He couldn’t help but smile as he looked at the weight room that had been the source of so many grueling workouts, his mind already racing with plans, Mr. Vincent's words echoing in his skull, even now.

“You just need to lift twice a week, Eric. But were pushing you to the absolute limit, on those days.”

Eric had definite reservations when he had first begun his hardcore training regiment, just over a year ago. But some internet study and further research explained how it all worked.

Any type of strength training depleted glucose storage, stressed the muscle fibers, and caused lactic acid buildup, what was responsible for that burn. This, in turn, catalyzed a complex dance involving testosterone, human growth hormone, and numerous other compounds that both repaired the damage suffered and worked to make the muscles, ligaments, and tendons stronger, and the bones as well.

Most muscle growth occurred by the third or fourth day, though additional growth could occur up to day seven, depending on how hard one had been pushing themselves. Anything longer, and muscle mass tended to be lost. There was a bit of juggling involved, how many days after the first workout was ideal for a follow up workout, seeking to balance maximum muscle growth without depleting the body’s ability to recover fully between workouts before new muscle could even grow. And the need for a healthy diet and plenty of rest was a given as well.

Which meant that Eric would see significant gains after three or four days, and maximum gains after seven days after every hyper-intense workout, according to his former coach. A gain cycle Smith and his mother had been determined to accelerate with enhancements Eric already knew he'd never use again.

And if his hunch was right, he’d never need to.

“Here’s to getting stronger,” he said to himself, making his way to the bench press machine, setting it to the lowest weight, yet more determined than ever before to get as strong as he possibly could.

And by the time two hours had passed, he had done ten triple rep sets of every exercise his coach had used to torment him with, at a weight so low, pretty much everyone over the age of ten could best him, he had no doubt. And he didn’t care in the least.

When he finally gave in to the exhaustion he felt, happily collapsing upon the leather couch he had cleaned of all blood stains and muck, right after devouring a big fat heaping of instant ramen and canned sardines, it was with a sense of sweet satisfaction for a workout that was just as intense as any he had ever gone full out on, back when he had been in the best shape of his life.

He could only pray that a tiny blue bar just above his strength score would go up even just a hair, while he slept.

If so, he had hope. Hope that his desperate attempt to take advantage of a key aspect of his interface sheet would work just as he prayed it would.

If not, with how weak his body was, and the rats waiting for him, he already knew he was as good as dead.

Eric had tears in his eyes when he got up the next day. Because even though it was still at a score of eight, he didn’t even need to see in his mind's eye the considerable growth of the blue bar over his Strength stat to know that his theory had proven to be absolutely, wonderfully, and profoundly true.

He could feel it.

He was already getting stronger.

The interface had given him the desperately needed clue.

Someone who survived interface implantation only needed twenty minus their Vitality in hours of rest to completely recover from any injury. No quick storybook regeneration, but the injuries that caused so much morbidity and mortality in countless campaigns was now truly a thing of the past. Those who didn't die within half a day of an engagement would be in perfect health for the next one.

Compared to miraculously recovering from a knife wound to the gut, or recovering from multiple bones broken in a foot nearly chewed off by a vicious rat in less than a day, a little muscle repair was no big deal at all.

And a little biological bonus, his body wanting to make him just a bit stronger for his next workout, was the most natural thing in the world. And the fact that it only took 12 hours, not 7 days, to squeeze every shred of benefit from his hyper-intense workout was just icing on the cake.

Icing that would allow him to accomplish in a single twelve or thirteen hour time period what would normally take him a full week of weight lifting to achieve. Ideally, each workout session would give him as much gain as he would expect to enjoy after two intense sessions over a solid week.

And if the System itself were to consider his lost 6 points of muscle as being below his baseline, or somehow count as recovering from deprivation or illness, then maybe it would allow him to recover his ideal many times faster than putting on that much new muscle for the first time

.

Or at least, that's what he hoped for, but knew better than to expect.

All he could do was lift his heart out, and hope for the best.

And just feeling so much better after that wonderful night’s sleep, was exhilarating. But nothing motivated him so fiercely, so utterly, as seeing a tiny bar above his 8 strength a quarter full.

A quarter full!

3 more workouts over the next day and a half, compressing what would have been a month’s recovery as a mortal, should bring him back up to Strength 9. And he could only pray it would increase like that for quite some time.

Yet by the time he had finished his second 2-hour lifting regimen, he had never felt so exhausted or exhilarated as he did then, stuffing himself once more with hot ramen noodles quickly boiled on the gas stove he had access to, along with canned tuna and crackers, before sinking into a dreamless sleep once more, promising himself that the next day that he would practice with the weapons his family had left behind before hitting the weights, eager to see if he could increase his Finesse and Quickness as well as increase his Strength.

And after a few more workouts, he was hitting the pell with his practice spear as smoothly as he remembered once doing, and was finally able to use his saber against the pell, albeit slowly, without losing his balance and making a complete fool of himself.

