Ruho's body was shaking before the first minute even finished.
His forearms pressed into the dirt, already feeling the bite of small rocks and twigs digging into his skin. His elbows were locked at ninety-degree angles, his shoulders burning from the effort of keeping his torso elevated. His core—what little core strength he possessed after eighteen years of doing absolutely nothing athletic—was engaged in a full-scale revolt against his decision-making skills.
Twenty-nine minutes and twelve seconds to go.
"You can do this!" a cheerful voice called out. Ruho couldn't identify which god it was—they were all starting to blur together into one collective audience of divine sadism.
"His form is terrible," someone else commented critically. "Look at that hip position. He's sagging already."
"Give him a break, he's working with one egg," Seria said, her voice tight with concern. "One egg! That's maybe seventy calories if we're being generous!"
"Seventy-two calories on average," another voice corrected pedantically. "Assuming it was a large egg. Could be as low as fifty-five if it was small."
"NOT HELPING!" Ruho gasped out, his breath already coming in short bursts. Sweat was beading on his forehead despite the cool night air. His abs felt like they were being stabbed repeatedly with hot needles.
Twenty-eight minutes, forty seconds.
The shaking in his arms intensified. He tried to focus on something—anything—other than the burning in his muscles. He stared at a patch of dirt in front of his face, counting the individual grains of soil, trying to lose himself in the mundane details. One grain. Two grains. Three grains. His left arm twitched violently. Four grains. Five grains. His right shoulder was starting to cramp.
"Breathe!" Tyrix shouted helpfully. "Don't forget to breathe! Mortals need oxygen!"
"I'm aware!" Ruho snarled through gritted teeth.
Twenty-seven minutes, fifteen seconds.
Someone started a chant. "Hold! Hold! Hold!" Other voices joined in, creating a rhythmic chorus of divine encouragement that would've been motivating if Ruho's entire body wasn't actively trying to quit. His back was starting to arch downward, his hips dipping toward the ground as his core strength faltered.
"Straighten up!" another voice called. "You're losing form!"
Ruho tried to adjust, tried to pull his core tighter, but the movement sent fresh waves of agony through his abdominal muscles. His legs were cramping now too, his calves seizing up, his toes curling involuntarily in his boots.
Twenty-five minutes, thirty seconds.
"This is actually impressive," someone mused. "Given his complete lack of physical conditioning, I expected him to fail within ninety seconds."
"I had two minutes in the betting pool," another voice grumbled. "Come on, collapse already!"
"Don't you dare collapse!" Seria countered. "You're doing amazing! Just keep going!"
Ruho's vision was starting to blur at the edges. The single raw egg in his stomach felt like it was doing absolutely nothing to sustain him. His body was burning through whatever reserves it had left, cannibalizing muscle for energy, and he could feel every second of it.
Twenty-three minutes, forty-five seconds.
His breathing was ragged now, coming in short gasps that didn't seem to bring in enough oxygen. His heart hammered against his ribs—his bruised, aching ribs—and he wondered distantly if it was possible to have a heart attack in the afterlife. Probably. Everything else seemed possible in this nightmare world.
"Looking good!" Tyrix lied cheerfully.
"He's absolutely not looking good," someone else said. "Look at him. He's shaking like a leaf in a hurricane."
Twenty-one minutes, eighteen seconds.
Ruho's left arm gave a particularly violent tremor and he shifted his weight slightly, trying to compensate. The movement threw off his balance and suddenly his right arm was bearing too much weight and his shoulder was screaming and his elbow was buckling and—
He caught himself. Barely. Redistributed the weight. Kept his body elevated. But it was close. Too close.
"Did you see that?!" someone shouted. "He almost went down!"
"But he didn't!" another voice countered. "The mortal's got grit!"
Nineteen minutes, twelve seconds.
The timer seemed to be moving slower. Ruho was convinced time had stopped working properly. There was no way only four minutes had passed. It felt like hours. It felt like years. It felt like his entire existence had condensed down to this single moment of holding his body in this stupid position while gods he couldn't see placed bets on his failure.
