In every novel I’ve ever read, there’s always that moment for the protagonist.
They grind. They grow stronger. They reach new heights.
And then—bam.
They hit a wall.
Not a physical wall, but one that’s way worse. A soul-crushing, energy-draining wall that just won’t move, no matter what.
They’re more powerful than ever, but instead of celebrating, they’re stuck in this weird headspace. Frustration. Emptiness. Even loneliness.
Back then, when I was just a reader, I didn’t get it.
"You’ve come so far. Isn’t this what you wanted?" I used to think. "Just push through. Keep going."
It seemed simple.
But that was then.
Now?
Now I understand.
Because I’ve finally reached that point myself.
And it’s exactly as hollow and disorienting as the books described.
I’ve clawed my way up from the bottom, from barely functioning to... well, a little better than barely functioning.
And yet, I don’t feel accomplished. Just tired. Weirdly nostalgic, too—thinking back to when I was a fragile wreck.
That version of me couldn’t even sit up without rehab.
Now?
I’m stronger.
From pathetic... to slightly less pathetic.
But I’m not stopping here. Not even close.
Dreams don’t end when you reach them—they shift, stretch, and become something bigger.
Which brings me to my next target:
Fifteen kilos.
Yeah. You heard right.
After finally conquering those 5kg and 10kg dumbbells—my mortal enemies—I’ve set my sights on the next beast.
A real monster.
One that still laughs at me every time I try to lift it.
It’s been a week since I started this absurd ...quest.
And every time I walk past the rack and see that smug little 15kg dumbbell resting there like it’s some ancient relic forged by the gods, I feel two things:
Disgust.
And ambition.
Mostly disgust.
It’s not even that heavy, technically. I’ve seen kids younger than me curling that weight with one hand while filming gym selfies with the other. But when I grip it—when I try to lift it with control and precision—my body says no in every language it knows.
But that’s fine.
That’s the point, isn’t it?
The wall is supposed to push back. That’s what makes breaking through it meaningful.
So every day, I come back.
I stretch.
I warm up.
I whisper threats at the 15kg dumbbell.
I try to lift it.
And I fail.
Sometimes I drop it. Sometimes I can’t even get it off the rack. One time I barely got it up, only for my arm to flail like a wet noodle and nearly clock a girl next to me. I bowed and apologized so many times she probably thinks I was malfunctioning.
But I’m getting closer.
The only reason I managed to survive this far is because of my cheat.
My talent.
Honestly? It’s absurd. A power that shouldn’t even exist.
If it didn’t come with penalties, it’d be completely overpowered. Like, divine-tier broken.
And even with the penalties, it’s still kind of insane.
In this world there is isn’t replica of my talent and even there is it mostly enhanced physical strength slightly.
But mine can do more then just enhancing physical strength, etc... it can even enhances my willpower.
That’s right.
[Enchantment].
A talent so busted it can push even your mind beyond its limits.
It’s why I can do things like this—
"Nine hundred thousand and ninety-eight!"
Okay, let’s be real: that number’s just for show.
I’m not some muscle god. My body’s still weak.
But I’ve got time.
If I pour everything into this, maybe—just maybe—I can get my physical abilities to a decent level. Something closer to ...something closer to normal. Or at least, my version of it.
Because normal isn’t really the goal anymore. Not for someone like me.
It’s about becoming functional. Reliable. Capable enough to stand in a fight and not get tossed around like a paper bag in a hurricane.
And yeah, maybe—just maybe—be someone people can depend on.
That’s the dream, anyway.
Still, I can’t ignore what makes this all possible.
[Enchantment].
It’s not flashy. No fireballs. No lightning. No swords made of light or gravity-bending martial arts.
But what it does is whisper to my bones when I’m breaking down.
It tells my muscles to keep going when the fibers are screaming.
It drills into my head when I want to stop and says:
"No. Not yet."
It’s like a second voice. My better half. One that doesn’t care about fear or pain or failure. One that exists solely to push forward.
