After Mark left, Alex returned to his room and crashed on the bed, Ben snoring softly beside him.
The early morning sun barely crept through the curtains.
Alex lay there like a broken statue—his muscles sore, his body screaming silently. He was sprawled out, half-buried in blankets, as if sleep alone could heal whatever war he had been through.
Then—BANG!
A voice pierced the dream haze.
"HEY! IDIOT! WAKE UP! NOW!"
Alex jolted upright like a missile launch. His eyes wild, his body still stiff with exhaustion.
Before he could ask why, Mark grabbed him by the arm and dragged him outside. No explanations. No mercy. Within minutes, Alex found himself shoved into a car, still half-asleep.
They reached the beach edge. The sky was golden and cruel.
"Run," Mark ordered.
And so he did.
Alex ran like hell was chasing him. The sea roared beside him. Media drones hovered nearby, recording every sweaty, gasping second. Sand kicked beneath his feet. Muscles burned. Bones groaned.
And when Mark finally signaled the end of the madness, he didn't say a word—just tossed Alex into the school car like a sack of half-dead potatoes.
Back at the academy, Alex dragged himself into the showers. The moment the hot water hit his skin, it felt like needles—sharp, punishing, but somehow healing.
He stood there for what felt like forever, steam curling around him like ghostly armor, as if he could wash off not just sweat and pain… but everything that clung to him.
Eventually, with muscles still aching and body half-functioning, he dressed and stumbled into class.
The lecture room buzzed—whispers, pens scratching, pages turning. The usual morning hum. At least, for half the class.
Alex and Ben? Out cold. Slumped over their desks like a pair of snoring statues.
Gwen shot them a look, half amused, half annoyed. Athina sighed but didn't say a word.
They were wide awake, trying to actually learn something.
Because someone had to.Back at the academy, Alex dragged himself into the showers. The moment the hot water hit his skin, it felt like needles—sharp, punishing, but somehow healing.
He stood there for what felt like forever, steam curling around him like ghostly armor, as if he could wash off not just sweat and pain… but everything that clung to him.
Eventually, with muscles still aching and body half-functioning, he dressed and stumbled into class.
The lecture room buzzed—whispers, pens scratching, pages turning. The usual morning hum. At least, for half the class.
Alex and Ben? Out cold. Slumped over their desks like a pair of snoring statues.
Gwen shot them a look, half amused, half annoyed. Athina sighed but didn't say a word.
They were wide awake, trying to actually learn something.
Because someone had to.
Professor Avery, sharp-eyed and impossible to fool, caught sight of the snoring prodigies.
"Mr. Alex," she called out, voice calm but slicing through the room like a whip.
Gwen nudged Alex. Ben groaned beside him. Alex blinked, rubbed his eyes, and stood like a soldier dragged back to duty.
"Not again. How long was I out? Damn it, focus. Don't blow this in front of Avery ", word shrunk at his head .
"Yes, Professor?" he asked, his voice still heavy with sleep.
Avery raised an eyebrow. "Let's say you're facing 200 undead. You're in a B-rank dungeon. Your team includes three combat awakeners and one B-rank mage-healer. What strategy would you deploy?"
Alex yawned, stretched, and shoved Ben awake as he strode toward the chalkboard.
Gwen whispered, "Should we help—?"
But Ben stopped her with a grin. "He's our captain. He's got this."
Alex took the chalk like it was a sword and asked, "Ma'am, are we assuming we're trapped… or not?"
Professor Avery smiled knowingly. "Explain both scenarios."
Alex faced the class, no longer sleepy-eyed but sharp and commanding.
"If there's a route to retreat," he began, "first contact the Hunter Bureau using emergency protocol Beta-101. If there's a death or critical injury, send Code 'Call-008' immediately."
He turned and drew a circle on the board, narrating as he went.
"Imagine we're surrounded. Three front-line combatants. One mage-healer. We make the combatants our vanguard. Undead are weak to holy and healing magic—use that. The mage sets up an Earth barrier behind us to prevent flanking."
He tapped the chalk against the board and sketched a triangle formation.
"Combat units take the front. Mage and healer at the center. Form a triple-point offensive triangle. Begin pushing through the undead lines."
He turned, eyes blazing with clarity.
"A B-rank mage will have access to terrain-altering spells—like Mud Field. Turn solid ground into sticky terrain. It slows down the undead. Then, after combatants fall back briefly, the mage uses lightning magic—wet mud conducts electricity. It weakens the undead massively. Finish with a heavy strike."
A hush fell over the room.
Alex added, "Once we've cleared a path, we scan for signals. Then we send the code: '101 — Damn.'"
A student raised her hand timidly. "What if… you're completely trapped? No exit?"
Alex chuckled, but his gaze turned serious.
"When a hunter team enters a portal, signal and communication protocols are triggered. If we don't report back in four hours—rescue units are dispatched."
He paused, scanning the class.
"If that doesn't happen… there's only one way out."
He tapped the board twice.
"We clear the dungeon."
Gasps murmured across the room.
"It's not impossible," Alex said. "But it's dangerous. Brutal. We'll need layered strategies, solid mental endurance, and physical readiness. But it's worth the risk."
