At 5:57 a.m., Mahmoud stood at the foot of Jabal Al-Khawf — The Hill of Fear.
It wasn't the tallest in the city, nor the steepest, but to everyone in the neighborhood, it was the place you avoided unless you had a death wish or a bad bike crash story to tell. Even stray dogs steered clear of the incline.
But Mahmoud had received one clear instruction from VALYS the night before:
"New Mission: Reach the summit of Jabal Al-Khawf. No stops. No sitting. One continuous climb. Completion required before 6:45 a.m."
Reward: Endurance boost. Breath control unlock. First-tier resistance threshold test.
He could barely feel his legs after yesterday's cardio drills. His ankle wrapped tight, calves sore, back still aching from the weird rooftop stretches VALYS called "primitive mobility resets."
Still, he took the first step.
Gravel shifted under his foot.
Then another.
Then another.
Halfway up, the burn in his thighs ignited.
By the three-quarter mark, his ankle throbbed like a signal flare.
But he kept going.
Behind him, the city was waking up — slow, indifferent. No one saw him. No one cheered. No one even knew.
But he knew.
"Muscle fatigue at 73%. Ankle pressure rising. Posture deteriorating. Adjust hips by 4 degrees. Focus breath."
"I'm trying," Mahmoud muttered.
"Trying is data. Movement is progress. Continue."
His shirt was soaked. Dust clung to his face. Each breath tasted like rust. But at 6:42 a.m., he reached the top and dropped to his knees—gravel biting into his skin.
He didn't cry.
He smiled.
Because for the first time in his life, he had beaten a hill no one else had dared to climb.
"Objective complete. System upgrade unlocked: Cardiovascular Efficiency Level 1. Endurance: +3%. Breath discipline module activated."
"Note: You are ahead of internal projections. Continue."
Mahmoud lay flat on his back, heart pounding, face turned toward the sky.
He didn't feel like a champion.
But he didn't feel like a failure either.
He just felt alive.
The descent was worse than the climb.
Each step downhill sent a jolt through Mahmoud's knees. His left ankle felt like it had a needle inside it, stabbing and twisting every time his foot landed wrong on the rocks. Gravity was cruel — there was no glory in going down.
But he didn't stop.
His breath came slow and steady, guided by VALYS's voice counting inside his mind.
"Inhale: three seconds. Hold: one. Exhale: four seconds. Reset."
By the time his feet touched level ground again, the sun was up — a blazing white-gold orb rising behind the edge of the rooftops. The alleyways were starting to stir with noise: buckets slamming on the ground, radio static, distant shouts.
Mahmoud leaned against a brick wall and let his body go limp.
He had made it.
But something still gnawed at him.
"VALYS," he whispered under his breath. "Why does it still hurt this much?"
"Define 'this much.'"
"This ankle. These muscles. This weight I'm carrying. I thought I was improving. But the pain isn't going away."
There was a pause — longer than usual.
"Progress does not mean the absence of pain. It means adapting to it."
"Pain is information. It is your body's resistance to change. Pattern recognition is how you grow stronger."
Mahmoud slid down the wall until he was sitting on the curb, pulling his sleeve over his forehead to wipe the sweat.
"You sound like a coach," he said.
"I am not a coach. I am an optimizer."
"Then optimize this," he muttered, gripping his left ankle.
The pain wasn't sharp anymore — it was worse than that. It was old. It was personal.
He remembered the day it first broke — three years ago. A neighborhood match on a street barely wide enough for a scooter to pass. He'd lunged for the ball too fast, landed wrong, and heard the pop. He'd cried that day, not from the pain — but from knowing it was over. His dream.
That was the day his mother told him, "Enough football. You're not built for it."
That was the day his father told him, "You want to be an athlete? Lose twenty kilos and grow ten centimeters first."
That was the day he stopped running.
Until now.
He pulled out his phone and looked at the time: 7:23 a.m. School would start in an hour.
But his real education had already begun.
"You are starting to understand," VALYS said.
"Pain does not block your path. It is the path."
Mahmoud stood up slowly.
Wobbly legs. Stiff back. Bandaged ankle.
And still — he walked.
Because pain had a pattern.
And he was finally learning how to read it.
By mid-morning, Mahmoud sat slouched at his desk in chemistry class, his body a battlefield of soreness. Every time he shifted in his seat, a muscle complained. His calf felt like it had been twisted into a knot. His ankle was a tight coil of heat and dull throbbing.
And still, beneath it all, he felt… good.
He didn't tell anyone why.
They wouldn't understand.
To the others, he was still the "limping loser." The guy who once cried during laps. The overweight nobody who once begged to be goalkeeper just to avoid running.
But inside, something had shifted—something real.
