His name was 3 millionth in the queue, and dropping one to two thousand per day.
Humanity was only winning one, sometimes two fights per week.
Out of thousands.
He had around 5 and a half years to prepare, if things stayed as they are. In reality, he had significantly less, as the average fight length had been getting shorter every day, even if only by fractions of a second at a time. If the acceleration kept up, the rate at which fights end would surpass the birth rate of the earth in a little over two years.
The gods, if they even were that, had given the world magic a few years ago and said humanity must fight some other sapient race from another planet, called the fraxions, in a series of 1v1 battles until only one race remained. In the beginning, both races were winning about half the time. The fraxions had superior bodies, but earth had superior technology. People with guns on-hand went on long winning sprees, those without died. It wasn't a year into the melee when the fraxions figured out magic to a high enough degree that they could deflect bullets away from them.
Initially, it wasn't consistent. They won maybe 5% of fights involving guns, up from losing every fight in one shot until the human's ammo ran out. It wasn't another month before guns became completely obsolete, slowly piling up in the arena until the newest fraxion ran out of mana and its spoils disappeared with it.
Tuning in to see the fights on what amounted to magic TV was... gruesome. A human and a big, centaur-like creature with a thick armor plating, spiky wrists, and retractable mouth armor in place of lips appear in a clearing in some woods somewhere. A few fractions of a second later, the human is trapped in rock or tied up by vines growing from the grass or whatever this week's fraxion's favorite binding method is, then gored using their wrist spikes as they barely manage to escape their bindings. They run, usually shooting whatever magic and/or guns they brought with them at the fraxion, only to be chased down.
The lucky ones die to the first strike.
The unlucky ones have to fight through blood loss while running for their lives and shooting backwards, only to be eviscerated into a bloody mess on the ground.
Over time, you get come to learn the current fraxion by its slightly differently colored armor or some scar from a pre-arena fight. Occasionally, the human in the fight is able to get a single wound on the fraxion and they become a little more distinct, until their wounds finally pile up enough to result in death, whatever human happens to be up this time gets a lucky shot, or the fraxion runs out of mana.
It took less than 30 seconds.
Luke had decided enough was enough.
He'd been sitting in this dingy old bar, hardly anyone else but him and the barkeep, for the last hour, just staring at the screen. Watching people die. People he didn't know, but that probably had families that cared about them and almost definitely had a few friends that would mourn their death.
He placed some money on the bar, stood up, and left.
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On the bus ride home, Luke began his research. He checked up on the history of Adrian Walker, the most dominant magic boxer in the world. He takes any and all challenges thrown his way, no matter how little money or obviously outmatched his opponents would be. His record is impressive, even with his high-powered peers challenging him every few months between all the obvious beforehand dominations.
He had two losses, one draw, and 784 wins. In a four year career, that's a fight every other day, sometimes multiple days in a row of fights. His willingness to take on any and all challengers has lead to many up and comers testing their mettle against him. Many consider round count against Adrian to be a better gauge of prowess than a magic boxer's actual rankings; though, obviously, as those ranking still exist and do not match up perfectly to a boxer's round count, the WMBA - World Magical Boxing Association - does not agree.
The first loss was against his first ever opponent, when he had just learned magic and was new to boxing as a whole, let alone magical boxing. His second match was the longest break between fights he's had in his entire career, an entire 22 days, ending in a draw against the then ranked 428th super middleweight, going the whole 12 rounds and ending with a win, draw, and loss decision from the judges.
Then he went on a 274 win streak. Between lower-rated boxers trying their hand at the newbie's ranking and higher-rated boxers from lower weight classes seeing if they'd feel comfortable bulking up to go to his weight class, and even the occasional challenge he dished out at those from higher weight classes, he boxed his way into the top 25 of the super middleweight class, then meticulously took down each and every one of the top 19 down one by one, in ranking order, on back-to-back days as a publicity stunt.
Everyone thought he would stop there, having obtained the Super Middleweight champion title, and slow down his rate of accepting challenges. If anything, he sped up, as other boxers wanted to try for the champion title, or to take down this boxing maniac for themselves.
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His second ever loss was against the then heavyweight super champion, as his 277th fight. Given he was fighting up four weight divisions, everyone expected him to go down without too much of a fight. People weren't even really sure why the match was allowed, as he'd never fought anyone from the heavyweight class ranked above 80, and even that fight was a slog he won by judges' decision. Against the heavyweight super champion, as a super middleweight, he went down in the last thirty seconds of the 11th round, only three and a half minutes before it would have had to have gone to a judges' decision.
The rematch 3 months later was completely one sided, with Adrian Walker downing the previous super champion twice in the first round, then knocking him out cold in the first half of the second.
He was the last human to last over 10 minutes against a fraxion, having had his time in the world arena just over three months ago.
