The burn in Jimmy’s chest was long gone. A month of daily push-ups had turned the once unfamiliar ache into just another part of his routine. Now, sweat rolled down his face as he powered through the last few reps like a machine.

“98… 99… 100.”

He pushed himself off the freezing stone floor of the Cryotherm Vault’s boss chamber and stood, rolling his shoulders. A glance down at his arms brought a smirk to his face. Where he once had scrawny limbs built for marathon gaming sessions, he now saw corded muscle, definition in every line of his frame. Chiseled chest? Check. Abs sharp enough to cut shadows? Double-check. Thick forearms that could crush cans or skulls? Absolutely.

Jimmy muttered under his breath, flexing. “Bet Chad from high school isn’t rocking these gains.”

His internal bragging was interrupted by the sight of the open treasure chest nearby, the one he’d popped after the boss fight. Inside lay the usual fare: a few glowing stat-boosting items, a mana vial, and a sword that looked way cooler than it actually was. Mini-bosses were like glorified loot dispensers at this point. Not that he was complaining—he wasn’t here for the shinies.

He was here for the grind.

And the Frostheart Drake? That fight had been a grind. The thing had come at him with freezing fog so cold it froze his dodges mid-step, then lit its scales on fire to melt through his blade strikes. All while he was still catching his breath from clearing two floors of traps and icy ambushes.

But that was the deal, wasn’t it? No growth without pain. No Core upgrades without battles that left him gasping. And in some messed-up way, he loved it. He loved earning the power he could feel in his veins now.

“Break’s over,” Jimmy muttered, dropping into a squat. His legs burned, but he didn’t stop, sinking into the rhythm of movement. Each rep was steady, focused, his Core pulsing faintly with each rise and fall. His mind wandered as his muscles worked.

One more Mini Land. That was all that stood between him and unlocking the first major hub. Each bridge between Mini Lands fed his Core, a pulse of raw energy that sharpened his strikes and steadied his dodges. But lately, that progression had slowed to a crawl. Every level, every Tier took more work than the last, and he could feel the wall closing in. His Core was nine Tiers deep now, but every step toward Tier 10 felt like wading through mud.

“Gonna need another Manual of Blade Disciples,” Jimmy grunted, his voice muffled by exertion. He hadn’t seen one since Frostwood Grove —a rare drop that had singlehandedly pushed him forward back when his attacks felt clumsy and raw. He wanted that edge back, the sense of progress that had been so addictive. Hell, he’d even take another round of that brutal body-tempering trial if it meant breaking this plateau.

When did this happen? When did he go from being the lazy, snack-fueled gamer to this—a dude obsessed with chasing strength? The realization didn’t bother him. It felt… right.

“98… 99… 100.”

He stood, shaking out his legs as the burn faded. Without stopping, he dropped onto his back for sit-ups. The rhythm kicked in again, his body moving automatically.

Land Three had been the turning point. The Shaded Valley had nearly killed him. Shadows clawing at him from every corner, ambushes out of nowhere, enemies that punished every mistake. He’d barely scraped by, learning the hard way how to keep his cool in the chaos.

Land Four, the Thorned Hollow, had been worse. Creatures there shrugged off his basic strikes like they were mosquito bites. He’d been forced to adapt, learning how to infuse his Core energy into every swing. By the time he reached Land Five—the Echoing Ruins—he was soloing dungeon bosses. Each fight felt like a test, pushing him further, demanding more from him than the last.

“99… 100.”

System Notification:

Quest Complete—Basic Training

Objective Complete: 100 push-ups, 100 squats, 100 sit-ups.

Reward:

Strength +2

Dexterity +2

Vitality +1

Jimmy popped open his status screen, the familiar blue interface glowing in front of him.

