The system's training regimen was, in Ari's professional opinion, designed by a sadist. The Gear was a sadist.
He stood on the park court at 6 AM—six in the morning, when normal teenagers were still asleep—staring at the list of quests that had populated his vision the moment he'd arrived. The sun was barely up, painting the sky in weak pink and orange, and Ari was already exhausted just reading what the system expected of him.
[DAILY CARDIO PROTOCOL - DAY 1]
[QUEST: "FOUNDATION CONDITIONING"]
Full court sprints: 30 repetitions
Suicide drills: 15 sets
Defensive slides (full court): 20 repetitions
Jump rope: 15 minutes continuous
Cool-down jog: 2 kilometers
[ESTIMATED TIME: 2.5 HOURS]
[REWARD: STAMINA +1, SPEED +0.5, 4 SKILL POINTS]
"This is... isn't ideal," Ari said to the empty court. "I just got out of the hospital. I'm still recovering. This is—"
[THIS IS NECESSARY]
The system's text appeared without preamble, cold and matter-of-fact.
[YOUR CARDIOVASCULAR CONDITIONING IS PATHETIC]
[YOUR STAMINA: 31/100]
[YOUR SPEED: 35/100]
[YOU GET TIRED WALKING UP STAIRS]
[BASKETBALL REQUIRES RUNNING FOR 40 MINUTES STRAIGHT]
[YOU WOULD DIE IN THE FIRST QUARTER]
"I wouldn't die—"
[YOU WOULD METAPHORICALLY DIE]
[WHICH AT YOSHIMURA MIGHT BE WORSE THAN ACTUAL DEATH]
[CARDIO IS YOUR RELIGION NOW]
[PRAY AT THE ALTAR OF SUFFERING]
"Why is there so much?" Ari gestured at the list helplessly. "Can't I just... ease into it?"
[DAYS UNTIL TRYOUTS: 14]
[STUDENTS COMPETING: 200+]
[YOUR CURRENT SKILL LEVEL: GARBAGE]
[TIME FOR "EASING IN": ZERO]
The system paused, and when the next text appeared, it felt almost... strategic.
[HOWEVER]
[I DON'T FORCE YOU TO DO ANYTHING]
[YOU HAVE FREE WILL]
[YOU CAN SKIP THE CARDIO QUESTS]
[AND EARN SIGNIFICANTLY FEWER SKILL POINTS]
[YOUR CHOICE]
'Oh right....you don't force me.'
Ari looked at the reward: 4 skill points. He'd spent five days in the hospital studying film and earned about 15 points total. This single workout—this single, brutal workout—offered 4 points. And there were multiple cardio quests available.
"That's not a choice," Ari muttered. "That's coercion."
[SEMANTICS]
"I'm still sore from the accident. My collarbone—"
[87% HEALED]
[STORE ITEM AVAILABLE: MUSCLE RECOVERY AID]
[COST: 3 SKILL POINTS]
[REDUCES SORENESS BY 60%]
[ACCELERATES RECOVERY BETWEEN TRAINING SESSIONS]
Ari pulled up his skill point total: 14.2 points. If he spent 3 on recovery, he'd have 11.2 left. But if the recovery aid let him train harder, earn more points...
"Fine," he said, making the purchase. "But I'm complaining the entire time."
[I WOULD EXPECT NOTHING LESS]
[...SADLY]
The muscle recovery activated immediately—that same warm sensation flooding through his body, his sore muscles suddenly feeling looser, the lingering ache from his collarbone fading to a dull background hum.
Ari took a deep breath, set his basketball down at the sideline, and positioned himself at the baseline.
"Thirty full-court sprints," he said to himself. "I can do thirty full-court sprints."
He couldn't do thirty full-court sprints.
By sprint number eight, his lungs were burning. By fifteen, his legs felt like they were made of cement, heavy and stiff. By twenty-three, he was sure he was dying.