His arms were beyond shaking now. They were vibrating, a constant tremor that ran from his shoulders down to his fingertips. His core felt like it was made of wet paper. His legs might as well have been made of jelly. Everything hurt. Everything was wrong. Everything was—
Seventeen minutes, thirty-eight seconds.
"COME ON!" someone screamed. "YOU'RE ALMOST HALFWAY!"
Halfway. Halfway was somehow the most depressing milestone possible. He'd endured all this and he was only halfway done.
Fifteen minutes, forty-four seconds.
Ruho's hips dipped again, lower this time, and he couldn't pull them back up. His core had nothing left. He tried, straining with everything he had, but the muscles simply refused to cooperate. His lower back was arching, his stomach nearly touching the ground, and he knew—he knew—he was about to fail.
His knees brushed the dirt.
"THAT'S IT!" Azirel's voice cut through the divine chatter with unexpected sharpness. "Knees touched the ground! That's a failed plank! Challenge over!"
Ruho's eyes widened in panic and confusion. What? Why was Azirel, of all people, calling him out?
"Wait, wait, wait!" Seria's voice rang out immediately. "That's not a failed plank! That's a modified plank! Knee planks are still planks!"
"Absolutely not!" Azirel shot back. "The challenge was for a plank. A real plank. Full extension. Not some modified, easier version!"
"The terms weren't specific!" Seria argued, her voice rising. "Vexor said 'maintain a plank position.' He didn't specify full plank versus modified plank! A knee plank is still a plank position!"
"It's a completely different exercise!" Azirel countered. "The difficulty level is nowhere near the same! You can't just change the rules mid-challenge!"
Ruho stayed frozen in position, his knees now firmly on the ground, his forearms still supporting his upper body. He was too confused and exhausted to move. Why was Azirel arguing against him? Wasn't Azirel supposed to be on his side? Wasn't Azirel the one who'd brought him here in the first place?
"I'm not changing the rules," Seria said firmly. "I'm interpreting them correctly. The challenge was to maintain a plank for thirty minutes. He's maintaining a plank. A modified plank is still a valid plank variation!"
"By that logic, he could just lie flat on the ground and call it a 'lying down plank,'" Azirel said sarcastically.
"That's not the same and you know it!" Seria snapped. "He's still engaging his core, still keeping his back straight, still holding a legitimate position. The only difference is his knees are providing additional support, which should be allowed given that he's working with seventy calories and a body that's been through massive trauma in the last twenty-four hours!"
"The spirit of the challenge—"
"The spirit of the challenge is to test endurance and will," Seria interrupted. "Which he's clearly demonstrating! Look at him! He's barely conscious and he's still holding position!"
Other voices started chiming in, taking sides.
"I think Seria's right," someone said. "The terms weren't specific enough."
"Azirel has a point though," another countered. "This does seem like cheating."
"It's not cheating if the rules allow for interpretation!"
"But should the rules allow for that much interpretation?"
"Why is Azirel even arguing against his own test subject?" Tyrix asked, sounding genuinely confused. "Isn't that like, a conflict of interest?"
That was exactly what Ruho wanted to know. He tried to speak, tried to ask what the hell Azirel was doing, but all that came out was a wheeze. His arms were still shaking, his core still engaged—or what was left of it—and the timer continued counting down.
Twelve minutes, sixteen seconds.
"I'm arguing against him because the challenge needs to be fair," Azirel said defensively. "If we start allowing modifications and easier versions, then what's the point? The whole reason Vexor offered such a massive reward was because the challenge was supposed to be difficult!"
"The challenge IS difficult!" Seria shot back. "He's starving, injured, and completely untrained! A knee plank for thirty minutes under these conditions is still incredibly challenging!"
"Not as challenging as a full plank!"
"But still challenging enough to merit the reward!"
"That's subjective!"
"Your face is subjective!"
"That doesn't even make sense!"
