The morning sun filtered through the cracked window shutters of Kenji's room, casting golden streaks across the warped wooden floorboards. He stirred under the thin, musty blanket, groaning as he rolled onto his side. Every muscle in his body ached—sharp, stiff reminders of the run and labor from the day before. His arms felt like sandbags. His legs were worse. His back screamed when he sat up.
But he sat up anyway.
He brushed the sleep from his eyes and sat up and looked around the little room. The same peeling paint, the same drunkenly angled bedframe. The same whiff of sea salt and mildew. He sat up deep and then lowered his legs to the floor.
No time to waste.
Today was Day One.
Kenji dressed casually, grabbing the same shirt and pants he had worn the day before. They were wrinkled and still damp in places, but they would have to do. He tied his boots, grabbed the last bit of bread from his bag, and stepped outside into the morning.
The streets of Mura Island were less congested at dawn. A handful of fishermen walked along the muddy roads towards the docks. A woman broomed her porch, humming a gentle tune. Otherwise, the town was still sleeping, wrapped in a pale mist rolling off the coast.
Kenji followed the road out of the town, past the last of the market stalls and along a narrow track which twisted between creaking rocks and withered trees. Twenty minutes' walking brought him to it: a small clearing at the base of the cliffs, where he gazed out at the sea. The ground was uneven, patches of sand and cobbles with clumps of grass in between. Cawing gulls wheel overhead, and gale-force wind howled through an opening in the rock.
It was still. Sucked dry. And beautiful.
Kenji spread his arms out, breathed in the salt air, and dropped onto his knees.
Time to begin.
He started with the push-ups.
One. Two. Three. Ten. His arms shook.
Twenty, and his breathing was jagged. Elbows bent. He fell to the ground.
"God…" he grunted, rolling onto his back.
300 push-ups. That was the goal. Every day for a month. He looked up towards the sky, let the breeze cool his face, then struggled up again.
He broke them into sets of fifteen. Then ten. Then five. Mud clung to his palms and knees. His shoulders ached. His chest burned. Sweat dripped from his nose and chin.
By the time he reached 300, the sun was more overhead. His arms were jelly. His whole upper body quivered with every breath.
Lay on his back once more, facing upwards.
That was only part one.
Assigned himself ten minutes. Ate bread crust he had with him, drank water at a nearby stream. Then lay back to the ground and began doing sit-ups.
If push-ups were blades, then sit-ups were knives. His abs cinched in the middle. He gritted his way through it, grunted. Set after set. Thirty there. Twenty here. He lost track of how many times he lost count and started over. He cursed under his breath, brow beaded with sweat.
A long time ago in high school, he'd skip gym class whenever possible. He remembered giggling with his friends in the locker room, complaining about running drills and pointless laps around the track.
Now, he'd do anything to have that stamina back.
Lastly, 300 sit-ups.
He stayed on his side this time, chest heaving, face grimy and sweaty.
Just a single segment left.
The run.
His legs grumbled when he stood up. The muscles of his thighs complained. His knees were creaking hinges. But he started moving. One step. And then another.
Down the trail again. Along the edge of town. Alongside the market again, and onto the road that ran along the seashore.
The first kilometer was awful. The second worse.
But Kenji didn't give up.
His step was barely a run, more of a stumble. But he forged ahead in spite of the pain. The sun beat down on him now. Dust swirled under his boots.
At kilometer four, he was experiencing double vision. His eyes swam. The world rocked under his feet.
But he didn't give up.
Each step was agony, but there was something underneath. A rhythm. A rawness. His body was screaming—but it was also listening. Responding. Like some ancient machine being awakened.
As soon as he hit the 5km mark, he collapsed onto his side along the road, gasping.
[System Notification: Day 1 Complete – Path of the Madman]
29 Days Remaining
"No greatness without grit."
No award. Just a message. Just acknowledgement.
But somehow, it was sufficient.
The walk back to the inn was sluggish. His clothes were soaked. His legs spasmed uncontrollably. His fingers numbly tingled. He passed by a few townspeople who looked at him strangely, but no one uttered a word.
By the time he arrived at his room, he could barely move his feet.
He shed his shirt, splashed himself with the icy water in the basin, and fell onto the bed. But he didn't sleep at once.
He poked through the drawer beside the bed—a crumpled corner of a creased worn flyer—and scribbled something on it with a piece of charcoal he had found in the hearth last night.
"Don't miss a day."
He tacked it to the wall with a spot of crumbly wax.
A reminder. A vow.
Kenji stared at it, chest still rising and falling, heart still racing.
Only one day. One long, hard, torture-filled day.
And twenty-nine more to follow.
But he'd succeeded.
Somehow.
And tomorrow, he'd do it again.
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