"I'm... dying..." Ari gasped, bent over at the free-throw line, hands on his knees, his sweat dripping off his pale skin onto the asphalt.
[YOU'RE NOT DYING]
[YOU'RE JUST DRAMATICALLY OUT OF SHAPE]
[7 MORE]
"Seven more might actually kill me."
[THEN YOU'LL DIE IN BETTER SHAPE THAN YOU LIVED]
[INSPIRING EPITAPH]
[NOW GET ON WITH IT]
Ari forced himself upright and ran. More like swung his stick legs forward and hopped they pushed. His form was terrible—all flailing limby limby and desperation.
His new Jordans, which had felt so cool yesterday, now felt like they weighed ten pounds each. His breath was coming in ragged gasps. His vision swam slightly.
But he finished.
Thirty sprints. Done.
He collapsed on the court, staring up at the early morning sky. The image of his heart exploding out of his chest looked particularly possible in this case.
[QUEST COMPLETE: FULL COURT SPRINTS]
[+0.3 SKILL POINTS]
[NOW: SUICIDE DRILLS]
[15 SETS]
[STARTING... NOW]
"Wh..wait.. System. Gi... gimme a second."
[PATHETIC]
The suicide drills were worse. OH sooo much fucking worse.
For those unfamiliar with basketball conditioning, suicide drills were exactly what they sounded like: running from baseline to free-throw line and back, baseline to half-court and back, baseline to opposite free-throw line and back, baseline to opposite baseline and back. All in rapid succession. No stops. Fifteen times.
By the fifth set, Ari's legs were clearly trembling.
Now he was running on pure spite, willpower. By the fifteenth:
He wasn't sure if he was running or having an out-of-body experience where his consciousness had separated from his physical form to escape the suffering.
He finished the last rep and immediately sat down on the court, not even bothering to move to the bench. Just sat. Right there. On the asphalt.
[IMPRESSIVE]
[YOU DID NOT QUIT]
[YOUR FORM WAS ATROCIOUS]
[DO NOT RUN LIKE THAT INFRONT OF ANYONE YOU'RE TRYING TO IMPRESS]
[BUT OVER ALL YOU FINISHED IT]
"Is that... a compliment?"
[DON'T LET IT GO TO YOUR HEAD]
[YOU STILL HAVE DEFENSIVE SLIDES AND JUMP ROPE]
Ari sobbed
The defensive slides were their own special hell—staying low, sliding laterally across the full court which mind Ari's torso was rough concrete. It wasn't so much an actual slide than a weird throwing of his body and balancing on all fours.
He was maintaining defensive stance the entire time. His thighs burned. His knees hurt. His back ached from staying crouched.
The jump rope was almost merciful by comparison. Almost. Except his coordination was still terrible, and he kept hitting himself in the shins with the stupid thick rope, it left angry red marks on his skin .
By the time he finished the two-kilometer cool-down jog—which was less a jog and more a zombie shuffle—it was 9 AM and Ari was had just discovered new levels of exhaustion previously unknown to medical science.
He was so tired.
"I'm so...", GULP..."Water.... please someone. Water."
He made it to the park bench and collapsed onto it like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
[DAY 1 COMPLETE]
[TOTAL TIME: 2 HOURS, 47 MINUTES]
[REWARDS EARNED:]
[STAMINA +1]
[SPEED +0.5]
[SKILL POINTS: +4.1]
[CURRENT STATS:]
[STAMINA: 32/100]
[SPEED: 35.5/100]
[YOU SURVIVED]
[BARELY]
[SAME TIME TOMORROW]
"Tomorrow?" Ari's voice was hoarse. "There's a tomorrow?"
[THERE ARE THIRTEEN TOMORROWS]
Ari closed his eyes, meaning to rest for just a moment. Just a quick break before walking home. Just thirty seconds of—
"Ari. Ari, wake up."
