Thirteen days into the Weighted Journey, the Lot Legends—Daisuke (Date), Toshiro, Yumi, Aiko, Kenji, Hana, Riku, Sora, and Emi—were walking advertisements for spinal compression. Each 25 kg weighted vest was less a training tool and more a personal anchor, making them move with the slow, deliberate rhythm of deep-sea divers.
They were traversing a quiet, back-alley street in Kobe, en route to a small, hidden gym for an unscheduled, vested shadowboxing session. The mood was relaxed—until they turned a corner into a cloud of cheap cigarette smoke.
Three local thugs, easily recognizable by their ill-fitting jackets and bored expressions, were leaning against a graffiti-covered wall. Their eyes locked instantly on the group, specifically on Hana (The Speed Star), who, despite the vest, was still the most delicate-looking member.
The Savage Reply
The largest of the thugs, a guy with a laughably bad bleached mullet, detached himself from the wall and swaggered over, flicking his cigarette onto the pavement.
"Hey, little doll," Mullet-Thug slurred, ignoring the seven heavily-vested martial artists surrounding her. "You look like you're having a bad day carrying that backpack. Forget your lunch?"
Hana, who had spent the last two weeks performing vest-augmented three-point landings and avoiding aggressive temple deer, was past caring about street harassment. She didn't flinch.
Mullet-Thug pulled a crumpled wad of bills from his pocket, mostly 1,000 yen notes, and fanned them out awkwardly. "This is 20,000 Yen. Dump the bags, ditch the nerds, and come hang with us. We'll show you a good time."
The entire Lot Legends crew froze, bracing for a verbal—or physical—exchange. Hana simply looked at the pathetic bills, then back at the thug, with a devastating, weary look of supreme boredom.
Hana (Lifting her backpack slightly, the weight settling her stance): "Oh, really? Two-hundred bucks? That's adorable. I currently have 110,000 Yen in my pocket from the Asia Qualifiers prize money. That amount could barely cover my next Kobe beef dinner. Your whole crew could survive for six months on what I have here. Now, step aside, because we have training to do, and you smell like disappointment."
The thug's jaw dropped. The insult wasn't the money; it was the casual, effortless dismissal. His face instantly curdled from cheap menace to furious humiliation.
The Vested Struggle
"You little bitch!" Mullet-Thug roared, raising his fist to swing at Hana.
Before the thug's fist could travel 30 centimeters, Date (The Ghost Jab) was already moving. He didn't Flash Step; with the 25 kg vest constricting his core, the best he could manage was a sort of low-grade, determined Vest-Shuffle. He inserted his entire body between Hana and the thug, taking the wild, clumsy haymaker squarely on the metal shoulder plate of his vest.
The impact felt less like a punch and more like a poorly executed bowling ball throw against a concrete barrier. The thug yelped and shook his hand. Date barely staggered.
Date (Voice low, strained, Vest creaking): "Stay out of this," he commanded the Lot Legends without turning around. "Do not interfere! This is a lesson in threat assessment."
The remaining thugs, seeing their leader injured by a weighted teenager, jumped into the fray. Date, usually a blur of speed and precision, was reduced to fighting like a highly disciplined, slow-motion refrigerator. His movements were heavy, his center of gravity was wrong, and his explosive power was entirely absorbed by the 25 kg anchor.
He managed a Vest-Augmented Elbow Block that winded one guy and a low-grade Roundhouse Kick that only partially connected, making his opponent stumble. But he couldn't generate the necessary torque to finish the fight.
Kenji (Whispering in horror): "His Ghost Jab speed is down by 80 percent! He can't generate the power! The vests are neutralizing his technique!" Aiko (Tensing): "His core stability is failing! He's fighting a battle of inertia!"
Then, the second thug saw his opening. He lunged low and delivered a sharp, ugly kick straight to Date's standing leg. The combined force of the kick and the 25 kg vest pressing down on his knee was too much. Date's leg buckled. He stumbled hard, managing to catch himself on one knee, his chest heaving, the metallic clang of the vest echoing in the alley.
He was trapped, winded, and dangerously off-balance. The thugs moved in for the finish.
The Un-Equip: 100 Burpees
Date looked up at his crew, sweat dripping from his chin onto the cold metal of the vest. His eyes were burning with cold, focused fury.
Date (Voice raspy): "I need to unequip the vest."
The Lot Legends gasped as one.
Riku: "Date-senpai, no! The rule is 100 burpees!" Yumi (Panicked): "With the vest on! You can't sacrifice your training for this!" Sora: "He's right, Date! Just let us jump in! It's four against nine—they're toast!"