And I’ve learned to listen to it.
Every time I activate it, even just a little, I feel something stir in me—something deeper than strength.
It’s resolve.
It turns hesitation into action.
Doubt into grit.
Weakness into a stepping stone.
And sure, it eats away at me if I push too far. The penalties are no joke. Nosebleeds. Dizziness. Headaches sharp enough to split mountains—sometimes even memory lapses.
But I’d rather bleed chasing progress than rot in regret.
So I grip the 15kg again.
My hand’s trembling.
My breath is short.
I activate [Enchantment].
A soft golden shimmer flickers around my forearm, barely visible. A trickle of warmth spreads through my veins like molten focus.
This time, it lifts.
Slow. Shaky.
But it lifts.
I let out a half-laugh, half-growl through gritted teeth, holding the dumbbell like I’m presenting an offering to the gods of progress.
[9 days until the main quest begins.]
Of course.
That damned voice echoed in my head like a punchline to my internal monologue.
Nope.
This world wasn’t about to let me train in peace.
At least I still had nine days left.
Not a lot, but better than nothing.
Positivity—that’s what mattered in moments like this.
"But the semester doesn’t even start for a while..."
I muttered to myself, already getting the sinking feeling that those peaceful "training arcs" everyone dreams of weren’t in the cards for me.
Yeah, things were too peaceful right now.
In the novel, after the terrorist attack during the entrance ceremony, nothing major happened for a while. Just a few lighthearted sparring matches, a handful of personality clashes, and the classic "we’re rivals now" declarations between overconfident freshmen. Basically, the calm before the storm.
But now that I was in the story, living it? That calm felt too rehearsed. Too clean. Like someone was setting the stage, dragging out the tension before yanking the rug out from under me.
And I was the rug.
Still gripping the 15kg dumbbell, I slowly set it down—no dramatic drop this time. My arms were screaming, my vision was a little blurry, and there was a faint metallic taste in my mouth, but I’d done it.
A proper lift.
One.
Just one.
But it was mine.
And now, the countdown had begun.
[9 days until the main quest begins.]
The system’s voice had a way of making everything sound like a ticking bomb. No details. No warnings. Just a clock slowly devouring my peace of mind.
I slumped onto the bench, wiping sweat from my brow. My gym shirt clung to me like plastic wrap, and my heartbeat thudded in my ears like war drums. It wasn’t glamorous, this training thing. No cinematic montages, no soaring soundtrack—just pain, repetition, and stubbornness.
I leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
If I have to say, there was one thing major happened on those lighthearted secen.
You see, in the novel, several students lost their lives during the chaos at the entrance ceremony. And, naturally, not all the parents took that lightly.
One of them in particular wasn’t pleased that his son had died due to the academy’s security failure.
He knew the villains had somehow managed to bypass the academy’s defense system—but since the cause was never fully uncovered, the blame fell entirely on Velcrest Academy and its chairman.
That parent?
He wasn’t just any grieving father.
He was filthy rich. A major donor. The kind of guy who had supplied the academy with state-of-the-art gear, weapons, and generous funding.
And he used that influence. His money. His connections. All of it—to bring down pressure like a hammer on the academy.
"...Wait a sec."
Wasn’t that my father?
Well, not my father. Rin Evans father, to be exact.
But that raised a big question.
How did I know about that?
I mean, sure, my memories were a bit scrambled after the transmigration, but I wasn’t completely clueless about the events unfolding in the novel.
Rin Evans.
The rich, influential student whose father had been so pissed about his son’s death. His father had played a huge role in creating a rift between the academy and its governing body after the attack. And now, this whole mess had me wondering how much of that knowledge was just a random flash from the book, or if there was something deeper at play.
Either way, I couldn’t afford to waste brainpower worrying about it.
Classic transmigrator motto: if overthinking doesn’t help, focus on what you can do.
And right now, that meant finishing my push-ups.