Chapter 39 – Rest Day 5
Everything was silent.
The sky was still painted in deep blue, barely touched by the first strokes of light on the horizon. Inside the cabin, surrounded by the soft hum of sleeping breaths, Cody opened his eyes.
He glanced at his wrist, blinking heavily.
Without making a sound, he sat up. Slipped out of the bunk with the precision of someone who'd done this more than once. Barefoot, he walked to his backpack and carefully pulled out his workout clothes—a fitted gray shirt, athletic shorts, and his old but reliable black sneakers.
Already dressed, he placed his earbuds in, pressed the side button on his ancient MP3 player, and an energetic song began to pulse in his head. Not to brag… but that thing was indestructible.
He stretched his arms. Then his back. Finally, his legs.
The morning air was cold but invigorating. The kind of air that cleared your mind better than coffee.
Without another thought, he began to jog.
His steps were firm but measured—not rushing, but moving with the cadence of someone who knew the path well. The forest welcomed him with the scent of damp earth and wet leaves. Branches creaked softly underfoot, and the rhythm of the music matched the tempo of his breathing.
"One, two. One, two," Cody whispered.
For several minutes, all that could be heard was the blend of his breath, the soft thud of his shoes on the ground, and the steady beat of his favorite song.
He passed a tree marked with a red ribbon—a signal he'd placed himself. Then, between two slender trunks that arched toward each other, he turned left.
The trail narrowed, the terrain grew steeper. He knew it by heart.
Finally, he reached his destination.
A clearing among the rocks, so hidden in the trees that even Chef could walk past it without noticing. The stones formed a small natural semicircle that cut the wind, and right in the center, a fallen log served as an improvised bench.
Cody stopped. Turned off the MP3.
He took a deep breath as the natural silence wrapped around him. The sun hadn't risen yet, but a pale ray was beginning to brush the sky.
He smiled.
"Time to work," Cody said to himself.
The music kept playing in his earbuds.
A fast guitar riff. A beat like a steady heartbeat.
Cody stood in the center of the hidden clearing. No need to warm up—his body was already active, blood flowing steadily, mind focused. He looked at the compacted dirt in front of him and let out the first conscious breath of the day.
"Let's go," Cody said, placing both palms on the ground.
He started with push-ups.
Not soft ones. Not conventional. Explosive.
He dropped and rose with force, each rep pushing air from his lungs with control. After every ten, he added a variation:
Airborne claps Behind-the-back claps One-handed Feet elevated on a rock
"Twenty… thirty… forty…" Cody murmured, counting softly.
Sweat was already sliding down his temple when he stood up.
Next phase: core strength.
He stood before a medium-sized rock—one with moss at the base and cracks only he recognized. He wrapped his arms around it, tightened his core, and lifted it with a soft grunt, like waking the forest.
Held it high, then lowered it to chest level.
Once. Twice. Ten times.
Then, without letting go, he held it to one side as if carrying the world on one shoulder. And repeated on the other.
"Who needs weights when you've got natural granite?" Cody said, smiling between breaths.
Then came agility.
With a series of logs arranged in a zigzag, he did lateral sprints, high-knee jumps, and side dodges. He moved fast, precise, like every second mattered. Sweat rolled down his neck, soaking the lower edge of his shirt.
When finished, he dropped to the ground in a perfect plank.
From there:
Rotational planks Shoulder taps Low hold
Every muscle in his core vibrated with raw effort.
And he didn't stop.
He placed a pair of thick branches on the ground and used them as improvised parallel bars. He jumped between them with his arms, lifting his body in controlled reps.
The song's rhythm shifted. Faster. More intense.
Burpees Jump squats Alternating lunges
His breathing was heavy now. But his gaze stayed focused.
Finally, he finished with pure body control:
Crow pose balance Handstand against a rock Brief seconds of freestanding handstand, landing with grace
At last, he collapsed onto the earth, staring up at the now-blue sky.
He removed one earbud, just to feel the forest's silence crash against his racing chest.
"Five thirty-five," Cody said, checking his watch.
He breathed deeply.
Smiled.
Because he knew that before the rest of camp even woke up, he'd already survived his own battle against inertia.
As the sky began to brighten, the forest seemed to hold its breath. The leaves didn't move, the birds didn't sing. Only the pulse of the earth and Cody's lingering breath broke the silence.
The workout had been intense—but it wasn't the end of his routine.
Not yet.
Something deeper, more rooted in his psyche, loomed like a storm in the distance.
Cody sat on his usual rock—his "focus altar," as he jokingly called it when no one was around. He closed his eyes. The air felt heavier here. Almost tangible. As if nature itself knew something was about to happen.
He knew it. He felt it.
Every morning he pushed himself to the limit, it wasn't just to be stronger or faster. It was to be ready. Because deep down, he was still facing someone.
Himself. Or at least—the part he didn't want to be.
Cody's mind relaxed like falling into water. He no longer heard the forest. Only the beat of his heart. Each mental blink became a flash, and that flash… a figure.
At first, distorted. A black silhouette emerging from red and gray mist.
Then, more defined.
More human.
More dangerous.
Psychopath.
Psycho was a combat cyborg, built with a hardened metallic frame at the level of tactical armor, covered in matte black plates with abrasive edges. His body emitted a constant mechanical hum, as if every movement sharpened the air around him. A red light pulsed at the center of his chest, flashing the word DEATH in digital characters.
And then Cody heard him speak—for the first time in days.
"Do you really think you can hide me behind muscles and smiles?" Psycho said, stepping forward. His voice buzzed somewhere between consciousness and delirium.
"I'm not trying to hide you," Cody replied quietly, rising to his feet. "I'm trying to surpass you."
