The sky dimmed into a dull gray, the kind that turned the entire city into a muted watercolor painting. Ares Locke stood at the far end of the stadium field, his hands resting on his knees, breath burning like fire in his throat.
Rowan Vale's voice echoed sharply across the open space.
"Again."
Ares swallowed, wiped the sweat running into his eyes, and pushed himself upright.
His legs felt like steel dipped in acid—heavy, shaking, and raw.
But he stepped toward the cones anyway.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The ball moved obediently at first… until his left foot slipped slightly on a patch of damp grass.
The ball rolled too far. Off-line.
Rowan clicked his tongue disapprovingly.
"That's an error."
Ares clenched his jaw.
He wanted to scream that his legs were giving out, that he hadn't eaten since dawn, that he still hadn't recovered from last night's brutal training.
But he didn't.
He simply walked back to the start.
Rowan crossed his arms.
"Again."
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Ares's feet trembled as he tried to maintain tight control. His vision blurred around the edges. His lungs compressed painfully.
A small wobble.
Another touch too strong.
Another error.
Rowan didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"Do you want to fail the Trials?"
Ares stopped breathing for a moment.
Then he whispered, "No."
"Then again."
The word felt like a blade carving into his spine.
But he did it.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Turn.
Tap.
He repeated the sequence again and again, each repetition more painful than the last. His legs buckled. His shoulders sagged. Sweat dripped from his chin to the grass below.
Three errors.
Six errors.
Ten.
Rowan's voice struck like lightning.
"You'll never survive the Trials at this rate."
Ares froze mid-touch.
Something dark twisted in his gut.
Not anger.
Fear.
Fear that Rowan was right. Fear that thirty days wouldn't be enough. Fear that his body wasn't enough.
Fear… that he wasn't enough.
His breath caught as the system chimed faintly.
DING.
⸻
Reader Emotion Detected: Concern
Minor Boost Activated: Unyielding Spark (Lv. 1) extended by 10 seconds
⸻
Ares let the warmth spread through his limbs.
But it was small.
Fleeting.
Not enough.
He needed more.
He stepped back into position.
Rowan watched him carefully this time, expression unreadable.
Ares inhaled deeply, set up the ball, and began again.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
His legs screamed, but something inside him—something buried deep—pressed forward.
Tap.
Tap.
Focus.
Control.
Precision.
Halfway through the pattern, a sharp pain stabbed into his right calf. His body jerked instinctively.
The ball rolled too far.
Error.
Ares staggered but caught himself before falling.
Rowan's voice cut through the silence.
"You're overexerting. Stop for the day."
"No."
Ares's voice was ragged.
"I can keep going."
Rowan raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
Ares grit his teeth.
"Because the people who go to the Trials… they're not going to slow down. They're not going to pity me. If I stop now… what's the point of even trying?"
Rowan studied him quietly.
Lightning cracked in the distance.
Ares straightened despite the pain.
His chest heaved. His elbows quivered. But his eyes—
His eyes blazed.
Rowan exhaled slowly, almost like he respected the stubbornness even if he found it foolish.
"Fine," he said. "Then show me something that proves you deserve to continue."
Ares closed his eyes for one second.
One second to gather every shred of resolve he had left.
Then he took his position again.
When he started this drill, each touch was mechanical. Forced.
Now—
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
His motions flowed more naturally.
Tap.
Turn.
He kept the ball nearly glued to his feet. His breathing synced with his movements. His body fought him, yes—but his determination crushed the weakness trying to pull him down.
Halfway through the pattern… he slipped again.
But he didn't let the ball escape.
He lunged, tapping it back under control at the last microscopic moment.
Rowan's eyebrows rose slightly.
Ares continued the sequence.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
His calf throbbed like fire.
Tap.
His knee nearly buckled.
Tap.
His lungs spasmed.
Tap.
He made it to the end.
He stared at the ball, chest heaving, sweat dripping off his chin.
No errors.
Rowan said nothing for a long while.
Then—
"…Again."
Ares smiled through the pain.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The rhythm of a future he refused to let go of.
—
Hours passed. Clouds thickened. The sun dimmed to nothing.
Finally, after Ares completed five clean sequences in a row, Rowan raised a hand.
"That's enough."
Ares collapsed backward onto the grass, panting like someone who had outrun death.
Rowan approached, kneeling beside him.
"You need to understand something, Ares."
Ares lifted his head weakly.
Rowan's voice softened—not warm, but less harsh.
"You don't have the luxury of talent. You don't have the background. You don't have someone paving your way. All you have… is this."
He tapped Ares's chest.
"Your will. Use it. Hone it. Break it if you must. But if you ever walk into the Trials uncertain of yourself even once—" Rowan paused, eyes sharp.
"—you will lose."
Ares swallowed hard.
"I won't lose."
Rowan stood.
"We'll see."
Before Ares could respond—
DING.
A new panel appeared.
⸻
Quest Completed: Impress Rowan Vale
Reward Granted: Minor Physical Stat Boost
Reward (Random Passive): Pain Conversion (Lv. 1)
⸻
Ares blinked at the description.
⸻
Pain Conversion (Lv. 1)
Effect: When the host experiences physical pain, a small portion is converted into willpower-based stat reinforcement.
⸻
Ares felt his pulse hammer.
That was… perfect.
A skill made exactly for someone like him.
Someone who trained until collapse.
Someone who had nothing but endurance.
Someone who refused to break.
Ares sat slowly upright, staring at his hands.
"This… this is my path," he whispered.
Rowan called from the gate.
"Don't forget. Same time tomorrow."
Ares nodded as he pushed himself back to his feet.
His legs trembled violently.
But his eyes—
His eyes were steady steel.
He looked back at the empty field.
Back at the cones.
Back at the challenge waiting for him.
Then he whispered to himself—
"Tomorrow… I'll be better."
And for the first time since awakening the system, he felt the faint hum of reader attention rising again.
Not pity.
Not concern.
But anticipation.
Hope.
The first sparks of belief.