One thousand days.
Two years, nine months, and five days.
Having completed today's training, Hawk stood under the hot spray in Midtown's locker room showers, letting the water wash away the sweat and exhaustion. Once again, he summoned the interface only he could see—his cheat menu—and stared at the glowing progress bar that was now one day away from completion. Just one more punch day, and the Microcosmic Cultivation System would be activated.
It still felt like a dream.
After all…
Ten thousand punches a day, without missing a single day, for one thousand days straight—it sounded simple enough, but anyone who tried it would know just how brutal that kind of discipline really was.
Even Hawk himself sometimes had no idea how he'd managed to stick with it this long.
Maybe he was just naturally stubborn?
Or maybe… it had something to do with the fact that this was the Marvel Universe.
He honestly didn't know.
But one thing was certain:
"One day."
"Just one more day."
Once today was over, tomorrow he'd finally unlock his cheat.
"Microcosmic Cultivation…"
"I wonder if it's what I think it is."
Hawk narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
In his previous life, there was only one thing he could think of that matched the term Microcosmic Cultivation.
And if it really was what he was thinking—
Then the future was looking very promising.
According to the ancient Greek philosopher Democritus, everything in the universe is composed of atoms—and within each human body lies a miniature universe.
A microcosm.
To cultivate one's microcosm meant awakening this inner universe, drawing power from one's own life force, and pushing beyond human limits. Train it. Refine it. Burn it. And eventually, you'd reach a level of strength that defied the laws of physics themselves.
Hawk vividly remembered an anime in his last life that was all about this concept.
It was called—
Saint Seiya.
Bronze Saints who mastered the five senses to glimpse the sixth.
Silver Saints who attained the sixth and brushed against the seventh.
And Gold Saints who fully awakened the seventh sense and wielded power on a cosmic scale.
But beyond even that—
There was the Eighth Sense.
And even…the Ninth.
Hawk's mind replayed fragments of those epic battles, shining armor, and celestial cosmos-infused punches.
Then he caught himself.
And laughed.
He didn't even know if his cheat was that kind of Microcosmic Cultivation—no point in getting ahead of himself.
And besides…
It wasn't like he had any dreams of punching out Odin or drop-kicking Zeus.
The most important thing was:
He'd already lived seventeen years in this world. Before his cheat even appeared—before he turned fifteen—he'd mentally prepared himself for a life without power in this brutal, unforgiving reality.
So—
"Mindset is everything."
"High expectations only lead to disappointment."
He shook off the distracting thoughts, wrung out his freshly washed T-shirt and pants, and dropped them into a plastic bag. Wrapping a towel around his waist and drying his hair with another, he pushed open the stall door.
BANG!
The shower room door burst open.
Someone thin and gangly was shoved through the doorway from outside and stumbled across the tile floor, landing on his ass with a pained grunt.
"Wait… that's—"
"Peter?"
Hawk raised an eyebrow at the kid who'd just been pushed in.
Yep. That was him. The OG Spider-Nerd, Peter Parker.
Peter looked up and spotted Hawk stepping out of the shower stall.
His expression turned awkward.
He opened his mouth, probably about to awkwardly greet Hawk—who, though in the same year, he'd never really spoken to—when a burst of laughter echoed from the hallway outside.
A moment later, Flash Thompson swaggered into the locker room.
Nicknamed "Flash," also known as "Midtown's resident bully," and currently captain of the school's football team, Flash strutted in holding a football and flanked by his usual trio of toadies.
And then—
The laughter died.
Hawk, fresh from the shower, towel around his waist, wet hair half-dried, one hand holding his plastic bag of laundry, turned and locked eyes with Flash.
Flash was tall and muscular.
But Hawk? Hawk was built different.
Literally.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine days of throwing ten thousand punches daily had carved his body into a lean, explosive machine.
Unlike the bulked-up gym bros who relied on supplements and bad form, Hawk's muscles were clean and compact, forged through constant motion and pressure. His arms rippled with tension, not bloat—raw power, coiled and waiting. The towel wrapped snugly at his waist outlined the v-shaped taper of his torso. His abs? Defined. Precise. Eight-pack, symmetrical, like they'd been chiseled by a Renaissance sculptor.
Their eyes met.
And for a moment—
Time froze.
Everyone knew.
In American high schools, there's a very real hierarchy—a pecking order, a bullying chain.
On paper, Hawk should've been near the bottom. Orphan. No parents. Poor background.
Easy prey.
But no one picked on him.
Not because he'd fought off bullies or made a name for himself.
It was simpler than that.
Because no matter how you looked at him—his face, his frame, his eyes—
Hawk did not look like someone you could mess with.
Of course, Hawk had no desire to play hero either.
He wasn't here to save anyone.
He wasn't anyone's savior.
And this time was no different.
Without a word, Hawk turned away, pulled a clean T-shirt and pants from the bench where his backpack sat, dressed quickly, and slid the plastic bag of laundry into the pack.
He slung it over one shoulder, then walked calmly toward the exit—right past Flash Thompson, who stood at the doorway like a confused bouncer.
Flash frowned as Hawk approached.
He knew Hawk.
How could he not? The guy trained alone in the gym every single day for over two years. He was practically a campus myth.
But familiar? Not at all.
Hawk never joined parties, never showed up at school events. He moved through life like he existed in a different dimension.
Flash tensed as Hawk stopped in front of him.
"Ho—"
"Excuse me."
"…"
Flash stepped aside instinctively.
One of his minions opened his mouth, but the moment Hawk's icy blue gaze flicked toward him—calm, indifferent, utterly unbothered—he swallowed whatever insult he was about to say and moved aside too.
"Thanks," Hawk said, flat and emotionless, brushing past them without even a glance back.
Flash watched him leave, frowning, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
Then—
A sharp yelp from one of the goons.
"Holy shit!"
"Boss, Parker's gone!"
"What?!"
Flash snapped out of it, whipping his head around just in time to see Peter Parker—who had quietly slinked out behind Hawk—vanishing down the hallway.
"Go after him!"
"Nerd Parker! Get your ass back here!"