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One thousand days.
Two years, nine months, and five days.
His daily task complete, Hawk stood under the hot spray of the gym's shower, once again summoning the interface that only he could see. He looked at the progress bar, just one day shy of completion, of activating his [Cosmo Forging]. It still felt like a dream.
After all...
Ten thousand punches a day, for a thousand consecutive days without a single break—it's easy to say, but almost impossible to do.
Sometimes, Hawk didn't even know how he'd managed to keep it up.
Maybe it was just his personality—he never knew when to quit.
Or maybe it had something to do with this world being the Marvel Universe.
Hawk didn't know.
But...
One thing was certain.
"One day."
"Just one more day."
After today, tomorrow would be the day he finally activated his power.
"Cosmo Forging..."
"I wonder if it's what I think it is."
Hawk thought to himself.
In his memory, only one thing came to mind when he thought of the word 'Cosmo.'
If it really was what he was thinking of—
Then...
The future was looking bright.
According to the ancient Greek philosopher Democritus, all things are composed of Atoms. By that logic, the human body contained its own miniature universe.
A Cosmo.
To forge a Cosmo was to continuously ignite the primordial energy of one's own life force, awakening the hidden universe within. Through constant training, one could elevate their Cosmo, and by burning it, they could achieve a fighting power that transcended the laws of physics.
Hawk remembered an anime from his past life that was based entirely on this concept.
The name of that series was—
Saint Seiya.
The Bronze Saints, who mastered the first five senses and could touch the Sixth Sense.
The Silver Saints, who had awakened the Sixth Sense and could reach for the Seventh.
And then there were the Gold Saints, who had fully awakened and completely mastered the Seventh Sense.
But beyond the Seventh Sense, there was an Eighth, and even a Ninth...
Fragmented images of the series flickered through Hawk's mind.
The next second.
Hawk snapped back to reality, shaking his head with a slight smile.
He didn't even know for sure if the Cosmo from his power was the same one from his memories. What was the point in overthinking it?
Besides—
He had no grand ambitions of punching out Odin or kicking Zeus in the teeth.
Most importantly.
He had already lived in this world for seventeen years. Before his power even manifested at fifteen, he had already mentally prepared himself to face this brutal reality without any cheats at all.
So...
"Keep a level head."
"The higher the expectations, the greater the disappointment."
With that thought, Hawk cleared his mind of distractions. He wrung out his freshly washed t-shirt and stuffed it into a plastic bag with his pants, then wrapped a towel around his waist. While drying his hair with another towel, he pushed open the door of the shower stall.
Thump!
The main door to the locker room burst open, and a skinny figure was shoved inside.
The figure stumbled a few steps before his legs gave out, and he landed hard on the tiled floor.
"Is that..."
"Peter?"
Hawk raised an eyebrow, looking at the original Spider-Man, who had just been thrown in and was now sitting awkwardly on the ground.
At that moment, Peter looked up and saw Hawk emerging from the showers.
His expression was pure embarrassment.
He was just about to say something to Hawk—a kid in his grade he'd never really talked to—when a chorus of laughter echoed from the doorway.
A moment later, Flash Thompson—known by the nickname 'Flash' and the less-flattering title of 'Midtown's Top Jock'—strolled in, cradling a football. He was flanked by his three usual cronies.
The next second.
The laughter died.
Hawk, who had just stepped out of the stall, was now toweling his wet hair with one hand and holding the plastic bag of clothes with the other, a towel secured around his waist. As soon as Flash entered, his gaze locked onto him.
Flash Thompson was a big guy, built like a linebacker.
But Hawk was no slouch either.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine days of non-stop training, of throwing ten thousand punches a day, had forged a physique of dense, powerful muscle.
And this wasn't the kind of puffed-up muscle you saw from guys at a commercial gym.
The lines of his arms were defined with pure, functional strength—not bloated and showy, but lean and explosive.
The towel was cinched low on his waist, creating a slight indent above his hip bones that only accentuated his narrow, toned core. The outline of his abs was clearly visible, an eight-pack arranged like carefully sculpted armor.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, the air in the room felt thick enough to cut with a knife.
Everyone knows the score.
In American high schools, there's a clear pecking order, a food chain of sorts.
Logically, Hawk—an orphan with no parents and no money—should have been at the very bottom, a prime target.
But he wasn't.
It wasn't because he had ever fought the school's bullies and earned their respect.
The reason no one messed with him was much simpler.
Because—
Whether it was his looks or his build, nothing about him screamed 'easy target'.
Of course.
In the three years he'd been doing this, the school's jocks had never bothered him, and he had never felt the need to play hero for anyone else.
Everyone fights their own battles.
This time was no different.
Hawk broke eye contact. He walked over to the bench, pulled a clean t-shirt and jeans from his backpack, and got dressed. After stuffing the plastic bag inside, he slung the backpack over one shoulder and walked directly toward Flash Thompson, who was blocking the exit.
Flash frowned, watching Hawk approach him.
He knew who Hawk was.
It was hard not to notice the guy who spent every single day in the corner of the gym, throwing ten thousand punches at a heavy bag for over two years.
But he didn't know him. Not really.
Hawk never went to parties or hangouts. Despite seeing him at school every day, it was like he was living in a parallel universe.
Flash watched as Hawk stopped right in front of him.
"Haw—"
"Excuse me."
"..."
Flash instinctively stepped aside. His three friends behind him looked like they were about to say something, but the moment their eyes met Hawk's—a pair of piercing blue eyes that seemed completely indifferent to everything around them—they followed their instincts and shuffled out of the way too.
"Thanks."
Hawk gave a nod to Flash for clearing the path, his voice calm and even, before walking out of the locker room without a second glance.
Flash stared after Hawk's retreating back, a frown on his face, lost in thought.
Just then.
One of his cronies gasped.
"Holy shit."
"Flash, Parker's gone."
"What?"
Flash snapped out of it. He saw Peter Parker slipping out the door right behind Hawk, and it finally clicked.
"Get him!" he roared.
"Parker! You get your nerdy ass back here!"
"..."
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