[ Stamina: 0% ]
The last rep collapsed out of me like a dying breath. Three sets. Three pathetic, trembling sets that left me folded on the shower tiles, gasping as lukewarm water sluiced grime and failure down the drain.
Every muscle screamed—raw, frayed wires beneath skin stretched too thin. The goal of 2-Star strength mocked me from the haze of steam. Reaching it wouldn't just demand sweat; it would demand pieces of me. Until I could haul this skeletal frame up for two, maybe three pull-ups… until ten push-ups didn't feel like tectonic plates shifting… until I could hold a wall sit for forty-five seconds without my thighs dissolving into jelly… that damned Two-Star stat might as well be on the moon.
A groan escaped, lost in the drumming water. Tomorrow. Oh, tomorrow would be a landscape of exquisite agony. Every fiber I'd tortured today would awaken stiff and vengeful.
I NEED food.
The thought cut through the fog of exhaustion. I needed dense, rebuilding fuel.
Tonight's dinner, tomorrow's lunch. It will be nothing less than a strategic deployment of protein, carbs, and nurturing fats. Yes they would suffice. And supplements… Did this world even have BCAAs? Or any amino acid designed to stitch torn muscles back together? Finding out was suddenly as critical as oxygen. Without them, recovery would be a slow, grinding torture.
I'll take a visit to the shopping district soon. Hoping that my student ID covers bodybuilding goods.
Ah shit...
Pushing upright felt like lifting a mountain. I braced against the slick tiles, water plastering lank hair to my forehead, then finally managed to shut off the flow. The silence roared. Wrapping the thin towel around my waist was an act of profound weariness.
The mirror across the cramped bathroom fogged, but it's truth was etched into my bones anyway. I caught a glimpse – ribs stark as ship timbers beneath damp skin, collarbones sharp enough to cast shadows, shoulders narrow and hollowed. Not just skinny. Consumed. A famine victim draped in parchment. The sheer fragility of it, the way the light seemed to pass through me… it was a quiet horror.
Even my overzealous body of Earth wasn't as bad as this. And I ran on 7 cups of ramen with no exercise back then.
The bed beckoned like salvation. Not opulent, just a simple frame and thin mattress, but right then, it felt like sinking into a cloud. My aching body sighed as it met the surface, the fragile cage of bones finding momentary reprieve.
The plan formed through the haze: Dinner. Immediate, dreamless sleep. Dawn's cruel awakening. Classes. My timetable entered into mental focus – a lifeline back to structure, back to purpose beyond the screaming protest of sinew.
Monday:
8:00 AM: Mathematics
10:00 AM: Theory
12:00 PM: Lunch
1:00 PM: Physics
Tuesday:
10:00 AM: Biology
12:00 PM: Lunch
3:00 PM: History
Wednesday:
8:00 AM: Theory
12:00 PM: Lunch
10:00 AM: Practical
Thursday:
8:00 AM: Mathematics
12:00 PM: Lunch
1:00 PM: History
3:00 PM: Biology
Friday:
10:00 AM: Physics
12:00 PM: Lunch
1:00 PM: Practical
The schedule burned behind my eyelids. A map. A gauntlet. A reminder that strength wasn't just for the gym; it was the currency of survival here. And I was bankrupt.
A groan scrapes its way out of my throat as I drag myself upright. Every muscle protests—each movement a fresh betrayal, each breath a negotiation with the ache radiating through my limbs. Fuck me. Screw today. Damn whatever sadistic deity decided strength had to be carved out of your own flesh.
The academy's casual uniform waits, draped over the chair like a specter of obligation. I reach for it, fingers fumbling with the buttons. A simpler design, but still too ornate for how hollowed-out I feel. Like dressing a corpse for a funeral no one will attend.
I pause, halfway through fastening the last button, and let out a slow, measured breath. The dining hall might as well be on another continent. My legs tremble just thinking about the walk—each step a potential collapse, each corridor a gauntlet. But hunger gnaws at my ribs, sharp and insistent.
Dinner. Right.
I straighten, wincing as my back pops in protest. The mirror across the room offers no comfort: a gaunt stranger stares back, shadows pooled under his eyes, uniform hanging loose where it should sit snug. Pathetic. But the evening bell rings then, its chime slicing through the silence.
Dinner time, baby.
A laugh rasps out of me—dry, humorless. The kind of sound a dying man might make when he realizes death won't even bother to hurry. But I move anyway. One foot in front of the other. That's all it takes. That's all it's ever taken.
And hell, I've crawled through worse for less.
The door groans as I shoulder it open. The stairs of Sylvan stretch down, endless and gleaming under the light, but my body's already shifting into autopilot. No matter the fire in my joints, the way my knees threaten to buckle—I'll drag myself there.
Because if there's one thing this hollowed-out husk still understands, it's hunger.
The academy stands silhouetted against the dying sun, its obsidian walls cutting the burning horizon in two—a razor's edge between daylight and dusk. For a moment, I just stare. The sky bleeds molten gold through the arched windows, painting the towers in liquid fire. It's so real. The way the light fractures across the courtyard cobbles, how the wind carries the scent of pine and damp stone from the distant mountains.
This is a game?
The thought flickers and dies. No simulation could replicate the weight of this air, the way my pulse thrums watching the last sliver of sun vanish behind the academy's spires. A beautiful planet. A cruel one, maybe. But right now, with my body still trembling from today's torture and my soul hollowed out by hunger, I'll take whatever grace it offers.
And grace, today, is spelled food.
The House of Goran Special sits before me like a sacrament—a plate piled high with roast turkey glistening under herb-infused oil, its skin crisped to perfection. Nestled beside it: a mountain of garlic-laced lentils, golden potatoes crushed just enough to soak up the juices, and a tangle of spinach still shimmering with olive oil. The aroma alone is a religious experience—thyme and caramelized meat, the earthy punch of legumes, the bright sting of lemon zest.
I don't pray. But as I lift the first forkful, I make an exception.
The turkey melts. No, dissolves—a cascade of savory-sweet richness that floods my tongue, the kind of flavor that rewires your nervous system. The lentils are velvet, the potatoes a buttery counterpoint, the spinach a crisp, mineral bite. Every chew is a symphony. Every swallow, a benediction.
Somewhere between bites, I realize my eyes are wet.
Thank you, I whisper to whatever god, developer, or any eldritch horror that lies beyond the firmament who dumped me here. Thank you for this.
Because if transmigration has taught me anything, it's that salvation isn't always spelled in grand quests or magic. Sometimes, it's a perfect meal after a day of breaking yourself apart.
And right now? This plate is the closest thing to holy.