Marvel Universe.
June 15th, 2012.
Friday.
New York City, Midtown High School.
Seventeen-year-old Hawk was drenched in sweat, pounding away in the old school gym like his life depended on it.
Thud!
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The sound of fists slamming into heavy canvas rang through the air, echoing with a visceral rhythm. The suspended black sandbag trembled violently under Hawk's relentless blows, and the chain suspending it groaned in protest, squealing with each strike.
His hair was soaked, plastered to his forehead.
Sweat ran down his sharp cheekbones, traced the line of his tight jaw, and finally dripped into the already-damp collar of his faded T-shirt.
But Hawk's eyes never left the sandbag.
Unshaken. Unwavering.
Right now, this sandbag was his entire world.
"Nine thousand nine hundred and fifty-one!"
"Nine thousand nine hundred and fifty-two!"
He adjusted his stance, muttering the count under his breath. His body weaved instinctively, dodging the swinging recoil of the sandbag. Left hook. Right swing. No hesitation. Every punch landed with brutal precision, battering the leather until it looked ready to split.
Punch.
Retract.
Punch again.
Each strike came faster than the last.
Faster.
And faster—
Until—
"Ten thousand!"
BAM!
A flame ignited deep in Hawk's eyes. His fist shot out like lightning, as fast and lethal as a viper's strike, smashing directly into the falling sandbag. With a sickening crunch, the bag crumpled inward, the chain holding it finally giving out with a sharp snap.
Freed from its restraints, the sandbag flew across the room and crashed into the floor with a booming thud.
BOOM!
Hahhh…
Ten thousand punches. Done.
Hawk stared at the battered wreckage of the sandbag and finally exhaled the breath he'd been holding. His chest rose and fell as he worked to steady his breathing.
Sweat streamed down his face, pooled at his chin, and dripped onto the cuff of his cheap athletic pants.
Well—cheap was relative.
To most people, a twelve-dollar pair of sweatpants was dirt cheap. Practically disposable.
But not for Hawk.
Because—
In this life, he was an orphan. A reborn orphan, no less, dropped straight into the Marvel Universe.
If it weren't for his decent grades earning him a scholarship to Midtown High, well… let's just say there's no way he could've afforded the school's outrageous tuition, which ran into the tens of thousands each semester.
Even with the scholarship, he lived frugally.
Not because he was thrifty by nature, but because—let's face it—his scholarship wasn't exactly top-tier.
It definitely wasn't like the one that Gwen Stacy, student assistant and fellow senior, had.
Gwen's scholarship was elite level—full tuition, plus a stipend every semester, not to mention all those bonus prizes from academic competitions.
Hawk's scholarship? Just the basic tuition waiver kind.
His grades were good. Not genius-level, just "solid student" good.
Still, Hawk was grateful.
Midtown waived his tuition. And since he had no foster home and was between the ages of sixteen and eighteen—a period officially classified as the "independent transition stage"—the federal government gave him an $800 monthly stipend.
And because Midtown was a designated elite school in New York State, he also got an extra $500 monthly from the state.
Altogether? $1,300 a month.
For a working adult in New York, that might barely cover rent.
But for Hawk—a kid on government aid, with zero tuition fees—it was more than enough.
Plenty, even.
His meals were covered at school. He slept in federally subsidized housing.
$1,300 a month minus $500 in basic expenses left him with $800 in savings.
What? You think $500 isn't enough?
Again—it might not be for an adult, but for Hawk? Totally fine.
Every afternoon, he'd hit the gym and hammer out his "ten thousand punches a day" routine. Then he'd shower, do his laundry on-site, and catch the last free school bus home. Sleep, rinse, repeat.
No utility bills. No phone. No internet.
He was an orphan.
No one to call. No one who'd call him.
Internet?
Ha.
He didn't even own a computer. And when he needed access, the school library had free PCs. Even printing was free.
So, yeah.
Orphaned or not, this second life wasn't bad.
He saved $800 every month. Sometimes he'd even treat himself to a mountain of cheap fried chicken from a local dive to refuel.
At this point, he'd saved over $30,000.
Sweet.
Of course…
The fried chicken place could use fewer Black employees. (T/N: Original phrasing here reflects the character's rough inner voice and may signal problematic bias that might be explored or challenged later in the narrative. Kept as-is for authenticity to the original.)
A few minutes later.
Hawk stood motionless, eyes half-lidded. Then slowly, he opened them, staring at the broken sandbag like he was in a trance.
But he wasn't looking at the sandbag.
He was looking at the floating interface only he could see.
More specifically, his cheat.
[Microcosmic Cultivation System]
Current Status: "Inactive"
Activation Requirement: "Ten thousand punches daily for one thousand consecutive days."
Progress: "999/1000"
"Almost there!"
"Almost."
"Just one more day."
Staring at the activation progress bar, Hawk's heart burned with anticipation. He almost wished he could fast-forward time.
He'd gotten this cheat back when he was fifteen.
September 10th, 2009, to be exact.
He remembered it clearly.
Because that was the day the Hulk fought Abomination in New York.
So yeah. He hadn't dared slack off.
The cheat appeared, and he hit the ground running.
Because let's be real—
This was the Marvel Universe.
A world where superheroes walked the streets, superhumans were a dime a dozen, and cosmic gods casually crashed the party.
No cheat? You lie low and hope for the best.
But with a cheat?
What kind of idiot wouldn't train?
So from day one, Hawk committed to his daily training.
No exceptions.
Rain or shine.
Not even Thor's hammer could knock him off schedule.
One rule:
Food is optional.
Punches are not.
And now—
Nine hundred and ninety-nine days later—
The finish line was finally in sight.