At five in the morning—one minute before the alarm was set to ring—Isagi opened his eyes. There was no startle, no confusion; just that silent, automatic awakening of someone so deeply accustomed to his own routine that he no longer needed an alarm.
The room was still shrouded in the dim light of dawn. Soft rays filtered through the gaps in the curtains, tracing pale lines across the floor and walls. The air was cold but invigorating, and for a moment he remained perfectly still, breathing deeply, feeling his body gradually shed the numbness of sleep.
Only then did he sit up in bed, running his hands over his face and letting out a long stretch that quietly cracked his shoulders and back. His muscles complained—mostly from the previous day's sprints—but it was that familiar, almost welcome soreness that came from constant training.
He lowered his feet to the floor, toes brushing the icy tiles, and stood in one smooth motion. He crossed the room to the wardrobe, opening it just enough to avoid the creak of the hinges, and pulled out a lightweight black training T-shirt, black boxer briefs, black athletic sweatpants, and a folded towel. He stacked everything neatly on the bed, grabbed a spare set of clothes, and walked silently to the bathroom so as not to wake anyone. The hallway was quiet, lit only by the single bulb near the stairs.
Upon entering the bathroom, he switched on the light; the mirror reflected a face still slightly creased from the pillow. Isagi turned on the shower, and steam slowly began to fill the room as he removed the wrinkled clothes he had fallen asleep in.
Hot water cascaded over his shoulders, washing away the last traces of sleep and fully awakening his senses. It was always the same cycle: wake before the sun, train before school, repeat. A rhythm that, though exhausting, kept him sharp—and deep down, he preferred it that way. Between his past life and this one, discipline was the only thing that never changed.
The water flowed steadily while he mentally prepared for another day.
He turned off the shower, took a deep breath, and ran the towel through his hair, feeling the warmth gradually dissipate.
Once finished, he dried himself quickly yet carefully, passing the towel over his arms, torso, and back until his skin was completely free of moisture. Steam still lingered lightly in the bathroom as he slipped on his boxer briefs, the perfectly fitted black training shirt, and the athletic sweatpants. He ran his fingers through his damp hair just enough to make it presentable, turned off the light, and left the bathroom with the same silent caution, heading to the kitchen where the soft glow of the lamp above the sink created a warm yellow halo.
He set water to boil, opened the fridge, and took out a few simple ingredients: eggs, pre-cut fruit his mother had prepared the night before, and a small container of plain yogurt. As the eggs sizzled faintly in the pan, their gentle aroma mingled with the rising steam from the kettle. He prepared everything with the precision of long habit—two egg whites and one whole egg scrambled, a bowl of fruit and yogurt, and a cup of black coffee.
He sat at the table and ate in complete silence, savoring the absolute stillness of the early hours.
When he finished, he washed the dishes and put everything back exactly as it had been. He climbed the stairs again, feeling the gentle warmth of the coffee spreading through his body. Upon entering his room, clearer morning light was beginning to seep through the curtains.
With light steps, he returned to the room, picked up his phone from the desk along with the earbuds coiled beside it, quickly checked the battery, slipped the phone into his sweatpants pocket, and hung the earbuds around his neck.
He took a deep breath, letting the fresh morning air fill his lungs.
Then he went downstairs again, carefully opened the front door so it made no sound, and stepped out into the silent world where the sky still held the deep blue just before sunrise.
While stretching, he walked toward the gym.
The city was still half-asleep—shop shutters down, the scent of fresh bread drifting from a bakery that opened far too early.
When he turned the corner onto the narrow street where the red sign glowed, the gym appeared completely empty from the outside.
As always.
Isagi was the first one there, every single day.
Punctual to the point of being irritating.
He pushed open the glass door.
"Good morning, Yoichi-kun!"
Fujio's voice always arrived before the man himself appeared. Today was no different; he emerged while straightening a row of dumbbells, long sleeves pulled down to his wrists, dark hair perfectly combed as if he'd woken up fifteen minutes early just for that.
"Good morning, Fujio."
Isagi greeted him and immediately began stretching—precise, rapid movements.
Fujio crossed his arms, eyebrows raised in that expression he often wore when impressed, which seemed to happen every time he looked at Isagi.
"You get here way too early. I swear one day I'll walk in and find you opening the place before me."
"Routine," Isagi replied simply, pulling one knee to his chest. "If I slack off even one day, I'll turn lazy again."
Fujio let out a short, proud laugh.
"Talking like that, you sound thirty-five instead of fifteen."
Isagi just shook his head, already used to it.
Without wasting time, he hopped on the treadmill and started his warm-up. Fujio walked beside him, as he had since the first week—talking while the boy ran, sometimes offering technical tips, sometimes telling college stories, sometimes just commenting on the weather like a dad who woke up too early. By the final stretch, he was in the middle of a fairly hilarious story about one of his students…
"…and I swear, Yoichi, the guy tried to bench more weight than the bar itself can even handle. If I hadn't sprinted over, he'd still be trapped there forever."
