Summer's is almost over now just a couple weeks left.
The days are getting shorter, the cicadas are quieter, and school's right around the corner—but instead of worrying about homework or uniforms, I've been committing international culinary theft like it's a side hustle.
Every night before bed, I take off.
Destination: America.
More specifically, the middle-of-nowhere towns that no one pays attention to. Abandoned gas stations. Small Walmarts. Sleepy suburban neighborhoods. I know all the back entrances and blind spots by now.
At this point, I've practically built a second pantry in my little forest hideout.
I even made a major upgrade recently.
Found a Home Depot on the outskirts of a city in Nevada. Waited for the perfect time—around lunch when security was minimal—and jacked one of their biggest grills. Stainless steel. Multi-burner. Built-in smoker. Side shelves. Warming racks.
The whole damn package.
It was so heavy the average human would've needed a team to lift it.
Me?
One hand.
Balanced it on my shoulder like a damn anime warlord bringing a coffin to battle.
A New Routine
Fly out late at night.
Land in the States just before noon local time.
Loot groceries, gear, or cooking supplies.
Fly back under radar.
By now, I've streamlined the process. I even mapped out several locations in a custom folder on Google Maps called "THE RAID ZONE."
What's crazy, though, is that flying has become one of the hardest workouts I do.
No joke.
I can toss half a car across a junkyard like it's a frisbee. Not even breathing heavy. But flying? Holding my cursed energy steady, resisting air drag, maintaining stealth, navigating winds, and adjusting for speed?
That takes real effort.
It's like doing a full-body resistance workout for hours.
And I've started to notice the difference.
Trips that used to leave me drained now feel like warm-ups. My body's adapting fast—way faster than a regular human could.
In the past few months, I went from 5'10", 145 pounds, to 6'1" and 180 pounds of lean muscle. My frame is filling out. Shoulders broader. Abs visible without flexing. Arms that don't look like uncooked spaghetti anymore.
And yeah—I had to fly to America just to get a proper digital scale because screw the metric system. I want pounds. I want feet and inches. I want to see the numbers I understand.
Meanwhile… in Anime Land
Now, while I'm doing all this real-world training, something else has been bothering me.
This world—the "anime bullshit world," as I've officially started calling it—has a serious subtlety problem.
Like, if you had any awareness, you'd be able to tell immediately who's part of the "plot" and who isn't.
You've got random background characters dressed in muted grays and browns, just doing their daily thing—walking slow, talking soft.
Then BAM.
In comes some guy with neon green hair, a katana strapped to his back, yelling into his flip phone about "revenge" while making dramatic hand gestures like he's performing Shakespeare in the middle of the street.
And everyone just ignores him.
It's like watching a cat in heat trying to be discreet while screaming on a rooftop.
I don't even need to use cursed energy half the time. I can just feel it.
Like, oh, there's the main antagonist's childhood friend who's secretly a double agent with a tragic past and a brother in a coma. You can spot them a mile away.
And don't even get me started on the "undercover" characters.
They act like first-day-on-the-job rookies.
Wearing full suits and sunglasses indoors. Whispering loudly into their sleeve like a secret agent while standing in line for ramen. Bro, I can see the mic wire running down your neck.
How has no one else caught onto this?
If the average person in this world had even a droplet of real-world common sense, they'd realize half the people they interact with are walking anime plot devices just waiting to explode.
But no.
They carry on like it's normal.
So, Where Am I Now?
I've got a secret forest base stocked with enough meat and cooking supplies to last through winter.
I've been flying across continents like it's my cardio.
I've built a body that could punch through a city wall.
I've officially entered my "I might die doing this but it'll be worth it" phase.
My destination? Alaska.
Why?
Because if I'm going to train like a beast, I need to suffer like one—and nothing says pain, growth, and questionable sanity like building your own training dungeon in the freezing wilderness of the last frontier.
Phase 1: The Mixer
First stop—a construction supply store.
In broad daylight.