Psycho snapped his fingers, and around him appeared more figures. Exact copies. Faceless clones. Some wore mocking expressions, others clenched their jaws. All had empty eyes and radiated an energy born of rejection.
Ten. Maybe twelve. An army.
All Psychos.
Psycho stepped forward again, now standing before his distorted troops like a nightmare general.
"Go ahead," he said with a twisted smile. "Let's see how much has really changed."
The clones began to advance.
Cody clenched his fists.
He closed his eyes.
And when he opened them… he was no longer in the clearing.
He was inside his own mental arena: a stretch of dead forest, where shadows weren't cast by sunlight but by memories. The ground was ash-gray, the sky a deep bruise-purple, and the silhouettes circled him like predators studying their prey.
But he wasn't the prey.
He was the battlefield.
Cody took a deep breath, straightened his spine, rolled his shoulders back.
And when the first clone lunged, the fight began.
The first came straight for his torso—fast and direct. Cody didn't retreat. He caught the clone by the forearm, spun, and hurled it into an imaginary rock, which shattered with a ghostly crunch.
"One down," Cody muttered, though he knew it didn't matter. The clones weren't counted. They multiplied.
Two more flanked him. One crouched low, aiming to sweep his legs. The other went for his face, fist wrapped in shadow.
Cody used the sweep's momentum to launch himself into the air. He spun midair, dodged the punch, and landed a spinning kick to the chest of the attacker on the left. It collapsed and vanished into smoke.
No time to celebrate.
Two more lunged. Cody shielded with his forearms, stepped back, then charged: punch to the jaw, elbow to the throat, double-leg dropkick.
Smoke again.
Then four came—coordinated, cold, silent.
One grabbed his arm from behind. Another tried to choke him. The other two approached with illusory blades forged from Cody's broken memories.
"Not again!" Cody shouted, dropping backward onto the clone behind him. It collapsed with a grunt. Cody rolled free.
He landed on his knees, surrounded. Vulnerable. But his body reacted instantly.
Uppercut. Block. Knee. Spin. Kick.
Perfect rhythm.
His breath roared in his chest.
Sweat dripped in slow motion.
His hands trembled—not from fear, but from fatigue.
Still, Cody didn't stop.
"Come on! I'm not the guy who gets left behind anymore!" he shouted, more to himself than to them.
The next wave came. No longer orderly. They fought with fury.
Cody resisted.
The fight became instinct.
He rolled. Leapt. Collided. Grabbed two by the neck and smashed them together. Fell into the mud. Spat mental blood. Laughed.
Because if he could still laugh, he was still standing.
Then—everything stopped.
The last clones stepped back and vanished like smoke caught in the wind.
The ground trembled. The sky darkened.
Cody turned, breathing like a furnace. His clothes were torn, sweat pouring down his face.
Only one figure remained.
Psycho.
No clones.
Just the two of them.
Same face. Same body. Opposite gaze.
Cold.
Empty.
Unshaken.
"Happy now?" Psycho said calmly. "Did you punch enough illusions to feel brave?"
Cody lowered his guard for a second.
His breathing didn't ease.
His gaze didn't soften.
"I don't fight to feel brave," Cody said. "I fight… because I'm more than Max Steel."
Then he rose again.
Not for defense.
Not for training.
Only for what had to happen:
The real fight.
—
Clearing Among the Rocks – 6:25 AM
The sky was awake.
Mist lifted through the trees.
The training was over—but Cody was still there, flexing his fingers, eyes locked forward.
A figure identical to him stepped out from the underbrush.
Feet planted. Blank stare. Muscles taut.
Psycho.
No words.
No taunts.
Only intent.
They both knew what was coming.
Cody rolled his shoulders and dropped into a low stance. Guard up. Heels grounded.
Psycho lunged.
Straight punch.
Cody deflected with his forearm, pivoted, countered with a spinning kick. Psycho blocked with an elbow. The impact was sharp.
Cody pressed forward—three, four, five punches to the torso. Psycho absorbed them, stepping back only half a pace.
Then Psycho struck back.
Right hook. Cody ducked, rolled, countered with an upward elbow. It grazed the jaw. Psycho staggered—but didn't fall.
"You're not as tough as you look," Cody growled.
Psycho didn't answer. He attacked with a high kick and a flurry of blows. Cody blocked, but one hit his shoulder. Another—his jaw.
Blood trickled from his lip.
Nothing new.
Cody exhaled and countered:
Knee to the gut.
Descending elbow to the collarbone.
Spin. Sweep.
Psycho fell.
Cody pounced—fists like hammers. One, two, three hits to the face.
Psycho caught his wrist and kicked him off. Cody rolled, sprang to his feet.
Both sweating.
Both bleeding.
Both smiling.
Because this was where they lived.
Psycho charged. Cody dropped low, lifted him, slammed him into the ground.
The earth cracked.
Psycho rolled, stood again.
They didn't stop.
As if the forest fed on their fury.
Punch, punch, elbow, block, kick, knee, spin, counter, roll, shove, fall.
At one point, both knelt, face to face, breathing like the world was about to explode.
Cody spat, stood with fists raised.
"Final round," Cody said.
Psycho.
They launched at the same time.
Fists collided midair.
The impact echoed through the trees.
Both were thrown in opposite directions.
Cody landed among damp leaves.
Pain in his ribs.
But when he rose…
Psycho was gone.
Only calm remained.
The clearing.
Sunlight through the branches.
And Cody—on his feet.
With a scratch on his brow and a smile on his face.
"I need you to get better… but I'm Cody Anderson, and greatness is waiting," Cody said.
The fight was over. No cheers. No applause.
Just fists. Strength. And a victory earned second by second.
—