Morning light spilled through the blinds, and Julian rose with it. His body no longer felt heavy when waking; it thrummed, restless, like a blade eager to cut.
He washed his face, tied his hair back, and began the routine.
Horse stance. The foundation of every fighter. His thighs burned, but the strain was lighter than before, his balance unshakable.
Shadow sparring came next—his fists slicing air, his feet gliding across the floor. Each movement landed with frightening precision, like his body had already rehearsed it in dreams.
Then came the weights.
What once demanded grit now lifted cleanly.
The treadmill groaned under his speed.
Sprints stretched longer, sharper, until sweat poured but his lungs refused to falter.
Every bead of sweat wasn't exhaustion—it was proof. His body didn't feel like it was breaking anymore. It felt like it was testing its limits, like the ceiling he once knew had been torn down and rebuilt higher.