Status: Jimmy Holloway

Level: 22

Title: Pioneer of the Blade (+15% Dexterity)

Class: Blade Disciple

Core: [E] Core (Earth, Tier 9)

Core Progression: 42% (toward Tier 10)

Essence: 2400

Core Stats:

Strength: 110

Dexterity: 128

Intelligence: 18

Vitality: 45

Skills:

Vehemence (Active)

Empowered Aura (Passive)

Basic Attack Lv 6

He closed the screen and gave himself another once-over. The longer hair and rougher edges suited him. His hoodie, reinforced and scarred from countless battles, was a massive upgrade from the cheap one he’d started with. The row of potions clipped to his belt clinked softly as he moved, a constant reminder of how much smarter he’d gotten about fighting. He wasn’t charging in blind anymore. He’d learned to adapt. To fight smart.

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Jimmy grinned at his reflection in the frozen metal of his blade. Yeah. He was ready for the next step.

The bridge to Frostveil’s End was eerily quiet. Normally, crossing these bridges came with a rush of Core energy, a pulse that made him feel like a superhero stepping into a new chapter of his story. But now? Nothing. Just silence.

Jimmy flexed his fingers, frowning as he tried to pull something—anything—from his Core. But it stayed quiet, like it had checked out for the day. Worse, the air felt heavy. Oppressive, even.

Ahead of him stretched a massive frozen lake, smooth as glass under a sky that looked washed-out and dead. No dungeon markers. No mobs. Just a single mound of earth poking out of the center of the ice, like a misplaced island.

“This isn’t creepy at all,” Jimmy muttered, stepping cautiously onto the ice. His boots cracked against the surface, each step echoing painfully loud in the emptiness.

As he got closer, the mound came into focus. A cracked stone basin sat on top of it, filled with a dark liquid that swirled as if it were alive. Jimmy slowed, his instincts screaming at him to back off.

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:

ANOMALY DETECTED.

The words blinked across his vision, sharp and urgent. But Jimmy couldn’t stop himself. The basin pulled at him, a magnetic force that made his breath hitch. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out despite the warnings blaring in his mind.

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION:

ANOMALY DETECTED—DO NOT PROCEED.

The second alert hit like a hammer, but it didn’t matter. Curiosity overrode caution. He dipped his fingers into the liquid.

Instantly, cold shot up his arm, not just freezing but consuming, like it was dragging him into something far beyond his comprehension. He tried to pull back, but the liquid gripped him, pulling him under.

When Jimmy opened his eyes, he was kneeling on dirt. His hands were smaller, rougher. His body ached in ways that didn’t make sense. He staggered to his feet, looking around at a soot-covered town under an oppressive gray sky. Demons loomed, cracking whips to keep hollow-faced people in line. A tall man beside him—battered, tired, but kind—placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him.

“Stay close,” the man murmured, his voice rough but warm. Jimmy nodded, gripping a pickaxe too big for his small hands. He didn’t know why, but this felt… familiar. He trudged forward, the mine’s dark maw swallowing him whole.

Jimmy nodded, a small, instinctive gesture, as the man’s words settled over him. The faint flicker of a smile on the man’s face wasn’t much, just a glimmer of something almost forgotten—hope trying to survive in the shadow of despair.

“Won’t be too long,” the man said, his voice rough and uneven, more for his own sake than Jimmy’s. It was the kind of thing people said when the truth was too heavy to carry. Jimmy didn’t answer. He just reached out and grabbed the handle of the pickaxe leaning against the wall.

It was bigger than it had any right to be, heavy and cold, the wood rough against his too-small hands. He tightened his grip, feeling the weight of it settle into his arms, and fell in line with the others. The workers moved like a funeral procession, heads down, shuffling forward without a word. No one dared to speak. Words had no place here.

The entrance to the mine yawned wide, its black maw swallowing them one by one. The air inside was thick and sour, clinging to his throat and lungs like oil. Each step deeper made the dim light above feel further away until there was nothing left but shadow and the steady rhythm of pickaxes striking stone.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Jimmy swung the pickaxe, the motion clumsy and unfamiliar. The first strike sent a jolt through his arms, sharp and unforgiving, rattling his small frame. His muscles screamed in protest, his hands raw against the splintered wood, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Around him, the others worked like machines, their faces hollow, eyes fixed on the stone in front of them. No one complained. No one paused.