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"You sure you want to commission these? You don't look that well off, no offense. I don't want you to end up falling into debt just to get a small boost to your spellcasting," a woman said. Her already short, uneven, and unkempt hair was kept off her forehead with various small hair snaps. Her cheek bones, forehead, and solid green clothes had a thin sheet of some sort of dust on them, though her hands were pristine, speaking of someone working with dusty or smoky materials.
"I'm sure," Luke said. "Adrian Walker recommended this place, Rhonda, saying they were the best potions and pills he ever had."
The owner of a small alchemist shop looked skeptical as she replied, "First I've ever heard of that. Besides, Walker died three months ago, no way he could have recommended this dinky little place to you, let alone would have. We all know Dixon Potioneers was his supplier."
"The interview he had after his blitz through the super middleweight top 19. He stated that the best pills he ever had were from some small alchemist from somewhere he couldn't remember at that time. Some small shop that meets the description of yours, in Iowa, a location he would have been in around that time. Paraphrased, he said the only reason he didn't become a repeat customer here was because he needed a higher degree of healing than your total output could support. 200 potions that heal 40% of the damage would be 80 of your potions.
"I wouldn't be able to afford 200 Dixon potions. Given what I have planned, 80 of your potions, even at 50% higher cost, should be enough."
"40%? You undersell my abilities. If Dixon slop is even 10% as good as my potions, I'll take 20% off your price," Rhonda prickled.
"No need for that," Luke says, taking out a rolled up wad of hundred dollar bills, held together with a rubber band, totaling $12800. "I'm paying in advance."
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Luke laid upon a black bench, performing bench presses. The arms of a day-drinker unable to fully lift even his own body weight, a total of 80 pounds on the bar, and struggling to properly lift even that. After his 5th set of 5 reps, he put the bar back in its place and sat up, picking up, before promptly taking a sip from, a metal thermos. He grunted a bit and panted aggressively as the potion inside rapidly accelerated his body's natural healing. His muscles rippled as they gained the full benefit of an entire week's rest - with none of the downside of inactivity that should come with it - from a single sip of Rhonda's first potion.
"You are by far the weakest man to hire me, boy," a man said, watching Luke pant. The man's wrinkles told of his age, but his muscular body and great posture spoke of an active lifestyle, while his blue shirt and tan pants were well-kept.
"You are also - ha - the best in the industry, Sho- huuu - Schoeberts, according to decades of testimony - hhhhhh - from various weight lifters, pre-magic. I know my - haaa - my request isn't in your regular wheelhouse, but - ha - but your experience alone should be enough to craft a better plan than I could," Luke said between breaths.
"Doesn't hurt that you paid for ten visits in advance. Now, again. I need to see how your muscles have reacted to a good rest and strengthening."
Luke complied. Over the rest of the day, he was guided through various exercises and weight lifts. Three times each, with a sip of the potion after each, and a full meal between exercises to replenish the energy and mass the potions pushed his muscles to use. With the knowledge of how Luke's body reacted to various exercises, Schoeberts created a daily exercise plan for Luke to follow.
"I'll see you in three weeks. We'll reassess and discuss changes then," Schoeberts said.
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"I don't think you're cut out for this," a woman says. Her long hair was neat and hung loosely behind her shoulders. She wore a solid blue shirt with purple pants, both of which hung loosely on her body, her pants kept up by a drawstring running through the waist of the pants, which she let hang out. The length of the draw string outside her pants was the only hint toward her true body size underneath the multiple size too large clothing.
"Your explanations don't really help. Do you have 3D printers or something? Something to visually look at would help a lot," Luke replied.
"Performing magic is a deeply personal thing. Even if I handed you the blueprints to creating a basic fireball, you wouldn't be able to cast it right away. It takes a specific mindset to be able to even get a small gust of wind, a certain sense of peace with and degree of surety in oneself is needed to keep the entire spell in your mind at once without anything distracting you from the process.
"And even if you could enter that state of mind with your current self-esteem, you would not be able to sustain the draw it takes upon your body, except maybe the most minor spells. I've seen the effects of magic on the unprepared. I've smelled the decaying flesh of those who had the right mindset, but unprepared body. Nothing can heal magic overdraw, not even the Saint while he was still around."
"Bless his teachings," they both say in tandem.
"So what would you have me do, Laura?" Luke asks. "I'm already working on my body."
"Get a therapist. I'm not one myself, but I do know a few meditations that could help take your mind off your worries for a while. Some find their peace through them, though therapy is usually better, and the surety in oneself is something only you will know, and only after you've already found it. It's not a matter of pure self-esteem, but a confidence - almost arrogance - that you not only can succeed, but will. A trust in yourself that only comes from experience, built in drops, lost in buckets."