I walk past the garden section, nod to the employees like I'm here to pick up mulch, and stroll up to the display section. There it is: a giant, industrial-grade cement mixer, shiny and orange like a beacon of gains.
One second it's there.
The next?
Gone.
Vanished.
Straight-up Thanos snapped into my personal subspace dimension (okay, it was just me flying it out of sight at Mach 2, but still—it was smooth).
Phase 2: Research & Excavation
Back in Alaska, I pick a secluded spot deep in the snowy wilderness. No signal. No people. Just wolves, pine trees, and the sound of wind slapping me in the face like Mother Nature herself wants me to quit.
I spend the next few hours watching YouTube videos on concrete mixing and rebar placement while sitting on a stump, wrapped in cursed energy to stay warm.
The plan is simple:
Dig. Build. Mix. Pour. Train. Survive.
I dig a hole:
40 feet deep
20 feet across
No jokes. No metaphors. I literally dig a hole so big it could double as a missile silo.
And yes, I brought a tape measure.
I'm not trying to die under a collapsing concrete coffin because I eyeballed the foundation like some DIY idiot.
Phase 3: Rebar & Steel Reinforcement
Once the pit is finished, I fly to Texas.
Not a specific store. Not even a specific city. Just Texas—land of large things and zero questions.
I head straight to a metro industrial manufacturer.
Foundries. Yards full of steel rods and rail parts. The good stuff.
I lift pallets of 2¼-inch rebar without breaking a sweat. Bend them mid-air like twist ties. Curve them into complex cage structures, descending layer by layer into my hole back in Alaska. Then I snag some leftover railroad tracks—thick, heavy, and perfect for edge framing and core resistance.
With the structure in place, I start tying it all together—like I'm building the skeleton of a cursed energy containment chamber.
Because, well… I kinda am.
Phase 4: Cement Invasion
Next comes the concrete.
This is where things get complicated.
I steal literal tons of cement.
And when I say tons, I mean pallet after pallet from Home Depots, Lowe's, and any other hardware store I can find with forklifts and clueless employees.
I move fast. Late hours. Obscure locations. I leave nothing but skid marks and confused inventory managers.
Phase 5: Lying to the Fam
Now, I can't exactly tell my pervert twin and naive mom that I'm flying to Alaska to train like I'm prepping for a Dragon Ball tournament.
So, one night—right before bed—I go full innocent mode.
Big eyes. Soft voice. Subtle smile.
"Hey, Mom… is it okay if I sleep over at a friend's place for a few days? We want to play some games… maybe run around a bit."
I have no clue what the average Japanese kid does for fun. For all I know, they're all into anime idol concerts and ramen speed-eating contests. I just say whatever sounds believable.
Mom smiles so widely I swear I saw sparkles in the air.
"Of course you can, sweetie! Just be sure to message me if anything happens, okay?"
I give her the most genuine smile I can pull off without laughing.
"Thanks, Mom. You're the best."
Issei doesn't even look up. He's too busy watching a rom-com harem anime and drooling like he just found the Holy Grail in a skirt.
I pack a bag with the essentials—food, energy bars, extra batteries, a phone charger I probably won't even use—and leave through the front door like a normal kid.
The moment I'm out of sight?
Boom.
Into the sky.
Back to Alaska.
Back to the grind.
I'm already in Alaska. Cold, empty, silent.
The pit is dug—massive, precise, overkill in the best way possible. I wasn't building a fortress. I wasn't constructing a bunker or secret lair.
I was making a weight.
Not a barbell.
Not some dumb DIY concrete plates.
I'm talking the single heaviest, most ridiculous piece of weight-training equipment in history.
30 feet deep. 20 feet wide. 20 feet across.
Measured, marked, and carved out with cursed-enhanced precision. No guesswork. I brought a tape measure and did the math before I touched the ground.
I knew exactly what I was about to build.
Phase One: Concrete Calculations
I already had the dimensions.
Now I just had to figure out how much concrete I'd need to fill the mold and bring this monstrosity to life.