Someone was shaking his shoulder. Ari's eyes snapped open, disoriented. The sun had moved—it was higher now, the morning fully established. How long had he—
His father stood in front of him, still wearing his work clothes, concern etched across his face. "You fell asleep. On a park bench. It's been over an hour."
"I was just... resting..."
"You were unconscious. I called your name three times." Hideaki sat down beside him, and Ari noticed his father's hands were shaking slightly. "What were you doing? You're soaked in sweat."
Ari sat up slowly, every muscle in his body protesting. "Training. For basketball."
His father was quiet for a long moment. "This is what you're going to do? Every day?"
"Every day until tryouts."
Another long silence. Then his father sighed, pulling out his phone. "I'm texting your mother. She's been worried. You were supposed to come back home and hour ago."
"Sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"I know." His father sent the text, then looked at Ari seriously. "If you're going to do this, do it properly. That means eating enough. Sleeping enough. Not training until you collapse on park benches."
"I'm fine, Dad."
But he couldn't fool his own detective like notice every detail father.
"You're not fine. You're exhausted." But there was something in his father's expression—not disapproval, but something closer to pride. "But you're determined. And determination is important, when it comes with responsibility."
They walked home together, Ari was moving like a ninety-year-old man with arthritis. His mother met them at the door, took one look at Ari, and immediately started preparing enough food. She was as classic a mom as classic moms went.
"You need protein," she declared, pulling out eggs, fish, rice, vegetables. "And carbs. And vitamins. Sit. Eat."
There was no alternative. When she says those two words, 'sit and eat' in succession you just.....sit and eat.
So Ari ate. Then ate more. Then ate more after that. His mother kept bringing food like she was personally offended by his attempt to burn calories.
[MANDATORY QUEST ACTIVATED]
[WATER CONSUMPTION: 4.5 LITERS PER DAY]
[FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN:]
[DECREASED PERFORMANCE]
[INCREASED INJURY RISK]
"Four and a half liters?" Ari stared at the water pitcher his mother had just set down. "That's... a lot."
[YOU'RE TRAINING LIKE AN ATHLETE NOW]
[ATHLETES HYDRATE AS A SECOND JOB. HYDRATE]
So Ari drank. And drank. And spent the next several hours experiencing the inevitable consequence of drinking 4.5 liters of water, which was visiting the bathroom approximately every twenty minutes.
[HYDRATION ACHIEVED]
[KIDNEY FUNCTION: OPTIMAL]
[BATHROOM TRIPS: EXCESSIVE]
[IT IS WORTH IT]
The next five days followed the same brutal pattern.
Wake up at 5:45 AM. Drag himself to the park. Suffer through cardio protocols. Get his spirit broken. Collapse. Eat. Drink. Rest. Piss. Repeat.
Day 2: More sprints. More suicide drills. Box jumps were added to the regimen because apparently the Gear believed in "ACCRETIVE SUFFERING". Ari's legs shook so badly afterward he had to sit down three times on the walk home.
Day 3: Hill sprints. The park had a small hill near the court. The system made him run upforty times. Forty. By repetition thirty, Ari was crawling more than running. His calves felt like they'd been replaced with stone.
[HILL SPRINTS BUILD EXPLOSIVE POWER]
[IT ALSO STOPS YOU DROM BEINF A WHINNING WEAKLING]
[10 MORE]
"I'm going to die on this hill," Ari gasped.
[POETIC]
[BUT NO]
[YOU ARE GOING TO RUN UP IT 10 MORE TIMES]
Day 4: Interval training. Sprint, jog, sprint, jog, repeat until Ari ....
He fell asleep on the park bench again—this time his mother found him, having apparently developed a sixth sense for when her son was unconscious in public places.
"Ari, this is too much," she said, her voice tight with worry.
'No mom. The Gear demands suffering.'
"You're pushing too hard. You just recovered from a serious injury—"
"I'm okay" Ari sat up, trying to look more alert than he felt.
"Okay"
"Okay?!"
"Look at yourself."
