By the next morning, Kang Dohyun realized Acquisition wasn't just absorbing experience.
It was accelerating it.
He woke up with a throbbing ache deep in his joints—an ache that pulsed like distant thunder. He remembered pushing himself to exhaustion the night before, working on footwork drills until his legs trembled.
Now his calves felt denser.
His steps lighter.
He walked across the living room, stopping suddenly.
His balance was perfect.
Even on the balls of his feet, even leaning forward, his equilibrium held with unnatural stability. It didn't feel like "practice made perfect."
It felt like someone installed new stabilizers under his skin.
He went outside to the empty alley again. Morning air hit his lungs, crisp and chill.
He started with simple movements—kicks, pivots, slips.
His movements were already cleaner than last night.
Then he tried something bigger: a jumping roundhouse kick.
Something he had no business even attempting.
He leapt.
His body twisted—
—and pain exploded across his hip.
He landed hard, stumbling, gripping the side of a dumpster to stop himself from falling.
The pain was sharp, hot, biting.
He exhaled through gritted teeth.
But before he could recover—
A violent ripple tore up his thigh.
His muscles spasmed, then realigned.
The pain changed pitch. Not disappearing—mutating. Becoming something tight, controlled, almost electric.
He froze as his leg twitched again.
Then the ache dimmed.
Then settled.
Then vanished.
"…What the hell…"
He tried the same kick again.
This time the pivot was smoother.
The angle sharper.
The rotation faster.
The kick snapped through the air with a whistle.
His eyes widened. He threw it again. And again. Each one cleaner than the last.
He had improved dramatically from a single injury.
Acquisition didn't just learn from pain.
It used pain.
He didn't know whether that was horrifying or incredible.
Probably both.
He trained harder. Pushed further. A deep stance that strained his thighs. A low sweep that nearly toppled him. Sharp jabs until his knuckles numbed.
Every time he faltered, the same thing happened:
Pain.
Adjustment.
Improvement.
It wasn't normal adaptation. It was like the talent consumed failure and spat out progress.
Dohyun grinned despite himself.
It was addictive.
He tested speed next. He sprinted down the alley, turned sharply, stopped suddenly.
His feet slid at the wrong angle.
Another ripple shot through his calves.
His toes curled instinctively, digging into the concrete with perfect traction the next second.
If someone watched him, they'd think he had months of parkour experience.
No.
Minutes.
Someone crossed the street at the alley entrance—a middle-aged man walking his dog. The dog halted, staring at Dohyun.
No growl. No bark.
Just a tense, alert stare.
Animals sensed danger.
The owner tugged the leash and kept walking, glancing back at Dohyun uncomfortably.
Dohyun wiped sweat from his forehead.
"So even a dog can tell there's something weird about me now…"
He knew he wasn't strong yet—not truly strong. Not enough to survive the upper tiers of this world.
But his growth rate…
If he kept this up, by the end of the month he'd be beyond anything a normal student could handle.
The thought was equal parts thrilling and terrifying.
He returned home at dusk. His body ached, but the ache transformed every few minutes into something else—stability, precision, coordination.
He sat on the floor, staring at his hands.
They trembled faintly.
Not from weakness.
From potential.
This talent wasn't gentle.
It wasn't kind.
It rebuilt him ruthlessly, violently, efficiently.
If he kept pushing—
He would become a monster.
And he wanted it.