Isagi breathed steadily, air flowing in and out in perfect rhythm with his strides.
"Some people want results before they learn how to walk."
"Exactly!" Fujio pointed at him, delighted. "You get it! If every beginner had half your common sense, I'd have far fewer gray hairs."
"You don't have any gray hairs."
"That's because I hide them well, kid. Respect my suffering."
Half an hour passed almost without them noticing.
When the treadmill display hit thirty minutes, he gradually slowed until it stopped completely.
Fujio clapped once.
"Perfect. Warm-up done. Now let's destroy those legs."
Isagi took a deep breath and followed the trainer to the weight room. He went straight to the squat rack, loaded the bar, and positioned himself in front of it.
"Remember posture," Fujio reminded him—more out of habit than actual concern.
Isagi approached the bar as though it were simply another part of the routine.
He dropped into position, adjusted his grip—fingers firm around the cold steel—took a deep breath, and pulled.
The bar lifted cleanly off the floor.
It was a weight most adults in the gym wouldn't even attempt, yet for him it was merely "the next one on the list."
Fujio let out a low whistle.
"If I told anyone you're doing this at fifteen, they'd think I was lying."
Isagi racked the bar and straightened up.
"I'm just trying to follow the program you gave me."
"Program, he says…" Fujio smiled wryly. "I gave you a normal routine, Yoichi-kun. You're the only one who looked at it like a personal challenge and started adding plates every single day…"
Isagi reset his stance, subtly rolling his shoulders to release tension. He inhaled, placed the bar across his upper back, braced his core…
And began the first set—twelve reps. Down and up with almost irritating precision, as if the weight were a natural extension of his own body. No tremor, no wobble—just the perfect mechanics of someone who treated effort as routine.
Fujio watched closely, arms crossed, expression torn between pride and disbelief.
"…You really are a monster, Yoichi-kun! Squatting that much after just one month is something I've never seen anyone do…"
After completing the twelfth rep, Isagi racked the bar, breathing deeply, feeling a slight burn in his chest but not complaining.
"Routine speeds things up a lot."
"Or genetics," Fujio countered with a laugh. "If I'd had your build at fifteen, I'd be gigantic by now."
Isagi wiped his face with his shirt and began adding more plates. The iron clinked softly—130 kilos.
Fujio raised an eyebrow.
"Adding more?"
"It feels light."
"…Light," Fujio repeated, mouth agape, staring as if a UFO had just landed in the middle of the gym.
Before Fujio could fully process it, Isagi calmly adjusted the bar, took a deep breath, and ducked under it again.
As he started the first rep with 130 kg, Fujio snapped out of his daze and resumed talking—something he always did to ease tension or simply fill the silence between sets.
"Oh, that just reminded me—I think I found a new house."
Isagi kept his rhythm—slow descent, perfect form on the ascent—but listened.
"Close by?" he asked on the exhale, never breaking form.
"Two blocks from here, can you believe it?" Fujio's voice was excited. "Bigger place, extra bedroom… the youngest is growing up and wants her own space. And my wife wants a bigger kitchen, so… here we go."
Isagi completed two more reps before replying, still steady.
"Sounds good. More convenient for you too."
"And how!" Fujio laughed. "Five-minute walk. No car, no traffic—just step out, turn the corner, done. Gym."
Another rock-solid rep from Isagi. Nothing shook—not his torso, not his legs. Even his breathing stayed controlled.
Fujio continued, clearly eager to vent.
"My middle kid isn't thrilled… says he'll miss his friends from the old street. Teenagers, right? The world ends every week for them."
Isagi hit the sixth rep, firm.
"Normal," he said briefly, without losing breath. "Change always bothers someone."
"Exactly." Fujio nodded. "But the oldest loved it. Said the new place is closer to the station so she won't have to wake up as early for college. You know what that means—my wife got all excited too."
Isagi finished the full set successfully, gave a small smile, and said, "I'm happy for you, Fujio…"
With that, he walked over to the nearby bench and sat without ceremony, breathing deeply as sweat traced slow lines down his neck. The black shirt clung to his body, outlining muscles still buzzing from the effort. He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, letting air flow in and out steadily.
"Oho… 130 kilos, twelve reps, without even grimacing…" Fujio murmured, hand on his chin in that trademark gesture of his. "I knew you were strong, Yoichi-kun, but sometimes I wonder if I missed something huge on your registration form. Like… 'Name: Isagi Yoichi. Age: 15. Hobbies: lifting trucks in my spare time.'"
Isagi glanced up just enough to confirm Fujio was completely serious—and of course he was. Fujio always was.
He let out a small sigh through his nose.
"Weight's just a number."
"Oh, sure, sure…" Fujio waved dramatically. "And I'm just an ordinary guy who happened to find a teenage pro-athlete wandering around. Life really is full of surprises."