"Muscle recovery underway. Focus scan initiated. Alert: decreased attention. Fatigue threshold: 61%. Would you like to enable Classroom Focus Protocol?"
Mahmoud blinked.
"You have a protocol for paying attention in school too?"
"Optimal performance applies to all domains. Intelligence is part of the athlete profile."
He smirked and whispered, "Okay then. Do your thing."
Immediately, VALYS activated something in him. Not like a caffeine rush. More like his mind being pulled into alignment—like puzzle pieces sliding into place.
Suddenly, the formulas on the board made more sense. The words in the textbook didn't blur. He even answered a question out loud—and got it right.
Some of the students turned, surprised.
He didn't care.
But the high didn't last.
During lunch, it all came crashing down again.
Mahmoud sat alone on the edge of the playground wall, eating from a small container of rice and beans. He had brought it from home—he'd quietly stopped buying fries and soda two days ago. Another small battle.
That's when Tariq approached.
Again.
"Training for the Olympic eating team?" he said, loud enough for others to hear.
Mahmoud stayed quiet.
Tariq took another step forward, this time holding his phone. He turned it toward Mahmoud.
There on the screen was a photo—grainy, low-quality—but it showed Mahmoud halfway up the hill from this morning, hunched over, looking like he was about to collapse.
The caption read:
"Bigfoot climbing Everest — spotted behind the stadium."
Laughter erupted from behind them. Two boys doubled over. One pretended to climb the wall in slow motion, dragging his foot and grunting.
For a moment, Mahmoud's throat tightened. Rage flared in his chest.
But then—
"Recommendation: Do not engage. Maintain focus. Responding validates distraction. You are not here to win arguments. You are here to win results."
He stood up.
Tariq braced, expecting a shove. But Mahmoud just grabbed his container, tossed the lid on top, and walked away without a word.
Behind him, the laughter continued.
But something had changed.
The laughter felt… weaker.
Because Mahmoud hadn't cracked.
Because he hadn't played the role they wanted.
Because he knew something they didn't.
"Emotional control increased. Mental discipline: +2%. Reputation among observers: shifting."
Mahmoud exhaled deeply.
The pain was still there.
The soreness was still there.
The mockery was still there.
But none of it mattered more than the mission.
And that mission?
It had only just begun.
The sun had long begun to set when Mahmoud stepped onto the rooftop again, the same spot where his journey had started just days ago.
His legs trembled slightly as he climbed the final step. His clothes were soaked in sweat from the evening drills. VALYS had pushed him hard—step drills, ankle stabilization circuits, core holds so long they made his whole body shake.
But he hadn't stopped.
Not once.
He stood there now, wind brushing past his damp shirt, the lights of the city flickering below like a thousand restless dreams. Everything hurt—but in a strange, beautiful way. Like his body was being unmade and rebuilt all at once.
"Recovery sequence activated. Oxygen uptake returning to baseline. Muscular inflammation noted in both legs—recommend hydration and compression."
Mahmoud didn't respond right away.
Instead, he sat on the edge of the rooftop, arms resting on his knees. The metal railing was cool against his skin. From here, the city felt distant, but not out of reach.
"I've never… pushed like this," he said quietly. "Not in years."
"Correct. Your prior lifestyle emphasized avoidance. Present activity indicates the opposite."
Mahmoud nodded slowly. "You know, I used to think pain meant I was broken. Now it feels like… it's part of the process."
"Pain is not the enemy. It is the signal."
He paused again.
Then asked something he hadn't dared before.
"Why are you helping me, VALYS?"
For the first time, there was silence.
Not the cold, mechanical kind. Something different.
Almost hesitant.
Then, softly:
"You activated me. You chose the challenge. My design is to help you reach the absolute limit of your potential."
"But there is a secondary directive."
Mahmoud blinked. "What directive?"
"To make you believe again."
He stared out at the skyline.
That… didn't sound like code.
It sounded like someone who had seen something broken—and wanted to fix it.
"You think I stopped believing?" he asked.
"Yes. When your ankle failed. When your family gave up. When the world stopped clapping."
"But belief is a skill. Not a gift. And it can be trained too."
Mahmoud sat there, letting the words sink in. His chest tightened—not with sadness, but with something else.
Hope.
"Would you like your daily stats?" VALYS asked.
Mahmoud smiled, eyes still on the horizon.
"No. Not tonight."
"Understood."
They sat together in silence—boy and system, sweat and circuitry, pain and purpose.
The city hummed below. Somewhere far off, a match was playing on a rooftop TV, the sound barely reaching the sky.
But here, on this rooftop, something more important was happening:
A boy who once believed he was broken was learning that pain was not his prison—
It was the price of becoming unstoppable.
End of Chapter 4.