A year.
That's how long it's been since I stood on the beach, covered in blood and sand, alive only by chance and instinct.
That was the moment everything shifted.
Not just in the village — in me.
I had no illusions after that fight. This world wasn't going to hand me safety. Not strength, either. If I wanted to survive — truly survive — I'd have to earn it. Every single day.
So I trained. Harder. Smarter. Without hesitation.
---
It didn't start from zero. Before the pirates, I'd already built some kind of rhythm — diving off cliffs, hauling nets, helping the villagers. The island had slowly hardened my body without me noticing.
But after that night, I started taking it seriously.
Every morning, before the sun crested the sea, I ran the island's perimeter — ten kilometers of jagged trail, shifting sand, and salty wind. When I got back, drenched in sweat, I dropped to the dirt for the same routine:
100 push-ups
100 sit-ups
100 squats
No days off.
No shortcuts.
It was a ridiculous training method — straight out of some old anime I used to binge. One Punch Man, specifically.
Back then, it sounded like a gag. Now, it was my blueprint.
And when I wanted to go further, I thought of Dragon Ball.
I didn't have gravity chambers or energy blasts, but I remembered the drills: balancing on poles, dodging attacks blindfolded, carrying absurd weights through mountains.
So I improvised.
Balanced on floating driftwood to hone my stance.
Chased seabirds through the trees to sharpen my reaction time.
Tied stones to my ankles and jogged the beach in waist-deep water.
Practiced underwater breath-holds, trying to stretch each dive a few seconds longer.
Punched against swinging logs to simulate moving targets.
It was dumb. It was extreme.
But it was working.
---
And pain, there was.
At first, I could barely move by midday. My arms trembled holding a spoon. My legs seized walking uphill. My back ached, my lungs burned, and my shoulders screamed.
But then something strange started happening.
One morning, after a particularly brutal session the day before, I woke up expecting the usual soreness.
It wasn't there.
No muscle cramps. No burning joints. My limbs felt… ready.
Not just "rested." Restored.
The fatigue was gone, like my body had quietly reset itself while I slept.
It wasn't a one-time thing.
Day after day, the same result: I trained to my limit — full exertion, failure sets, sweat-soaked exhaustion — and by sunrise the next morning, I was fine. Stronger, even.
That's when I started suspecting something.
---
Proficiency Panel – Active
Proficiency
Strength: 41
Speed: 29
Perception: 31
Skills
Martial Arts
Boxing – Intermediate
Swordsmanship – Novice
General
Cooking – Intermediate
---
I didn't know how it worked. The System didn't explain itself. It didn't talk. No quests, no flashy level-ups, no glowing upgrades.
Just numbers. Quiet, steady numbers. And progress.
Still, I had to ask myself: was it the world reshaping my body? Or was the Panel doing something behind the scenes? Resetting my muscles every night like some kind of internal checkpoint?
I didn't know.
I didn't care.
What mattered was that it worked.
So I pushed harder.
---
I scaled cliffs with logs strapped to my back. Balanced on floating debris in the cove to test my stability. Used a makeshift blindfold to practice footwork drills.
My punches got faster.
My footwork tightened.
My breathing became measured, calm.
For swordwork, I carved a wooden blade from driftwood. Every swing was deliberate. Downward. Upward. Diagonal. Hundreds per day until my wrists throbbed.
When that stopped being enough, I began sparring against trees. Quick combos. Guard drills. Slip and counter. I remembered techniques from boxing clips and martial arts anime — not mimicking them exactly, but adapting what made sense.
---
I didn't train for glory. I trained because my life might depend on it.
This island was peaceful, but I wasn't naïve. If one pirate crew found this place, another could. And next time, I might be the only one standing between them and the people who'd fed me, housed me, trusted me.
Every drop of sweat was a promise.
---
The villagers began to notice. They didn't say anything directly, but I'd find little gifts now and then — dried meat, clean bandages, fishing hooks. Quiet encouragement.
One morning, I found a staff leaning against my door. Handmade. Polished. Balanced like it had been carved just for my hands.
Old Man Jiro said nothing.
He just gave a nod when I caught his eye that afternoon. That was enough.
---
Days passed like the tide — quiet and relentless.
Work. Train. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
I stopped thinking about Tokyo. The neon lights. The noise. The crowds. That world was fading like a dream after waking.
What mattered now was how many punches I could throw before my arms gave out. How long I could run before my legs buckled. How deep I could dive before breath gave way to instinct.
And every morning, I rose with no pain. No stiffness. Just hunger — for more. For better.
---
Some mornings, I stood on the same cliff I'd once feared leaping from.
Now, I leapt without hesitation.
Not to escape, but to begin the day.
---
I still wasn't strong enough.
But I was no longer weak.
And I was just getting started.
To be continued...