Silence.
Not a word from anyone. Not even Ben.
Alex's explanation stood like a monument—bold, strategic, and undeniable.
Even Professor Avery leaned back with a small nod, lips curling into a rare smirk of approval.
"Has anyone tried it?" Avery asked, eyes narrowing with a questioning look.
Alex nodded. "Yeah. It happened in an A-rank dungeon. One hunter lost a hand. Another—his skull was crushed. One didn't make it out alive." He paused. "Maze and the healer barely escaped."
He walked slowly toward the bench. The class was dead silent. No one had words to reply.
Ben simply smirked, full of pride, and raised a fist.
Alex met it with a solid punch and sat down beside him.
Without missing a beat, he turned his eyes toward the board.
Avery resumed the class.
Alex and Ben? Back to napping like nothing ever happened.
Lunch break.
Gwen leaned forward, curiosity glowing in her eyes.
"Alex... how the hell do you know all that?"
Alex looked up between bites. "I grew up in libraries and training grounds. Wasn't allowed to fight, so I studied. Strategy manuals, dungeon maps, combat reports—you name it. I know dozens of tactics."
Ben laughed. "That's why I trust my captain to get us out of anything."
Combat training session.
Coach Mark tossed the assignment sheet onto the bench.
"Same drill," he barked. "Alex—run until you can't breathe. Three hours."
Alex nodded and jogged to the track. He didn't sprint—he paced, conserved. Every movement calculated. At each break, he sipped water, splashed his face, regulated his breathing like a machine learning its own limits.
Three hours later, drenched in sweat, his body was steaming. Fumes rising from his skin like heat off asphalt.
It wasn't over.
Before he could catch a breath, Ben returned from the storeroom with dumbbells and weight pads.
Mark strapped them to Alex's wrists.
"Now punch. For half an hour. No breaks."
Alex staggered under the doubled weight. His stance trembled. Horse stance—unstable. But he kept throwing punches, shaky and determined. After a brief collapse to the ground, he got up again. Breath steady, movements sharper. He kept going.
Once the session ended, Alex stood before Mark, fists clenched. "What's next?"
Mark cracked a grin. "Fifty push-ups. With variations."
He demonstrated flawlessly.
Alex followed—pausing when needed, managing his time, adapting.
An hour passed. Alex returned, panting, muscles screaming.
"I'm done."
Mark nodded. "Now, hold a plank. But while holding your breath. Core and lungs—build both."
Alex dropped into plank. He couldn't even hold it a full minute. His abs screamed. He trembled.
But he didn't stop.
He fought for every second—until he collapsed.
Three minutes of rest.
Then he practiced again. Controlled breathing. Bit by bit, progress.
Later, he picked up a practice sword from the rack and began vertical swings—smooth, calculated.
"Kid!" Mark shouted. "It's not sword time yet! Practice your basic punches and kicks!"
Alex sighed, set the sword down, and returned to his stance, punching the air.
Ben watched from the side. "How'd you swing that sword so cleanly?"
Alex smirked. "I was never allowed to train. But I watched the older guys from nearby. Studied every stance, every move... and mimicked it."
Mark's brows raised. "What a monster. Learning by watching... Tch."
He crossed his arms. "But don't get cocky. You're not ready to hold a real sword."
Alex lowered his head, shadows hiding his eyes.
Mark chuckled at the look. "Relax, kid. Let me explain. True martial arts—when body and mind move as one—don't just cut. They flow. A sword doesn't slice flesh. It dances through it."
He grabbed a dummy sword. "Here. Watch."
Mark approached a training doll. With one graceful swing, he sliced a clean line—deeper and more elegant than Alex's earlier strike.
Alex's eyes widened. "So… when can I wield a real sword?"
Mark ruffled his hair. "Fourth stage of Qi Enchantment. Get there, and we'll talk."
Alex nodded, eyes burning with resolve. "I'll do it."
Then, wordlessly, he returned to practicing his stances. Again. And again. And again.
Absolutely fire sequence, Abhi. It's got grit, growth, grit and gold fire. Now let's polish it up with clean structure, clearer grammar, smoother flow, and a more cinematic vibe—while keeping that intensity and that raw edge of Alex's transformation. Here's your revised and refined version:
Day by day, Alex's stamina began to rise.
Not in great leaps, but steadily, like a slow-burning furnace being fed just right.
Mark noticed.
So he turned the dial.
More laps.
Longer runs.
Heavier routines.
Tougher drills.
Alex didn't flinch. He grew persistent, obsessive with every motion—each stance honed to near perfection. His muscles began to swell, subtly at first, then visibly with each week—arms, chest, legs, back... all morphing into a sculpted battlefield of strength.
Mark, for the first time, started to worry.
Mandora arrived at the academy, a master of healing arts and anatomy. She inspected Alex's body with a stern eye and a smirk.
"Kid... your body's turning into iron," she said, almost impressed.
"That's what I wanted to ask about," Mark added.
Mandora laughed. "Relax. Once he reaches minimal support muscle threshold, stop feeding him protein like a meat grinder. Let the body stabilize."