Cherreads

Chapter 2 - The First Dawn

The alarm never rang. It didn't need to. My eyes opened at 4:00 a.m. sharp, like they always had in my first life. Discipline wasn't a choice—it was the air I breathed.

The room was quiet, my friends still lost in their dreams, the whole neighborhood sunk in silence. I slid out of bed, laced up a pair of worn-out sneakers, and stepped into the predawn chill. My breath fogged in front of me as I stretched, joints clicking open, muscles eager but raw.

"Alright," I muttered to myself. "Day one."

Body Work

I started with the basics. Jogging laps around the neighborhood, slow at first, then building into long strides. My new body was wild, full of raw horsepower, but unrefined. My lungs burned less than I expected. My legs carried me like a machine with endless fuel. After thirty minutes, sweat clung to me like armor, heart pounding steady.

Next came body drills.Push-ups.Sit-ups.Burpees.Wall sits.Explosive jumps.

The strength was there, no doubt. This body was a beast, born for movement. But beasts without discipline are nothing but wasted potential. I drilled myself harder, stopping only when sweat poured like rain and my arms shook from strain.

Still, even exhausted, I felt a thrill. If I could polish this… this might surpass the man I used to be.

Ball Work

When the clock struck 6:00, I pulled out the worn basketball I'd borrowed from the school gym yesterday. The leather felt unfamiliar. My hands were strong, but my touch was clumsy.

The first dribble wobbled, the second bounced too high, the third nearly slipped out of my grasp. I clenched my jaw. Back in the NBA, this would've been muscle memory. Now it felt like I was teaching a stubborn child to walk.

Good. That meant progress was possible.

I started slow: stationary dribbles with my right, then my left. My calves burned as I forced myself into a low stance, back straight, eyes up. The ball hit the pavement with uneven rhythm, slapping against my palm instead of melting into it like it once had.

Next, crossovers. My body wanted to move faster than it could handle. The ball kept sliding away, skittering toward the fence like it was laughing at me. I chased it down each time, forcing myself back into position, repeating the drill until sweat slicked my fingers and my forearms ached.

Then shooting.

I lined up at the free-throw line. Feet apart. Elbow in. Release.

Clang. The ball bounced off the rim.

Again.Clang. Too short.Again.Airball.

I closed my eyes. This isn't your NBA body. These aren't your NBA hands. Treat them like rookies. Train them until they're veterans.

I adjusted. Slowed down. Rebuilt the shot from scratch, every detail: the lift of the knees, the snap of the wrist, the follow-through. I missed. Again and again. But by the twentieth shot, the sound changed—soft, clean, a swish. My lips pulled into a smile.

By 7:00, my shirt clung to me like glue, sneakers scraping against the cracked asphalt, ball bouncing in uneven rhythm as I pushed through another dribbling drill. Every miss, every fumble, every ugly brick was fuel. The body was learning. The muscles were remembering.

A New Rhythm

At 7:30 sharp, I jogged back home, the rising sun painting the street golden. My friends were still asleep, sprawled in tangled blankets. I slipped quietly into the bathroom, washed the sweat away, and dressed for school.

The reflection in the mirror stared back at me—wild red hair, sharp eyes, jawline younger than I remembered. But behind those eyes burned something old, something relentless.

This wasn't just training. This was rebirth, forged one dawn at a time.

Influence

That afternoon, when I met up with Yohei and the others, they noticed.

"You're up early these days," Yohei said, narrowing his eyes. "What's with the sweat?"

"Training," I said simply.

They laughed at first, thinking it was a joke. But then, day after day, they saw me come to school sharper, stronger, more focused. They saw me with the ball during breaks, dribbling until my palms turned raw, shooting until my arms gave out.

Curiosity turned into admiration. Admiration turned into challenge.

One by one, they started joining me in the mornings. At first, they complained. They dragged their feet, cursed me for waking them up so early. But when they saw their punches hit harder, their legs carry them faster, when they realized they weren't just delinquents wasting time but kids sharpening themselves into something better—something stronger—something free… they stopped complaining.

The court became our temple. The mornings, our ritual. And me?

I knew this was only the beginning.

More Chapters