Ari didn't need to look. He could feel it—the bone-deep weariness, the constant muscle soreness, the way his body felt simultaneously lighter and heavier than it should. But he could also feel something else: strength. Real, tangible improvement.
His legs, which had felt like jelly after day one, now felt solid. His breathing, which had been ragged and desperate, came easier. His body was adapting, responding to the abuse with the resilience of youth and systematic enhancement.
"I'm getting stronger," he told his mother. "I can feel it."
She didn't look convinced, but she let him continue. Though she did start bringing protein shakes to the park, appearing like a worried ghost every few hours to make sure he was still alive and functional.
Day 5: The worst day yet. Full cardio protocol plus endurance running. Three kilometers at a sustained pace. Ari's entire existence became the rhythm of his feet hitting pavement, his breath coming in measured counts, the system occasionally offering commentary.
[YOUR FORM IS IMPROVING]
[BARELY]
[BUT IMPROVEMENT IS IMPROVEMENT]
[2ND KILOMETRE]
[YOU LOOK LIKE A BABY GIRAFFE LEARNING TO WALK
[3RD KILOMETER]
[FINAL STRETCH]
[DON'T QUIT NOW]
Ari finished the run finally running all through the neighborhood and back to the training court he now called the hell court. And immediately he laid down on the grass beside the court, staring up at the sky, pretty sure he could see his soul trying to escape his body.
But he'd done it. Five days of cardio hell. Five days of waking up before sunrise to torture himself. Five days of his parents looking increasingly concerned while also somehow proud.
That evening, Ari stood in front of his bathroom mirror and barely recognized himself.
Five days of intense training had changed him in subtle but noticeable ways. He'd lost weight—not much, maybe two kilograms—but it had come from the right places. His face looked leaner, more defined. His shoulders, which had always been broad but soft, now had actual definition. His arms, while still slender, showed the beginning of muscle tone in his forearms
His skin, which had been pale from weeks in the hospital, now had color....the colour was still a pale skin but now it had a flush to it.
Less like a well preserved corpse and more like a blushing vampire.
The whites of his eyes were clearer, brighter. Even his posture was better, his spine straighter from all the core work the conditioning required.
"Huh," Ari said, turning slightly to check his profile. "I'm actually kind of—"
[NO]
"—getting more attractive—"
[NO]
"I mean, objectively speaking, the exercise is improving my—"
[YOU ARE STILL A LANKY AWKWARD TEENAGER]
[WITH TERRIBLE HAIR]
[AND CAT EYES THAT MAKE PEOPLE UNCOMFORTABLE]
[YOUR "ATTRACTIVENESS" IMPROVED FROM 3/10 TO 3.5/10]
"Puff", Ari scoffed. Hurt. "You just made made those numbers up."
[YOU WISH I DID]
[YOU ARE JUST...
....SLIGHTLY LESS UNFORTUNATE LOOKING]
"I hate you.*
[ AND YOU STILL SUCK AT BASKETBALL. COME ON. HATE ME MORE ]
But even the system's mockery couldn't completely deflate Ari's mood. Which he was sure was its second most important goal other than making him the MVP of MVPS. Because when he pulled up his stats, the improvement was undeniable:
[CURRENT STATS:]
[STAMINA: 40/100] (+9 from cardio training)
[SPEED: 38/100] (+3 from cardio training)
[POWER: 25/100] (+2 from general conditioning)
[VERTICAL: 21/100] (+3 from plyometrics and jump rope)
[SKILL POINTS EARNED (5 DAYS): 19.3]
[CURRENT TOTAL: 30.5 POINTS]
Nine points of stamina improvement without spending a single skill point. That was massive. That was nearly 20% improvement in pure cardiovascular endurance. And all those hours he'd spent studying film during breaks had pushed his IQ up too—from 67 to 72.
He was actually, measurably improving.
The realization hit him with surprising force: this was working. The insane training, the brutal cardio, the suffering—all of it was actually working. He could feel how much more athletic and stronger he was. No longer had those embracing soft calves that looked like a girls.