30 × 20 × 20 = 12,000 cubic feet
Divide by 27 to convert to cubic yards → 444.4 yards
One cubic yard of concrete weighs approx. 4,050 pounds
So…
444.4 × 4,050 = 1.8 million pounds
That's over 900 tons.
For one weight.
One.
Singular.
Liftable.
Massive.
Weight.
A symbol of power so excessive it'd make Dragon Ball villains look lazy.
Phase Two: The Concrete Conundrum
As soon as I saw the final number, I stopped.
Stared.
Whispered:
"…Fuuuuuuck me."
There was no way I was hauling 40,000 bags of dry cement by hand. Not unless I wanted to burn a year of my life playing human forklift simulator.
I needed a better plan.
And like every great mistake in my life, it started with the words:
"What if I just possessed a billionaire?"
Phase Three: Billionaire Possession Logistics
Sukuna-style cursed technique? Check.
Target list of billionaires who wouldn't notice a few missing zeros in their net worth? Check.
I picked one. Some tech dude with too many vacation homes and not enough moral compass.
Slipped in. Possessed his body like a twisted Uber driver.
Then I made my move.
Using his identity, I ordered:
Ten cement trucks per order
Industrial steel molds to contain the wet concrete
Logistics setup to ensure delivery to a rural lot with no cameras, no questions
Once the deliveries were made, I exited the possession cleanly—no memory, no mess, no legal trail.
Just a billionaire wondering why their bank account was down $500k and why the driveway smells like a construction site.
Phase Four: Monster Weight Assembly
Each full tub held around 90 cubic yards or about ten trucks of concrete.
One tub = 364,500 pounds or 182.25 tons.
I made twenty trips to transport the concrete back to Alaska.
Ten of those trips I flew with the full 182-ton weight on my back—wrapped in cursed energy, fighting gravity, fighting air resistance, fighting the urge to vomit mid-air from the sheer pressure on my spine.
My vision blurred.
My arms shook.
I could hear every fiber of my body crying for help.
But I kept going.
Because this wasn't just weight.
This was proof.
Proof that I was not normal.
Proof that I was something else now.
That I could wield god-tier strength—and back it up.
Phase Five: The Pour
Once all the concrete was delivered and in place, I began the pour.
This wasn't some half-baked concrete mold in a garage.
This was precision work.
The rebar structure inside the pit—sourced from Texas, bent with my bare hands—was spaced to exact measurements for internal support. Thick enough to survive earthquakes. Strong enough to resist cracking from pressure, impact, or heat.
As the mixer turned, I layered the concrete slowly.
Tamped it.
Let each pour settle.
I didn't just want heavy. I wanted balanced, solid, indestructible.
I wasn't making a sculpture.
I was making a trial.
A weapon.
A training monument.
By the end of it, I stood before a single solid block of concrete that could snap the legs off a skyscraper.
And it was mine to lift.
Phase Six: Recovery & Protein Raid
After that? I couldn't even walk.
Flying back to Japan wasn't an option. I was cold, drained, and starving.
So I did what I always do.
Flew to a Walmart in the U.S.
Stole a heavy-duty propane grill
Raided the meat aisle like a protein-seeking missile
Picked up eggs, salmon, steak, chicken, lamb—anything that screamed "gains"
Stole a generator and a high-performance blender
Grabbed five pounds of whey protein like I was restocking GNC
Then I returned to my Alaskan hell pit.
I cooked everything.
Grilled meat.
Blended shakes.
Sat on a crate, shirtless in sub-zero temperatures, sipping protein and chewing steak like a prehistoric caveman with Wi-Fi.
The pit sat beside me, steam still rising from its surface as the concrete cured under the snow.
This isn't just training anymore.
This is a message to the world.
To this ridiculous anime realm.
To every overpowered side character, villain, and trope-ridden dumbass with glowing hair and no depth:
You think you're strong?
Try lifting 900 tons with your soul on fire.
I'm not just working out anymore.
I'm building my legend.