hallway for a moment, the hum of conversation behind him feeling a little distant.
By the time he slid into his seat in class, the bell was already ringing. The teacher's voice faded into background noise.
His mind was elsewhere—on Maya's words, on the looming tournament, on the truth that his current self wasn't enough.
Then—
DING!Host, training session intensity should be increased for the upcoming days. You need to get into better shape before the tournament occurs.
Ryan's eyes flickered to the corner of his vision where the translucent panel hovered. Yeah… you're right. And I have to—because I don't fucking have any other choice.
It was 7:02 PM when he finally got home. The streetlamps flickered to life, their light stretching in long shadows across the road.
Ryan didn't even step inside. He grabbed his worn sneakers, laced them with mechanical precision, and stepped back into the night.
DING!Daily Training: 5 km run, 200 sit-ups, 200 push-ups, 200 pull-ups.
"You're trying to kill me, aren't you?" he muttered.
If you die from this, Host, you were already useless to begin with.
He rolled his eyes. "Wow. Motivational."
The first kilometer wasn't bad—cool air against his skin, the rhythm of his footsteps on the pavement. But by the second, his lungs were burning.
By the third, sweat stung his eyes, his breath came in ragged pulls, and his calves screamed for him to stop.
The city around him blurred into neon signs and passing headlights. He felt every grain of grit in the air as it scraped his throat.
Host, your pace is dropping.
"Shut… up…"
He forced his legs forward. One more step. One more.
By the time he reached 5 km, his legs wobbled like they were made of jelly. He bent forward, hands on his knees, gasping like a man pulled from underwater.
"Alright… sit-ups," he said, lying on the rough pavement.
The first thirty went smoothly. By seventy, his abs burned so intensely it felt like someone was digging knives into his core. He had to pause every few reps, gulping in air.
Push-ups weren't kinder. His arms trembled after twenty, and by the hundredth his elbows locked painfully, refusing to bend without resistance.
Pull-ups were pure hell. The bar was cold and unforgiving beneath his palms, biting into the raw skin.
By the third set, his grip kept slipping from the sweat. Each rep felt like lifting a mountain, his shoulders screaming in protest.
When it was done, Ryan dropped onto the ground, staring at the night sky. Stars blinked faintly above the streetlights. His chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths.
Host, you've completed today's training.
He managed a small grin. This is going to kill me… but if I stop, I'll stay weak forever.
The thought lingered in his mind, warm and cold at the same time. His muscles ached, but deep inside, something else was growing—a quiet fire.