Days 6 through 12 shifted focus, and somehow that made everything worse. And yes. He had no resting days.
[CARDIO FOUNDATION: ESTABLISHED]
[BASKETBALL SKILL DEVELOPMENT: BEGINNING]
Ari was glad. Finally he'd get to play basketball. Actually play basketball...and not just run around the neighborhood like some deranged 6'6 slender creafure.... Till the system sent its latest message.
[PREPARE YOURSELF]
The system's new quest protocols appeared, and Ari felt his stomach drop:
[BALL HANDLING PROTOCOL - BASIC]
[QUEST: "POUND THE ROCK"]
Stationary ball pounds: 60 seconds per hand
Walking ball pounds: Full court, both hands
Figure-8 dribbles: 10 minutes continuous
Behind-the-back practice: 100 repetitions per side
Between-legs practice: 100 repetitions
[REWARD: BALL HANDLING +8, SKILL +3, 6 SKILL POINTS]
"Sixty seconds?" Ari looked at the basketball in his hands. "Sixty seconds per hand of just... pounding the ball?"
[CORRECT]
"That's—NBA players don't even—"
[NBA PLAYERS ALREADY HAVE HANDLES TO SPEAK OFF]
[YOU DO NOT]
[STOP BEING A B**CH]
[AND START POUNDING]
Ari had thought cardio was bad. Cardio was physically more demanding and tested his mental resilience.
This...tested his sanity. Like fighting against your brain, your body and the basketball to just do what you fucking want already.
He started with stationary ball pounds—just dribbling the ball as hard and fast as he could in place. The system wanted him to maintain maximum intensity for the sixty full seconds.
He made it to thirty-five seconds before his hand cramped. His hand had never cramped before but the pain was like...arghhhhhhh. His muscles went stiff and contracted violently. The pain was glowing red and intense. Pulsating at the corner of his eyes for some reason. It was not a nice experience.
"This is impossible!" He shook out his hand, which felt like it was made of burning wire. "My wrist—"
[60 SECONDS]
[THAT'S THE REQUIREMENT]
[TRY AGAIN]
Second attempt: forty-two seconds. His hand was giving him excruciating pain. His wrist felt like it was going to snap. The ball had hit his finger twice, sending sharp spikes of pain up his arm and swelling up the fingers in a few hours.
Now. Start allover again.
Third attempt: fifty-one seconds. So close. So close. His hand was shaking. The ball was bouncing erratically. Just nine more seconds—
The ball hit his finger hard, right on the nail. Ari yelped, dropping the ball, clutching his hand. The finger was already turning red, probably going to bruise.
"Fuck!" He rarely cursed out loud, but this warranted it. "That hurt!"
[BASKETBALL IS PAIN]
[PAIN IS GROWTH]
[THE GEAR DEMANDS SACRIFICE ARI]
[YOU DO NOT EXPECT TO SIT BACK SND I SOLVE ALL YOUR PROBLEMS]
[PAIN IS GROWTH]
[NOW DO IT AGAIN]
"My finger—"
[IS FINE]
[SLIGHTLY INJURED]
[BUT FINE]
The next text message delayed, leading Ari to believe the system had nothing more to say. He was about to pick the ball up again when he saw.
[SWITCH HANDS]
Ari wanted to argue, but the system had a point. His right hand needed a break anyway. So he switched to his left—his weaker hand, naturally—and started pounding.
His left hand had even less conditioning than his right. His bones were less dense there, his fingers were stiff and unfocused from disuse, his muscles were less.
He shut up completely while he went again and again. Finally when his wrist felt like it was about to fall off, he completed it.
[60 SECONDS]
[LEFT HAND: COMPLETE]
Ari stopped, gasping like he'd just finished another round of sprints. His hands were shaking. His wrists throbbed. Both hands were red, the skin irritated from repeated impact with the ball.
"This is actual torture."
