The first ray of sunlight brushed Lemonk's face, stirring him awake.
He was still lying in the backyard where he'd collapsed the night before. His body pressed into the dirt, but unlike yesterday, there was no burning pain. His limbs didn't scream. His joints didn't ache. His skin felt cool. Rested.
He blinked slowly, processing the strangeness.
His mind throbbed slightly, headache from dehydration and fatigue, but his body felt… better. Not perfect, but stronger. Lighter. As if some invisible hand had mended every torn fiber with precision.
"...The system healed me," he murmured.
And it had.
His Strengthen talent, combined with the system, had repaired the microtears in his muscles overnight. The damage was gone.
But the cost?
He felt empty, nutrient-depleted. His body had consumed everything it had—amino acids, sugars, stored fats, all in the name of repair.
He needed food. Now.
Lemonk stumbled into the small cottage kitchen.
It wasn't much, just a stove powered by a low-tier fire stone, a few battered utensils, and a side chamber used for preserving food.
From that chamber, he retrieved a few slabs of meat and some crisp vegetables.
His hands moved on instinct.
He set a blackened iron wok over the flame and added a scoop of preserved animal fat, letting it sizzle and coat the pan. The scent rose up, warm and greasy. He tossed in crushed garlic and minced ginger, their aromas dancing together like old friends.
Then came the vegetables, a handful of chopped green leaves and bright root slices. A quick sauté.
He added chicksu meat, a type of lean white protein, high in recovery nutrients—and began seasoning: salt, cracked peppers, dried spice mix, and a pinch of freshly chopped coriander.
The sizzling filled the room.
Steam kissed his face.
His stomach growled like a starving beast.
Somehow… the dish smelled better than anything he had ever made.
He didn't wait. He transferred the stir-fry into a warm clay plate, sat down on the cool floor, and devoured it like a wild animal. Bite after bite, he felt the strength returning.
Was it the training? The hunger? The system?
Didn't matter.
Food had never tasted this good.
Rejuvenated, Lemonk stood.
He still had 30 days of hell ahead of him.
And he wasn't going to waste a single one.
Each day followed the same rhythm:
Run → Pull-ups → Crunches → Sit-ups → Pushups
At first, it was just as agonizing.
But the food? The food became his light. A reward he earned. A pleasure that kept him going.
Day by day, he improved.
By Day 5, he stopped collapsing outright.
By Day 10, his muscles began adapting.
By Day 15, he could wash up and crawl into bed on his own.
By Day 20, his stamina took off—exercises that used to take a full day now took just half.
By Day 25, he noticed something wild: he was finishing his routine before sunset.
By Day 30, he completed the entire sequence in just over two hours.
Every pull-up felt smoother. Every run more efficient. His form, once sloppy, was now surgical. His body didn't just endure—it thrived.
He tried, more than once, to check his stats.
But the system blocked him every time.
"Not yet," it had said."Let your body show you before the numbers do."
So he didn't ask again.
He felt the changes, he didn't need numbers.
Now, on the 31st day, Lemonk stood in the backyard once more.
Same training suit.
Same morning air.
But everything had changed.
His posture was straighter. His breath, steady. His aura? Quiet—but sharp.
He wasn't the boy from a month ago.
He was someone else.
Someone reborn.
And he still had so far to climb.