The argument continued, divine voices overlapping in a cacophony of debate. Some gods argued for strict interpretation, others for lenience. Someone brought up precedent from a challenge three thousand years ago. Someone else cited the Divine Rulebook, Chapter Seven, Subsection B, regarding modifications to physical trials. The discussion devolved into parliamentary procedure, with motions and seconds and points of order that made Ruho's head spin.
He just stayed in his knee plank position, trembling, waiting for someone to make a decision.
Ten minutes, three seconds.
Nine minutes, forty-seven seconds.
Eight minutes, twelve seconds.
The argument raged on. Ruho's arms felt like they were going to fall off. His knees were digging into the dirt, probably acquiring their own set of bruises to match the collection on his chest and back. His forearms were numb. His shoulders were on fire. His entire existence had narrowed down to this position, this moment, this endless debate about whether what he was doing even counted.
Five minutes, thirty-nine seconds.
"Can we please just make a decision?!" someone finally shouted. "The mortal's going to pass out!"
"I vote we allow it!" Seria declared.
"I vote we don't!" Azirel countered.
"I abstain," Tyrix said. "This argument is more entertaining than the actual challenge."
Four minutes, eight seconds.
Three minutes, fifty-two seconds.
"ENOUGH!" Vexor's voice boomed, silencing the divine chatter instantly. The sheer authority in his tone made Ruho flinch, nearly losing his position. "This bickering is beneath us all. I issued the challenge. I shall make the final judgment."
Everyone went silent. Ruho held his breath—what little breath he could hold while his respiratory system was in full crisis mode.
Two minutes, twenty-seven seconds.
"The modified plank," Vexor said slowly, deliberately, "is acceptable."
"WHAT?!" Azirel sputtered. "But—"
"My terms were not specific enough," Vexor continued, his voice brooking no argument. "Seria is correct. A plank is a plank, modified or otherwise. The mortal has demonstrated sufficient will and endurance. When the timer reaches zero, assuming he maintains his current position, I shall grant him his mansion."
Ruho could have cried. Would have cried, if he had any moisture left in his body to spare for tears.
One minute, forty-three seconds.
"Hold on," Seria said gently. "You're almost there. Just a little longer."
Ruho held. His body shook. His muscles screamed. His vision tunneled. But he held.
One minute, twelve seconds.
Fifty-eight seconds.
Forty-three seconds.
The last thirty seconds felt longer than the previous twenty-nine minutes combined. Every second was an eternity. Every heartbeat was a struggle. Every breath was a victory.
Twenty seconds.
Fifteen.
Ten.
"COUNT IT DOWN!" Tyrix shouted, and the other divine voices joined in.
"NINE!"
"EIGHT!"
"SEVEN!"
"SIX!"
"FIVE!"
"FOUR!"
"THREE!"
"TWO!"
"ONE!"
"ZERO!"
The timer hit zero and Ruho collapsed. Just completely gave up, his arms giving out, his body face-planting into the dirt with zero grace or dignity. He lay there, gasping, his entire body a symphony of pain and exhaustion and relief so overwhelming he thought he might actually die. Again.
"Well done, mortal," Vexor's voice said, and there was something that might have been approval in his tone. "You have earned your reward. Where would you like your mansion constructed?"
Ruho tried to speak. Coughed. Tried again. "Somewhere... flat," he wheezed. "Please... just... somewhere flat."
"Then you must find suitable land," Vexor said. "The construction will begin once you have selected a location. I suggest you search soon—the structure will take several hours to manifest."
Several hours. Ruho had to find flat land. Had to get up. Had to move. Had to do something other than lie here like a corpse even though every fiber of his being was begging him to just stay down and sleep for approximately one thousand years.
But a mansion. Thirty thousand square feet. Walls. Roof. Floors. Beds. Maybe even running water, if Vexor was feeling generous with the "fully furnished" promise.
Ruho dragged himself to his feet, swaying dangerously. His legs didn't want to support him. His arms hung limp at his sides. His core felt like it had been replaced with pudding.
But he was standing.
And he was going to find his damn flat land.
He took one shaky step forward, then another, starting his search for a place to build his new home.