The United States is home to countless private ranches.
After Rod placed his special order, the delivery arrived early the next morning from a local breeder.
Standing before him was a living fortress of meat. The Belgian Blue bull was a biological anomaly, its double-muscling gene creating a physique that made professional bodybuilders look malnourished.
It stood quietly in the yard, radiating a silent, suffocating pressure.
In terms of sheer mass, a Belgian Blue was easily 30% larger than standard cattle. Its body composition was almost entirely lean muscle, far surpassing any other breed.
Endurance. Explosive power. It was the apex of bovine evolution.
Naturally, it came with a premium price tag to match.
Rod placed his hand directly on the creature's massive flank.
"This is my first time sacrificing a living thing. Let's see if the system accepts it."
Sacrifice!
A brilliant light bloomed from his palm.
The massive beast began to dissolve. Flesh, bone, sinew, organs—everything melted away into pure energy.
Finally, even its life force was consumed.
The process was instantaneous. There was no pain, no struggle.
As the Belgian Blue vanished, Rod felt a torrential surge of power materialize within his own body.
With every breath, the energy compounded.
Minutes later, the violent surge stabilized.
Rod opened his eyes and slowly clenched his fist. The air seemed to compress under his grip.
"My clothes... they're too small."
He looked down at his legs. His pants, which had been a comfortable fit yesterday, were now flooding high above his ankles.
He hadn't been short to begin with—standing just over six feet (183cm). But after assimilating the bull, he had shot up to nearly six-foot-three (190cm+).
In a country of giants, he was now among the elite.
Rod stripped off his tight shirt and walked into the bathroom.
He stared at his reflection.
His features were sharper, his jawline cut like granite.
His proportions had shifted—shoulders broader, waist tapered. Every inch of him radiated raw, kinetic potential.
It wasn't just size; it was density. The slight layer of fat on his stomach had evaporated, replaced by a set of abdominal muscles so defined they looked carved from marble.
He looked like he had spent twenty years in a hardcore gym, yet the muscle quality was different—dense, functional, explosive like the bull he had consumed.
Rod rubbed his chin. He suddenly felt a strong resemblance to Jotaro Kujo.
But the sacrifice had granted him more than just a physical overhaul. He had awakened a new active ability.
[Berserk]
He focused on the concept in his mind, and his body shuddered.
Thump-thump.
His blood began to pump as if driven by a hydraulic engine.
The sound of his heartbeat echoed in his ears like a war drum, accelerating with terrifying speed.
In the mirror, Rod saw capillaries burst in his eyes, turning them crimson. His skin flushed a deep, angry red.
His muscles gorged on the oxygenated blood, inflating instantly.
In the blink of an eye, his height surged again, pushing nearly seven feet (2 meters).
The cost was immediate. As his physical power spiked, his rationality began to recede, replaced by a cold, predatory instinct.
He released the ability.
His expanded frame slowly deflated back to his new "normal." Rod gasped for air, his body screaming with lactic acid burn.
That brief activation—lasting only seconds—had drained nearly a third of his stamina.
In the [Berserk] state, his physical parameters—strength and durability—would double or even triple.
But the trade-off was severe: eroded sanity and accelerated stamina drain.
Furthermore, exiting the state triggered a thirty-minute period of debility.
It was a double-edged sword. With his current reserves, he estimated he could maintain the form for ten minutes before collapsing from exhaustion.
It was a trump card. To be used only when failure was not an option.
"With my current specs, I'm ready to breach the door."
Feeling the power coursing through him, Rod's confidence skyrocketed.
He didn't know what lay beyond the Dimension Door. But with this body, even if he encountered a nightmare, he could fight his way out.
Still, preparation was the better part of valor.
In the Lighthouse Country, guns were as common as groceries. The only barriers were the Firearm Owner's Identification and the Permit to Purchase.
Fortunately, the original Rod possessed both.
He drove to the local gun store.
He didn't discriminate. Handguns, shotguns, automatic rifles, sniper platforms—he bought one of each.
He cleared out their stock of ammunition, tossing crate after crate into his Personal Inventory.
There was no limit on the number of guns one could own here, only a requirement to register the serial numbers.
He had wanted to secure a few crates of fragmentation grenades, but those were military-grade restricted items. The civilian market couldn't help him there.
He settled for machetes, combat knives, and tactical gear.
It took half a day to fully kit himself out. Every conceivable tool for survival was stowed safely in his inventory.
He returned home and slept, ensuring his mental and physical batteries were at 100%.
He called his professor and requested three days of leave.
Finally, ensuring no loose ends remained, he took a deep breath and summoned the gate.
Shing!
A rift tore open in the air before him—half-real, half-void.
Clutching a double-barreled shotgun, Rod stepped into the breach.