"Faster!" The steel crutch smacked against the ground with a sharp clang.
John Markus pushed past the line for lap twenty, feet pounding like nails driving into the track. His breath was heavy but steady, chest rising and falling like a forge bellows. Sweat soaked through his shirt, yet his eyes burned like fire. He should've been exhausted, but his body held on, like some hidden reserve of strength had been forced out.
He was used to cycling every day, and with his combat stat total of 35, twenty laps that should've been brutal felt more like a warm-up. Meanwhile, the other students, stats hovering around 5 to 7, were sprawled across the ground like stranded fish.
The middle-aged teacher stood at the side, cold eyes flickering for a second. The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. For the first time, John caught a glint of approval in those silver, emotionless eyes.
But it vanished in an instant. The steel crutch slammed onto the concrete, his voice rasping like grinding metal."Get up. Running's just the warm-up. Now we train for real."
John frowned. He'd guessed as much, but he hadn't thought twenty laps would count for nothing more than waving your arms around.
Barbells, truck tires, resistance bands, medicine balls… everything got dragged out and stacked across the yard. It looked like an open-air prison yard, waiting to torture its muscle-bound inmates.
"Muscle!" The teacher sat in a chair, tapping his crutch in rhythm. "Without muscle, you've got nothing. Push-ups. Fifty each, five sets. Start."
Teeth clenched across the yard.
John planted his hands on the ground. One, two, three… ten went by smooth. At thirty, his arms began to tremble, shoulders heavy as stone.
"Chest didn't touch the floor. Do it again!" The crutch slammed down right beside him.
John gritted his teeth, pressed his chest flat to the ground, sweat spraying. By fifty, his arms were numb, but he forced himself up. Muscles swelled tight, veins bulging under his skin like cables.
The others, with their weak stats, collapsed in the first set, arms folding like broken dolls. One kid bit his lip till it bled, still crawling through more reps. But the gap between 35 and 7 was the difference between a truck and a bicycle, cruel beyond belief.
"Switch. Sit-ups. Forty each, five sets."
Back to the ground, core locked tight, breath burning like coal in his chest. John counted under his breath. Twenty… thirty… thirty-five… every number stretched out like eternity. The kid next to him keeled over, clutching his stomach and wheezing.
"Up! Nobody quits!" The teacher's crutch slammed down, his voice cracking like thunder.
John didn't have the breath to look over, just stared at the ceiling and forced his body through the last few reps. Sweat stung his eyes, vision blurring. His abs seized up like they were tearing apart.
"Flip the tire. Ten reps each. If you can't, forget surviving."
The truck tire loomed huge. John gripped the rim, sucked in air, every muscle straining. His back screamed, but he dug in, teeth clenched, and rolled it. The massive tire lifted, veins popping across his arms.
The other students gave everything just to budge it. One's eyes went bloodshot, nose spraying red as the vessels burst. Another, juiced up on steroids, turned purple in the neck and collapsed halfway through his first roll, chest heaving like it would explode.
John barely glanced at them, just went into his second roll.
"No Pain, No Gain!" The teacher's raspy roar cracked across the yard like thunder.
It became the drumbeat of the session. Students groaned, cried, puked, but all he said was, "No pain, no progress."
Next came the plank. Sixty seconds that felt like an hour. Core spasming, arms shaking, sweat dripping into puddles on the cement. In his head, only the rhythm remained—one, two, one, two—like needles pricking at his will.
"Switch sides. One arm up."
His body howled, back arching, vision swimming. He clenched his teeth and held. Around him, students dropped like dominoes, faces pale, some twitching on the ground.
"Up! No one falls down!"
The command hammered through them, dragging even those who'd vomited back to their knees.
Jump squats, weights, rope climbs, resistance pulls. Every move felt like tearing flesh. John's breath rasped raw, every muscle fiber shaking on the edge of snapping. But he kept going, because with stats at 35, he could reach limits most people couldn't even imagine.
The bodybuilders in class, usually smug about their swollen muscles, finally learned what a 10-point gap meant. Their bodies cracked, veins spiderwebbing, joints popping. They downed whey, pumped steroids, but standing next to John, they looked like plastic dummies.
The teacher sat back in his chair, silver eyes unreadable, crutch tapping like a conductor leading a symphony of pain.
Only when the sun sank west did the session end.
John dropped to the ground, hands braced on his knees, breath hissing like fire. His muscles felt torn apart and stitched back together, his whole body trembling.
The teacher stepped up, a strange light flashing in those silver eyes. He nodded, voice low and rough."You endured. Remember this. No Pain, No Gain. If you want to live, get used to this pain."
John looked up, eyes bloodshot, lips curling into a faint grin.
Before dismissing the class, the teacher pulled a small notebook from his pocket and tossed it to him."You. Take it. Personal training plan. Nutrition's seventy percent of success."
John caught it and flipped it open.
Page one: Boiled chicken breast.Page two: Pan-seared chicken breast.Page three: Chicken breast salad.Pages four, five, six… still chicken breast, just different methods—shredded, mixed with yogurt, grilled over charcoal.
His eye twitched. So the teacher wasn't just a training demon, he was the high priest of the Chicken Breast Cult.
Dismissed. John dragged himself to the gate, not even glancing at his bike. Instead, he waved down a cab straight to the supermarket.
An hour later, at checkout, his cart overflowed with chicken breast. Bags stacked high like he was opening a diner.
The cashier frowned at him."You… opening a chicken place?"
The guard nearby smirked."Or feeding some kind of giant pet?"
John didn't answer, just gave a pained smile. How could he explain this was his teacher's assigned "study material"?
Out the door, ten kilos of chicken in hand, shoulders aching. People stared, whispering. A kid pointed and shouted,"Mom! That guy's gotta be… Chicken Superman!"
John clenched his teeth, only one line echoing in his head.No Pain, No Gain.
The road to becoming a warrior wasn't just sweat and muscle. It was also paved with the bland taste of chicken breast, day after day.