He laughed to himself, shaking his head, but there was also that spark of pride—so characteristic of Fujio's easygoing, over-the-top style.
Isagi had seen it many times, especially when a student finally nailed a tough workout.
"If you keep this pace, Yoichi-kun… I might even introduce you to my daughter without embarrassing myself."
Isagi slowly lifted his head, slightly confused.
"Hana?"
Fujio broke into a huge grin that took up half his face.
"Yep! My oldest! I'm one-hundred-percent sure you two would get along great. You might not be the same age—she's a bit older—and—"
He cut himself off to point theatrically at Isagi.
"—and you're exactly the kind of guy I'd approve of without hesitation! Hardworking, polite, shows up early, never complains, eats right, sleeps right… You're practically every dad's dream!"
Isagi looked away, a little awkward but not denying it.
"I don't think she'd be interested in someone like me."
"Of course she would!" Fujio shot back instantly, puffing out his chest as if ready to defend Isagi from himself. "Hana is… how do I put it… energetic. Very energetic. Loud, even. But she likes decent people. And you are decent to the extreme."
Isagi blinked, recalling the description.
Fujio noticed the silence and laughed, giving the boy a light pat on the shoulder.
"Relax, I'm not arranging a marriage or anything. I just think you two would hit it off. Hana's kind of… intense. But she has a huge heart."
He stepped back, arms crossed again, still sizing Isagi up like he was evaluating the gym's new champion.
"Anyway, now that I'll be living nearby and you live nearby too, you'll probably run into each other one of these days. And… well, I'm definitely introducing you."
Isagi took a slow breath, letting it out calmly through his nose, showing almost no reaction.
Meanwhile, Fujio was already far too excited to notice any hesitation.
"Now rest another two minutes, then we're hitting deadlifts. And if you add more weight without telling me, I swear I'll throw you into a junior competition by force."
Isagi simply tilted his head in acknowledgment.
Fujio really is weird…
Deadlifts came next—with loads that would make any adult question their life choices. His body moved with near-mechanical precision: spine locked, grip solid, breathing controlled, every rep flowing as naturally as the routine itself.
Afterward, he moved to the leg press with a stack of plates that drew stares even from people pretending not to look. The machine groaned under the weight, but Isagi maintained his disciplined pace—no rush, no hesitation. He wasn't training to impress anyone; he was training because his body needed it to become the best striker in the world.
As the hour progressed, the gym slowly came to life. First the sleepy staff Fujio had hired over the past month, then the early regulars—people who always did a double-take at the sight of such a young kid moving weights most wouldn't dare touch. Some whispered quietly, others just watched curiously, but Isagi stayed focused, indifferent to the attention.
From heavy bench press to back and shoulder exercises, he maintained the same standard: high weight, flawless technique, constant progress. Fujio, busy helping his other clients, watched from afar—sometimes laughing to himself, sometimes shaking his head as if he'd accidentally created a prodigy. He only approached to correct the tiniest detail, which Isagi adjusted instantly.
In one hour, the workout was complete. Isagi's body glistened with a thin layer of sweat, but his breathing remained steady.
He put the equipment away, did a quick cool-down stretch, and walked to the entrance, saying goodbye to Fujio with his usual calm.
The morning was fully awake when he stepped back onto the street, slipping in his earbuds while breathing the fresh air and feeling the faint vibration of his phone in his pocket.
As soon as he unlocked the screen, the accumulated notifications appeared.
The soccer team group chat was especially lively, with messages from Tada, Takeshi, and Shiva celebrating yesterday's victory against Minamida High. Among them, one notification made him pause for a moment.
Oreki had sent a message.
Curious—and honestly a little impressed, since Oreki seemed allergic to any kind of social effort—Isagi opened the chat. It was short, direct, and unexpectedly sincere: just a congratulations on the match. Isagi replied with thanks, still surprised, then returned to the group chat and exchanged a few quick words with the others.
Just when he thought that was everything, he noticed a notification he'd missed in the middle of the night. From Marin…
Sent at 2 a.m.
She was raving about an anime she was watching, too excited to wait until morning.
Isagi smiled faintly at her enthusiasm, replied calmly, and moved on.
Kaguya had messaged about an hour earlier, asking if he was okay after the game. Her concern was formal but genuine, and Isagi answered politely, assuring her everything was fine.
Yuki had also sent a message inviting him to stop by the Student Council room later—he accepted.
Finally, Alya had asked early that morning whether he'd done the homework.
He answered "yes" and immediately got the read receipt, though no further reply. Alya was probably still in full "pretend I don't care" mode, which was classic her. Well, that's what he thought… until she actually replied saying he was really being less lazy with his studies lately, which surprised him. He simply told her he was trying…
In truth, it was last week's assignment—he'd finished it the same day so he wouldn't forget.
With all replies sent, Isagi pocketed the phone and continued walking steadily toward home.
The day was only just beginning.
He still had to go to school.
________________________
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