The Golden Rule of the Weighted Journey was simple and brutal: The vest comes off for sleep, swimming, or death. Anyone who removes it outside those parameters must perform 100 full burpees with the vest immediately after the training day concludes. It was a near-lethal punishment designed to enforce discipline.
Date ignored them all. He grabbed the emergency buckle on his right shoulder, ripping the Velcro strap open with a sound like tearing fabric.
Date: "A principle is useless if it costs you the mission."
With a grunt, he pulled the 25 kg vest over his head and let it drop to the ground with a massive, metallic CRASH that shook the alley.
Ghost Release Massacre
The Ghost Release effect was instantaneous and absolute. Date, who weighed 62 kg, suddenly felt lighter than he had in two weeks. His body, having spent 13 days overcompensating for the added weight, was now an unburdened, coiled spring of reflexive energy.
The thugs never saw what hit them.
Date executed a Flash Step that blurred his outline, appearing instantly behind the thug who had kicked him. A clean, hyper-speed Ghost Jab snapped into the thug's ribs—not to injure permanently, but to paralyze the diaphragm. The thug dropped, clutching his side, his breath stolen.
Mullet-Thug charged, throwing a desperate, looping right. Date simply pivoted, executing a Reverse Elbow Strike with such terrifying, unburdened rotational speed that it sounded like a whip crack. Mullet-Thug staggered backward, his nose instantly leaking crimson.
The last thug, smart enough to be terrified, turned to run.
Date (Calmly): "Frame Zero."
In the instant the thug accelerated, Date intercepted him with a clean Liver Blow—a precise, low blow that required zero force from Date, only perfect placement and unencumbered speed. The thug's nervous system instantly shut down, and he crumpled without a sound.
The fight lasted precisely 2.3 seconds.
Date, breathing normally, stepped back over the fallen thugs, his body trembling slightly from the sheer shock of being light again. He calmly picked up his 25 kg vest.
Date (To the stunned crew): "The mission is resumed. Aiko, call the police. Tell them three guys tripped over a piece of very heavy, neglected metal."
The Caloric Confession
Hours later, the adrenaline crash hit. The mission was complete, the thugs were detained, and the day's training was logged. Now came the penance.
Date, with the 25 kg vest zipped tightly around him once more, dropped into his first burpee in the courtyard of the next hotel.
One. Down. Up. Jump. CLANG. Ten. Sweat was soaking the vest straps. Fifty. His muscles were screaming, fueled by fury but starved of rest. Seventy-five. He was moving on pure, raw instinct, his face white. Ninety-nine. He finished the rep, barely able to rise. One hundred. Date performed the final jump, the weight threatening to drag him back to the ground. He landed, swayed, and simply tipped over sideways, remaining motionless on the pavement.
Riku (Rushing over): "Date-senpai! Are you okay?" Kenji (Kneeling, checking his pulse): "He's alive, but I think he's entered a state of caloric-deficit, vest-induced clinical death." Date (Muffled from the ground, voice faint): "Food... need... protein..."
Thirty minutes later, the Lot Legends were at a nearby all-you-can-eat establishment. Date, now vest-free, was no longer human; he was a black hole of protein and carbohydrates, silently inhaling every single piece of sushi, every bowl of rice, and every tray of fried chicken that passed his view.
As he finished his fifth bowl of ramen and looked longingly at the dessert bar, his stomach was impossibly distended—a truly heroic mound of digestive expansion.
Kenji (Adjusting his glasses, eyes wide with statistical awe): "Date, I've calculated the volume. Based on the amount of rice, broth, and meat you've consumed, it seems like you ate two towers." (A clear reference to the Tokyo Skytree, the tallest structure Kenji knew.)
Date stopped chewing, slowly looked up at Kenji, and gave him a single, predatory grin.
The next thing Kenji saw was the world Flash Step sideways.
BOINK.
Date, with a speed no human should possess post-meal, executed a micro Flash Step and delivered a perfect, gentle, but firm knuckle-boink to the center of Kenji's forehead. It was just enough to make Kenji reel back in surprise, but not enough to cause any actual damage.
Date (Back at his seat, already reaching for the miso soup): "Next time, calculate your escape trajectory, Kenji. And my stomach is currently operating at optimal recovery efficiency."
The Lot Legends laughed, the anxiety of the fight replaced by the hilarious spectacle of their leader being eaten alive by his own training consequences. They knew then that the journey was about more than fitness; it was about brotherhood under the most absurd pressure.