He flashed a satisfied smile before crashing on his now customary spot on the couch, his interface blinking the next day with a message that filled his heart with a hope he had thought long dead.

Congratulations!

Spear has reached Rank 6! Constant diligent practice has revealed a degree of natural talent and tactical insight transcending most Terran professionals! You are now as skilled with spear and bayonet as the average Orc Conscript!

(Warning! Orc Conscripts are far stronger than Terran Olympians! Attempting to duel such with spears will likely result in your death.)

Your Strength has increased to 9! You are now stronger than 33% of your peers!

He noted as well that he was a third of the way to increasing his Finesse by 1 point, though the hand tremble at rest was still there. He also found that, much as he had hoped, applying his mother’s lotions upon twisted scar tissue and doing his best to massage his skin before working out kept his scars and keloids from feeling like they were in constant danger of tearing open, and he could only hope his drills would eventually increase his Quickness as well.

At first, he had despaired of increasing his Vitality and Stamina with the electric treadmill dead, but all he had to do was endure the grueling burn in his thighs as he raced up and down the many flights of stairs leading to the surface above, though never so far up as to actually approach the door sealed off as tightly as the one in the sewers, to feel his Vitality and Stamina both start to improve. And with the way his legs burned after half an hour of constant stair sprints, he almost wished he could skip that final bit to his regimen… before pushing himself all the harder.

Because he was absolutely determined to make himself as fast and strong as he possibly could while training, knowing that death was just a single mishap away, beyond the steel doors of his private little sanctuary.

And he couldn't deny that the steady sense of growth he felt, seeing the blue bars over his physical stats and several key skills actually start to fill, was nothing short of intoxicating.

He delighted in seeing his skills visibly starting to fill up their bars after every workout, his stats solidifying those gains after every half day he was lost in slumber. He learned to love pushing his muscles to the point of failure with each set of presses, curls, squats, and lifts he performed, reveling in his own exhaustion, to the point he was grunting and panting with each repetition, knowing that every bit of sweat he poured into training would pay off after just a single half-day long power nap.

But as days blended into weeks, the growth curve finally began to level off, far quicker than he would have liked.

His Strength had shot up a glorious three points in total, and was now at 11. And he was overjoyed to when his Finesse and Quickness bars had both finally filled up, slowly turning blue over two long weeks, and now he had a point in each of those as well. And how glorious it was to wake up feeling better coordinated than he had in weeks, finally feeling at peace with his new body, save for the slightest tremble. It was almost as glorious as leveling up had felt, but no monster kills needed.

He had earned that growth, all through his own efforts. His hard work and training had effectively given him close to two free levels without risking his life, and assuming earlier stat increases and levels came a bit faster than later ones, he would always have an edge over a version of himself that never bothered to train at all. He winced at the thought. Because beyond anything else, he had been training so he could take on rats and whatever else was down there with spear and sword with at least a decent chance of survival.

As the weak wreck he had been before, his likelihood of making it just to the surface would have been damn close to zero.

But after weeks of training, the growth curve had sharply tapered off for everything except Endurance, which was now just a hair under 13. The only thing rising steadily were Saber and Spear, now getting ever closer to ranks 7 and 8 every day. Which was a damn fine accomplishment, he reasoned, since he could only shadow-spar with himself, and had no way to truly practice winding and binding against another person's weapon, or controlling the center-line, other than with real-life opponents. Hopefully the friendly sparring kind.

So he had to master what he could. What would see him past those rats. Practicing his cuts, including a Western version of Iaido fast-draw, unsheathing his saber from its felt-lined leather scabbard with a slit a full third of the way up, careful to slice even as he struck with the blade, miming giving a foe charging into his space a vicious draw-cut across their chest before twisting his hips to force some space between him and his visualized foe, before ramming the point into an imaginary gut as he plunged the tip of his blade into the pel, finally strong, fast, and coordinated enough for the point to bite in with sufficient force that any person wearing nothing more than street clothes would have been completely run through.

So too, he practiced a vicious series of crosscuts after leaping back and knocking aside imagined enemy weapons with his rising blade, before whipping it around for a double Zwerch rebuttal, the blade slicing with practiced ease upon the now well-chewed up fabric covering both sides of his training pell.

Of course he had no doubt that live opponents, dodging and weaving, would be far harder to put down. But at least he was now able to lunge and strike with fairly decent accuracy with sword and spear point both.

Speaking of spear points… he gazed with a fond smile at the six foot long oak shaft he had trained with so diligently these past two weeks, the shaft stained with sweat, traces of blood from imperfectly healed palms, and now as comfortable in his grip as it had ever been.

He then looked at the bayonetted rifles and nodded to himself, suppressing that twisted mix of fear and excitement he chose to call inspiration.