Beside him, the man swung his own pickaxe. His movements were slower, more deliberate, each swing followed by a shallow, rattling cough that seemed to shake his entire body. Jimmy watched him out of the corner of his eye, saw the way his shoulders slumped with exhaustion but never stopped moving. There was something steady about him, something that made Jimmy’s own arms move even when they felt like they’d give out.

Time didn’t exist in the mine. There was only the rock, the dust, and the weight of the pickaxe in his hands. Each swing chipped away at the stone, but it also chipped away at him. His breaths grew shallow, his chest tight, his arms trembling with every strike. The dust clung to his skin, his hair, his clothes, filling his nose and mouth with every breath.

The man never looked at him, but his presence was enough. The quiet determination in his swings, the way he stood tall even as his body sagged—Jimmy found himself matching the rhythm, pushing through the pain. There was no explanation for it, no logical reason why the man’s perseverance felt like it was spilling over into Jimmy. It just… did.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Jimmy lost himself in the rhythm, his mind slipping into a strange haze. He wasn’t just watching the man work; he felt it. Every ache in the man’s shoulders, every cough that rattled his ribs, every ounce of grit that kept him moving—it all bled into Jimmy like they were sharing the same struggle. It didn’t feel like a memory. It felt real. Too real.

The mine wasn’t just a place—it was a weight pressing down on his chest, a suffocating darkness that crawled under his skin and filled his lungs. The demons watching from the shadows didn’t need whips or threats; the endless grind of the work was enough to break anyone.

By the time they climbed out of the mine, Jimmy’s entire body felt like it was on fire. His arms hung heavy at his sides, his hands blistered and raw. Every step was a battle, his feet dragging across the dirt as he followed the others into the pale gray light. The sky above was thick with ash and soot, blocking out any sign of the sun.

The man’s hand found his shoulder, a steady weight that kept Jimmy upright. The warmth of it cut through the haze of exhaustion, grounding him, giving him just enough strength to keep moving. Jimmy didn’t pull away. He leaned into the touch, letting it guide him forward.

They reached a small cell at the far end of a row of cramped, dimly lit rooms. The man ducked inside, and Jimmy followed, sinking down onto the thin layer of straw covering the floor. The walls were cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and stayed there, but Jimmy didn’t care. He pressed close to the man, searching for whatever warmth he could find.

The man wrapped an arm around him, pulling him in tight. His rough, calloused hand rested on Jimmy’s head, gentle but firm, like a shield keeping the dark at bay. For the first time that day, Jimmy let himself relax. The man’s slow, labored breaths filled the silence, grounding him, keeping his thoughts from slipping into the void of fatigue.

It didn’t matter that his muscles ached, that his hands were raw, that every breath felt like it carried a piece of the mine’s suffocating air. Here, in this small, freezing cell, with the man’s arm around him, Jimmy felt something he hadn’t expected: safety. This moment, this closeness—it felt… right.

The silence stretched on, broken only by the sound of breathing. Then the man’s voice came, soft and rough, barely louder than a whisper.

“I know things are hard,” he murmured, his words slow and deliberate, like each one carried more weight than it should. “But you’re strong. Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”

The words hit Jimmy like a spark in the darkness, lighting something deep inside him. He didn’t know why, but they mattered. More than anything else in this strange, suffocating place, they mattered. His fingers tightened around the man’s hand, holding on like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

Strong. He wanted to be strong. For himself. For the man beside him. For whatever was waiting for him beyond this place.

He didn’t speak. Words felt too small, too fragile to hold what he was feeling. Instead, he held on, letting the man’s presence anchor him, letting the promise of those words sink into his chest like a lifeline.

And in the cold, empty room, Jimmy let himself hope.