"Ready for an epic beating?" Aria said the moment she saw me.
I sighed.
"You seem excited," I said, dry as sandpaper.
She grinned. That alone should've been my warning.
We met directly at the training room. She'd told me to bring food for three days, a sleeping bag, and anything else I might need. Seven hours in the real world, she said. Inside the room?
Seventy.
Three days, I thought. Fantastic. I've made worse life choices, but not many.
She pressed her palm against the wall.
The world lurched.
Reality folded in on itself, and suddenly we were inside.
I took a moment to really look around this time. The floor was polished marble, cool and faintly veined like frozen water. Tall columns rose toward a ceiling I couldn't quite see, each one carved with faded patterns—heroes, beasts, gods locked in eternal struggle. The air smelled clean, sharp, almost metallic, like a place where effort was expected and mercy was optional.
It felt less like a gym and more like a temple.
A temple that existed purely to ruin people.
"Leave your stuff anywhere," Aria said casually. "Let's start with a few hundred push-ups."
I stared at her.
"…Hundreds?"
She stretched her arms like a bored instructor. "Gotta build that foundation, wuss."
I am going to die here, I thought, lowering myself to the floor.
She paced as I started.
"The system's your friend in this," she explained. "When you stimulate an area influenced by your stats, it boosts them. And it does so fast."
I hit thirty push-ups and was already breathing like I'd sprinted uphill.
"Much faster than normal training," she added, clearly enjoying this.
She continued, counting nothing, watching everything.
"Ten is the average person in any stat. Trained people sit around thirteen to fifteen. Elite athletes? Seventeen, maybe eighteen."
My arms were shaking.
Then the system chimed.
[Strength +1]
I froze, nearly faceplanting.
"I've got seventy-five Strength," Aria said, smiling proudly.
Seventy-five.
The number echoed in my head like a bad joke. I barely had fourteen before today. If she was telling the truth, I was already above most trained people.
And she could probably throw me through a wall.
She let me suffer through another brutal stretch of push-ups. My Strength ticked up again, my muscles burning in that deep, almost electric way that felt less like pain and more like forced adaptation.
Then she clapped her hands.
"Endurance training."
That sounds fake, I thought. That's just a nicer name for torture.
She took off running.
I followed.
Correction—I ran away from her like my survival depended on it. Because every time she caught up, she shoved me.
And I flew.
Not metaphorically. Physically airborne.
I hit the floor, rolled, scrambled up, and ran again. Marble blurred beneath my feet. Columns flashed past. My lungs screamed. My legs begged for mercy I did not possess.
We played this beautiful, horrific game of tag for an hour and a half.
Then she stopped.
"Sparring."
I bent over, hands on my knees, trying not to die.
"Oh good," I wheezed. "I was worried today would be easy."
We moved to an open section of the hall. The marble here was scarred—cracks, chips, faint stains that didn't look decorative.
Aria rolled her shoulders. Relaxed. Loose.
I took a stance that felt vaguely correct. I'd seen enough fights to fake confidence.
This is a terrible idea, I thought. She's not sparring. She's humoring me.
She stepped forward.
Too fast.
Her first strike came in like a blur—straight punch, clean, efficient. I barely raised my guard in time. The impact rattled my arms and sent a shock through my shoulders.
"Too slow," she said.
Again.
A low sweep. I jumped late, felt the air cut beneath my feet. She followed with an elbow I only avoided because I tripped backward.
I hit the ground hard.
Okay, I thought, staring at the ceiling. Think. Focus your perception like you did yesterday. Or you're going to be a smear.
I got up.
She came at me again.
And something… shifted.
It wasn't a voice. Not exactly. More like a pressure behind my eyes. A faint tightening in my chest.
Patterns.
Her weight shifted before she struck. Her shoulders rotated just a fraction too early. Her foot planted at a specific angle every time she prepared to punch.
My vision sharpened—not clearer, just busier. Lines of motion, micro-pauses, repetitions.
[Passive Skill Active: Attack Pattern Recognition]
So this is it, I thought. Don't screw it up.
She attacked again.
I moved—not faster, just earlier.
Her fist brushed my shoulder instead of my jaw. I flinched, but stayed upright. I stepped inside her range without fully understanding how.
My hand lashed out.
It wasn't pretty. It wasn't strong. It barely qualified as a hit.
My knuckles tapped her ribs.
Silence.
Aria froze.
I immediately panicked.
"I—uh—sorry?"
Then she laughed.
Not mocking. Not cruel.
Genuine.
"…You landed one," she said, eyes sharp now. Interested.
My heart hammered. My hand hurt. My pride was doing something dangerous like growing.
"It was pathetic," she continued, stepping back into stance. "But it was real."
She cracked her neck.
"Again."