Because it was time to remove the bayonet from the heavy, somewhat clumsy rifle stock, and attach it to the wooden pole that would thus serve as a light, well-balanced spear. But not before sharpening it with an iron file to create micro serrations that would help the blade tear through leather, hide, and flesh, just like a number of 19th century English officers had once instructed soldiers on campaign to do with their sabers. Just like Eric had pitilessly done to just one of his pair of antique blades, even if it ruined its status as a collector’s toy.

And he could say for a fact that his 1821 saber, filed just as Mr. Vincent had taught him when life suddenly got very serious, could now tear through the multiple layers of burlap and linen covering the pell like no one's business, with each slicing cut he delivered.

His fervent hope was that if it could bite into and tear through his training pel that effectively, he just might stand a chance against the greasy fur and thick hide of the rats.

But only after his steel bayonets were properly filed and sharpened did he finally dig out the screws, clamps, and adhesive Mr. Vincent had used to transform an earlier pair of staves into the very weapon Eric was determined to make, his eagle eye making sure Eric's own spear was just as secure as Vincent's own.

Of course, those makeshift spears were now long gone. But Eric had learned the lessons well enough, and with his Finesse finally up a full point, he finally trusted his hands enough to make his own, only cutting his thumb once as he carefully shaved down the very top of the sturdiest pole before wiping it down and placing the adhesive, then finally slotting the old-fashioned z-slot bayonet he had carefully sharpened earlier onto the end of the pole. Only then did he clamp it down and secure it, his hands hardly trembling at all.

His ruined lips curved in a satisfied smile, gazing down at his work, knowing he’d be daring the tunnels just as soon as these weapons were ready.

No matter how much the prospect made him sick with anxiety.

Because as important as the weeks of doing nothing but eating, sleeping, and training his ass off had been… he couldn’t escape his growing sense of unease, the certainty that he was somehow running out of time.

Who knew what would happen in the coming weeks or months?

Who knew how strong new enemies would become?

Or perhaps they were able to level up, just like he was. Steadily killing and getting stronger while he hid in here, one more victim, just waiting to be crushed by the titans sure to emerge, sooner or later.

Or maybe those rats would stay their current size forever.

And something else would come along, effortlessly break down the reinforced steel door, and tear him apart, limb from limb.

Right now, he didn’t know anything for certain. He could only be sure of one truth.

Above all else, he had to get stronger.

Because power was everything in this savage new world, and the only way he could ever make those orcs and all the other invaders pay for what they had done to his family, to this city, to his world, was by getting strong enough, deadly enough, that they would have no choice to fear him.

But in order for that to happen, he had to fight.

He had to master the rats that had him quaking in his boots, and overcome whatever other foe might be lurking in these tunnels. Which meant daring the passageways with his nice long spear that would be fully set by the morrow, over seven feet long, with the sharpened bayonet at the end, and killing at least one of those rat fuckers.

Only then would he be satisfied with himself. Only then would he be able to look his scarred reflection in the mirror and be able to say that yes, he would grow, he would level up, he would not be unmanned by fear. And the next day, he would go hunting again. And from there, again. Until he leveled up and kept on leveling up, and cleared out this whole damned sewer.

Or at least, that was the plan.

He took a quick moment to glance at his modified character sheet, focusing only on the attributes and skills he had worked so hard to improved, pleased and more than a bit amazed with just how far he had already come from the wreck of a human being he had been, only two weeks ago.

_____________________________________

Eric Silver Level 1 Conscript

Physical Characteristics

Strength – 11 (05%) (Nonstop training is starting to pay off!)

Vitality – 12 (95%) (A fearsome determination to forge yourself in fire means your endurance will soon be what it once was, when everything in life was going your way!)

Finesse – 10 (Your hands still suffer mild tremors at rest, but you are once more capable of precision work while you concentrate.)

Quickness – 11 (You now know how to treat your scars for flexibility, as constant training helps you heal neurological damage and regain reflexes that should have been forever lost!)

Appearance – 7 (You still suffer significant scarring over 90% of your now hairless body.)

Stamina – 140 Points (You have regained 95% of original lung function! Constant training means your stamina is now 20 points above baseline Vitality norms!)

Health – 141 Points.

Interface Recognized Skills

Saber – Rank 7 (You are as skilled a swordsman as any Terran Professional! You just need the physical characteristics to match!)

Spear – Rank 8 (You are as skilled with a spear as members of an Elite Terran Spear Corpse! Boost your Strength and Finesse, and be worthy of this honor!)

Swimming – Rank 2

___________________

He had to admit, even if he did think his interface was mocking him, the acknowledgment of his growing skills gave him a warm glow that kept him training far harder, far longer, than he otherwise might. But even his interface made it clear that he still needed to increase his stats to make best use of his skills. A truth he was painfully aware of after every single training session.

But at least now, he felt so much more prepared than he had just a few weeks ago. Even if the thought of actually entering the sewers again had his heart pounding with something uncomfortably close to dread. But before he finally faced down his fear of those dark winding tunnels, there was another far more mundane anxiety he had to face down.