Marcus's breathing settled.
Leaning against the base of a shelf, his left arm pressed hard against the wound in his abdomen. Blood still seeped, but the flow had slowed. He could feel the fabric soaked through, heavy, clinging to his skin with a chill. His right hand rested at his side, fingertips two centimeters from the floor, trembling slightly.
The panel hovered in the lower-right corner of his vision.
[Endurance Training: 0.7%]
The number ticked upward. Not fast, but steady. He stared at it as if gazing into a crack in the ground — each heartbeat nudged the value higher.
He began adjusting his breathing.
Inhale — slow, deep, entering through the nose, expanding his lungs; hold — one second, two seconds, muscles taut; exhale — even slower, pushing the air out through his mouth bit by bit. The motion tugged at the wound; beneath his ribs felt like an iron hook dragging back and forth. But he didn't stop.
He knew the pain counted.
So long as he could feel it, the system would record it.
He lifted his right hand, elbow brushing the floor, gradually raising his arm. His shoulder gave a muffled pop; muscles spasmed. The effort drained most of his remaining strength. He ignored it, kept pushing until his fist hovered in the air.
He threw a punch.
Distance: less than ten centimeters. Stiff, like rusted machinery. The punch stalled halfway, his arm shaking badly. But he completed the motion.
The panel refreshed.
[Straight Punch: 3/500]
[Boxing Proficiency LV1 (0.8/1000)]
He didn't gasp, didn't relax. Left hand still pressed the wound; right hand slowly retracted, then threw a second punch.
Same range, same rhythm. Shoulder nerves screamed, but he gritted his molars and forced the motion through.
[Straight Punch: 4/500]
Third punch.
Fourth punch.
Fifth punch.
Each was short, weak, like a child slapping a sandbag. But he kept going. Sweat broke out, cold sweat mingling with blood, soaking his clothes. He ignored it.
He focused only on the numbers.
Sixth. Seventh. Eighth.
Breathing grew steadier. A cold current flowed up his spine; with each punch, it strengthened. Neither hot nor warm — just there, like an electric current threading through his bones.
Ninth. Tenth.
Before his punch even returned, his chest tightened. Mid-exhale, his torso contracted violently, muscles locking straight in an instant — as if an internal bow had been drawn to its limit.
His right fist launched uncontrollably.
This punch was faster and fiercer than any before. Power erupted through his entire arm; his fist struck the wooden frame beside the cashier counter.
Crack!
The frame snapped in two; the upper half toppled, hitting the floor, coins scattering. Dust rose, settling on his face; he didn't wipe it.
He looked at his hand.
Knuckles skinned, blood streaking out. His fist still trembled, muscles burning. He knew that blow hadn't come purely from him — it was his body responding to the system, the compression of countless futile punches and the resolve to rise after each beating.
The panel flashed three lines:
[Boxing Proficiency +3]
[Strength Application Breaks Critical Threshold]
[Explosive Output Record Achieved]
He said nothing.
Slowly lowering his fist to his knee, he saw the skin over the stump flicker with blue light, synchronized with his heartbeat.
He closed his eyes.
Opened them.
The blue in his right pupil was steady.
He knew he couldn't stand yet — wounds too severe, strength nearly gone. But he didn't need to stand. He only needed to move his fingers, to throw punches, even if just an inch.
Eleventh punch.
Twelfth. Thirteenth.
Movements still small, but the rhythm had changed — no longer pure willpower, but a kind of momentum. Muscles began memorizing the frequency; nerves adapted. Each punch lasted half a second longer than the last.
Numbers crept upward.
[Straight Punch: 7/500]
[Endurance Experience +5]
[Stamina LV0 → 1.2%]
He felt the change in his body — not a sudden surge, but accumulation. Like grains of sand forming a tower: each one insignificant, but together, they held.
He paused his breath for two seconds.
Started again.
Inhale — slow.
Hold — steady.
Exhale — complete.
Fourteenth punch. Fifteenth. Sixteenth.
Shoulder pain sharpened, but he'd learned to find rhythm within it. He no longer avoided it; he treated it as a signal. The sharper the pain, the more real the force — and the system recognized that.