[CORRECT]
[PAIN IS GROWTH]
[YOUR RIGHT HAND HAS TIME TO REST]
[SWITCH]
[60 SECONDS]
Offcourse his right hand still hurt like crazy. But Ari knew there was no real point in resisting. He'd still end up doing it again in infinite timelines.
[YOU'RE GOING TO GET BETTER]
[COME ON, GRAB THE BALL]
The ball handling work was relentless. Sixty seconds per hand, switching back and forth until both of Ari's arms couldn't raise up to you h his face.
After some testing. And some ice
Then walking ball pounds—dribbling while walking the full court, maintaining control, switching hands at half-court. His coordination was terrible. The ball kept getting away from him. He had to chase it down half a dozen times.
[YOUR DETERMINATION IS ADMIRABLE]
[BUT THAT DOES NOT MEAN ANYTHING YET]
Figure-8 dribbles—weaving the ball through his legs in a figure-8 pattern while maintaining a constant dribble. It required coordination Ari simply didn't have. The ball kept hitting his legs. His timing was off. His posture was wrong.
"I can't do this!" Ari's frustration boiled over. "I've been trying for twenty minutes and I can't—"
[YOU CANNOT DO IT YET]
The system's text appeared, and for once there was no mocking tone, no sarcastic commentary.
[THAT IS WHY YOU'RE PRACTICING]
Ari stood there, He was breathing hard, the ball was static against his hip. He'd spent three years watching basketball, understanding it intellectually, but never doing it. Never building the muscle memory, the coordination, the thousand tiny adjustments that allowed skilled players to shoot and dribble with their eyes closed.
He was starting from zero. Less than zero.
But he was starting.
"Okay," Ari said, positioning for another figure-8 attempt. "Okay. Again."
The system's torture continued with a new and creative form of suffering: actual basketball skills.
But first, it sat him down. Metaphorically. The text appeared in his vision during a water break, when Ari was sprawled on the court, his hands were throbbing. The pain wasn't easing. It wasn't going away. He was wondering if he'd made a terrible mistake.
[QUESTION: WHY ARE YOU DOING BASIC DRILLS?]
"Because you're forcing me to?"
__[I'M NOT FORCING YOU TO DO ANYTHING. YOU'RE FREE TO PRACTICE OTHER DRILLS]
Ari scoffed. "As if".
[WHY BALL POUNDS?]
"Huh?"
[WHY FIGURE-8S?]
[WHY NOT JUST PRACTICE CROSSOVERS?]
[OR FANCY MOVES?]
Ari thought about it. "Because... I need fundamentals first?"
[CORRECT]
A new text appeared, formatted like a lesson:
[BASKETBALL TRUTH #1:]
[THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A SCORER AND AN ACE IS FUNDAMENTALS]
[ANYONE CAN LEARN FLASHY MOVES]
[CROSSOVERS, SPIN MOVES, EURO STEPS]
[BUT WITHOUT FUNDAMENTAL BALL CONTROL]
[THEY'RE JUST FANCY WAYS TO TURN THE BALL OVER]
[THE BEST SCORERS IN HISTORY]
[JORDAN, KOBE BRYANT, DURANT, BIRD]
[MASTERED THE BASICS FIRST]
[BORING, REPETITIVE, FUNDAMENTAL BASICS]
[BALL CONTROL]
[FOOTWORK]
[SHOOTING FORM]
[BODY POSITIONING]
[MASTER THESE]
[AND EVERYTHING ELSE BECOMES POSSIBLE]
[SKIP THESE]
[AND YOU'LL ALWAYS BE LIMITED]
Ari read the text twice, then looked down at his hands—red, sore, building calluses. "So this suffering is... necessary?"
[THIS SUFFERING IS FUNDAMENTAL]
[LITERALLY]
[SUFFERING IS FUNDAMENTAL ARI]
[AND THE GEAR DEMANDS SACRIFICE. AS IT DEMANDS ACCRETIVE SUFFERING]