The highway stretched out before them like a penance.
Kenji's feet slapped against the muddy earth in a dull, uneven rhythm. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, each one clawing its way up his throat like it didn't want to be born. His shirt clung to him like wet paper, soaked through with sweat and drizzle. Every step jarred his bones, every jolt sent a wave of soreness crawling up his spine.
His legs did not hurt anymore, at least not since two kilometers. Now they felt something different—numb, wooden. As though he walked on somebody else's legs, borrowed from a corpse.
Ten kilometers. This was what the system wanted.
He didn't know why he was still going through with it. The system hadn't threatened him. He had no consequences for failure. He could just lie down. Let the mud engulf him. Let the cold and the hunger and the fog erase everything.
But something was eating away at him.
Not pride.
Not fear. Just… momentum.
He had already begun.
The village had disappeared behind him, engulfed by hills and fog. There were no cobblestones anymore. No lamp posts. No crowds. Only a rough track winding through trees and fields. The wind moaned between the trees, raising splinters of water from the rain-soaked leaves.
In the distance, the sea growled. Far away. Unceasing. Like a sleeping monster.
He was no longer running—not quite. What he was doing now did not amount to running. It was a shuffle. A limp. His arms dangled loose at his sides. His fingers spasmed with each step. His mouth was too dry to swallow, but his stomach still cramped—sharp little jerks that sliced into his ribs with each breath.
No food. No water. No rest.
Eight hours of carrying crates, and now this.
He wiped his forehead with a trembling hand. His sweat had turned cold. Icy rivulets traced the side of his face. The wind cut through his damp clothes like knives.
Just stop, a voice in his head said. Just sit. Sleep. Who cares about stats or systems or anything? You're not built for this.
He hated that it sounded reasonable.
But he didn't stop.
Because deep down, beneath the ache and the nausea and the dizziness, he wanted to keep going.
Even if it was stupid. Even if it hurt. Even if no one was watching.
One kilometer left.
Kenji's foot caught a rock.
He stumbled. Arms flailed. He just barely caught himself before face-planting into the mud. His ankle twisted awkwardly beneath him. Pain flared up his leg like a wire snapping.
He groaned, doubled over, hands on knees. His chest was heaving. His vision pulsed in and out, dark spots creeping in.
He stayed that way for a long moment.
Breathing. Not thinking. If he moved, he might vomit.
If he didn't move, he might never move again.
And then, deep down—deep under the hunger and the weariness and the grit in his brain—he felt it.
A flicker.
Not a flame. Not yet.
Just a stubborn, smoldering ember.
It murmured, Stand up.
So he did.
Trembling. Cursing. Swallowing nothing.
He inched one foot ahead.
Then the other.
The last kilometer was a blur.
Trees passed like specters. Mud slapped his ankles. His hands hung useless at his sides. His mouth was like metal and smoke.
He couldn't remember finishing the run.
He only remembered the ping.
[Alternate Objective Complete: 10km Run]
+0.2 Constitution
+0.2 Strength
+0.2 Agility
Kenji dropped to his knees.
His lungs burned. His throat was raw.
But he was smiling.
He didn't feel strong.
He didn't feel heroic. But he felt different. He stretched his fingers.
They moved more easily. The shaking had ceased.
He rolled his shoulders. They ached, but it wasn't the same ache. It was a tired ache. A lived-in ache. The kind you earn.
He laughed.
It was actually more of a cough, though. A wheeze that turned into a laugh.
Then he sat back, arms loose at his sides, looking up at the sky.
The clouds were starting to clear.
Overhead, there were stars beginning to filter through.
He had no idea what was next.
He didn't care.
Right now, he was alive.
And he had lived.
The return walk was agony.
He stopped often. Leaned against trees. Squatted on the side of the path. Once, he thought he was going to faint standing. His legs were rubber. His body was exhausted, like a drum that had been beaten too hard.
But with every step, he recalled that he'd succeeded.
It was a quiet kind of pride. Not boisterous. Not Hollywood. Just a small truth in his chest.
By the time he saw the first bent rooftops, the sun had dropped low in the horizon. The sky was splashed with orange and purple, the shadows lengthening between the buildings. Lanterns began to glow. The town settled into its evening rhythm.
Baleful owners rolled up their stalls. Children were herded indoors. A contingent of uniformed men—Marines, probably—marched past without even a second look.
No one looked at him. Just one more grimy, exhausted face among a million.
He stumbled upon an inn at the corner of a dozing side street. Three stories, tilting roof, tilting walls. A creaking wooden sign above the door: The Drifting Gull.
He went inside.
The air closed around him like a wave—warm, smoky, and full of the scent of broiled meat. The hearth popped in the corner. Some of the people slumped over bowls at small wooden tables.
A woman in her middle years stood at the rear of the counter, her eyes scanning him.
"You want a room?"
Kenji nodded. "Yeah. One night. No breakfast."
"Two hundred bellies."
He rummaged in the pouch the system had given him. It was still there. He pulled out two crisp bills, laid them on the counter. She counted them silently, then handed him a key.
"Second floor. Fourth door."
He nodded, turned, and started climbing.
Every step was a mountain.
He had to stop halfway, grasping the banister, gasping for breath. His legs trembled beneath him. But he didn't fall.
At last, he arrived at the door. Fumbled the key into the lock. Turned it.
The room was small. Single bed. Wood floor. Thin blanket. Broken window.
It was perfect.
He let go of everything.
Shoes. Shirt. Pride. Agony.
And collapsed onto the bed, face-first.
Sleep didn't ask permission.
It swept him like a tide.