[Straight Punch: 9/500]
[Boxing Proficiency LV1 (1.4/1000)]
He shifted his left hand from the wound just long enough to grab the bloodstained cloth, refold it, press it back. The motion jostled his insides; vision dimmed. He waited seconds for it to clear, then punched again.
Seventeenth. Eighteenth. Nineteenth.
The cold current returned — this time not just from the stump, but rising from the base of his spine, surging to his shoulder blades. Back muscles tensed as if activated. This punch traveled smoother, force transmitted more completely.
[Straight Punch: 10/500]
He didn't stop.
Twentieth. Twenty-first. Twenty-second.
He stopped counting. He only knew he had to keep punching. So long as he could move, he had to. The night's pain, the blood on his body — none of it could be wasted. He had to turn it into something.
Into fists.
Into strength.
Into the right to survive.
On his twenty-fifth punch, the lower half of the wooden frame shook — vibration from the previous blow had loosened it. He didn't look, didn't pause. Kept punching.
Twenty-sixth. Twenty-seventh. Twenty-eighth.
The cold current surged a third time, pausing at his shoulder joint as if waiting. At the peak of his exhale, muscles locked to the limit — his right fist exploded outward.
Not by his intent.
By his body's will.
Faster, lower trajectory, carrying crushing downward force. His fist struck the broken frame.
Bang!
The board shattered; nails flew, some embedding in the wall before bouncing to the floor.
The panel flashed repeatedly:
[Boxing Proficiency +4]
[Endurance Experience +6]
[Stamina LV0 → 1.8%]
He looked at his hand — knuckles bruised and bleeding, a drop falling onto the panel, making the numbers flicker but not vanish.
He knew this punch was different.
Earlier bursts had been accidental; this one was sustained. The link between system and body had deepened. He no longer needed to think about howto punch — his body was learning on its own.
Lowering his hand to his thigh, he slowed his breathing.
Ready for another round.
This time, he first steadied his breath: inhale four seconds, hold two, exhale six. After three cycles, he raised his hand and threw the first punch.
Still short, but smoother. Shoulder, elbow, wrist began synchronizing. Amplitude small, but force transmission clearer.
Second punch. Third. Fourth.
The cold current flowed through his arm, guiding muscles along the correct path. He didn't resist it — just followed.
Fifth. Sixth. Seventh.
On the seventh punch, his right shoulder warmed — not burning, not pain, but a sense of fullness. The moment it landed, the panel prompted:
[Repetitive Effective Force Detected]
[Straight Punch Proficiency Efficiency Increased]
[Current Bonus: +0.3%]
No reaction. Just a nod. Then eighth, ninth, tenth punches.
Time ceased to matter. Outside, the street was silent; wind slipped through the broken door, stirring his hair. He didn't care.
He cared only for breath and fists.
Breath was rhythm.
Fists were answer.
Fifteenth punch — his left hand slipped, cloth shifting, blood seeping anew. He slammed his palm back into place, kept punching.
Sixteenth. Seventeenth. Eighteenth.
The cold current came more frequently. Each punch sent it rushing from the stump up his arm into his shoulder. No longer alien — it felt like returning home.
Twentieth punch — panel flashed:
[Stamina LV0 → 2.1%]
He didn't stop.
Twenty-first. Twenty-second. Twenty-third.
Twenty-fourth punch — right knuckles split again, fresh blood welling. Ignored.
Twenty-fifth. Twenty-sixth. Twenty-seventh.
On the twenty-eighth punch, a faint click echoed deep in his spine — as if a lock disengaged. Cold current surged violently from tailbone to the back of his skull.
His eyes sharpened.
Blue light in his right pupil flared.
Fist blasted forward.
Though aimed at empty air, it produced a sharp whip-crack.
Snap!
The panel danced wildly:
[Boxing Proficiency +5]
[Straight Punch: 11/500]
[Stamina LV0 → 2.6%]
[Explosive Output Record Updated]
He looked at his hand — blood dripping from fingertips, pooling on the floor.
Slowly, he raised his hand and threw an empty punch into the air.
Small motion.
But the air trembled.