The forest stood still, the only sound echoing through the trees was the rhythmic thud of limbs hitting bark.
Aiden faced one of the taller trees near the clearing, his breath sharp, sweat dripping from his brow. His shirt had long been discarded, clinging to a nearby branch, soaked through. His fists were scraped, his legs bruised, but his eyes—his eyes held fire.
He stepped back into his stance. Exhaled. Focused.
THUMP.A roundhouse kick landed against the thick trunk, barely making it tremble. Again. And again.
He wasn't doing it for show. No one was watching. No applause. No feedback. Just him and the tree.
Every strike was a release—of frustration, of regret, of fear. Each blow hammered strength into his body and carved discipline into his spirit. The aches in his muscles, the tremors in his bones, they didn't scare him anymore. He welcomed them.
This was survival.
Food had to be hunted. Water had to be found. Warmth had to be earned. In this world, strength wasn't optional—it was law.
By the time he dropped to his knees, too tired to stand, he could barely lift his arms. His legs trembled. His hands stung. But he didn't feel weak.
He looked down at himself. His body was changing. His frame leaner. His shoulders broader. His reflexes sharper. Even his face looked different in the reflection of his phone screen—more defined, more mature.
He chuckled weakly, leaning back against the same tree he'd kicked a hundred times."I look like someone who belongs here now," he muttered.
The wind rustled through the leaves, as if answering him.
He hadn't just survived. He'd adapted.
And the forest? It was starting to respect that.