The wooden crutch tapped against the floor, and the room, already quiet, sank into a heavy stillness. The teacher didn't bother with greetings, didn't offer a single opening line. He simply rolled out a specialized scale, its alloy surface gleaming, leather-coated grips on either side, wires running straight to an electronic display set on the desk.
No explanation needed. Every student stood up on their own. Chairs scraped harshly as they formed a line in silence. teacher's stern presence was enough to crush the listlessness out of them. John Markus stepped into place at the very end, eyes fixed on the scale, wondering what exactly the man had in store.
The first student took off his shoes, planted both feet on the platform, and gripped the handles tight. The screen lit instantly, flashing numbers: weight, bone density, muscle percentage, body fat, even a full diagram of fat distribution across the body. The data left no room to hide.
teacher lowered his head, eyes glinting with scrutiny. He nodded once, then carefully wrote it down in a worn leather notebook. No praise, no scolding. His hoarse voice gave only one order. "Next."
Second, third… one by one they stepped up. Faces paled as the numbers came to light. The air in the room thickened, like an invisible hand tightening around every throat. A few students ducked their heads, shame written clear as their bodies were laid bare in cold digits.
Then came John's turn.
The teacher lifted his gaze, icy sharp. His voice dropped low.
"New student. Height?"
"One seventy-eight," John replied flatly.
A curt nod. John stepped onto the scale, his weight landing solidly. The screen raced with data, numbers rolling too fast for the others to even catch. teacher studied each line, a spark of calculation flickering in his eyes. He said nothing, just jotted it down and closed the notebook.
When the last student was done, teacher straightened. His crutch slammed down with a resounding crack, the sound ringing through the room.
"On the battlefield, you don't get eternal armor. You don't get miracle potions at your side. The only thing that keeps you alive is this body." His voice was gravelly, but every word struck like a hammer. "If the body is weak, you die. If it's strong, you stand a chance. The numbers I just recorded are the base for your training and diet. Don't think of them as stats. They're your lives."
He paused, eyes sweeping the class. A boy near the front swallowed hard, sweat trickling down his temple.
Then the teacher's tone sharpened to ice.
"Those who gorge themselves, who slack off, who let their fat pile up and their bodies decay… will face hell-level training. No mercy. Do you understand?"
No one dared answer. Silence clamped the room. Hands trembled, a few heads bobbed quickly. Breathing grew loud, uneven.
"Good." The crutch slammed again, his stare like a blade. "We start with stamina. On the battlefield, when weapons fail, when your attack is useless, running is the only right choice. If you can't run, you die. Everyone, twenty laps around the training yard."
He raised his stopwatch, clicked it. "Begin!"
The four closest to the door bolted, footsteps echoing through the hall. The rest hurried after, none brave enough to hesitate.
John was tightening his laces when the teacher's dry voice cut across.
"You, the new one. Since it's your first day, you get a privilege… After five laps, you may rest for five minutes."
It sounded like kindness, but the teacher's eyes were empty, cold as frost. John understood instantly. This wasn't a favor. It was a test. The man wanted to see what he'd choose, and how much he could endure.
John didn't reply. He rolled up his sleeves and stepped out.
The sky hung dull and gray, cold wind lashing his face. The training yard stretched wide, its white lines faded and broken. Shoes struck hard against concrete, their rhythm echoing across the space.
At first, the class kept a steady pace. But by the second lap, kids were already gasping, feet stumbling. A girl flushed scarlet, breath ragged, sweat dripping down her jaw. A boy gritted his teeth, cursing under his breath as he ran.
John fell in with long, even strides. His breathing stayed steady, every inhale and exhale like clockwork. His body moved smooth, muscles resilient, lungs expanding strong. With Little Fire's shared stats, the difference was undeniable: sweat poured, yet his body felt lighter, freer.
The teacher stood at the edge, crutch braced, eyes fixed. He didn't shout, didn't urge, only marked notes in silence. But his gaze lingered on John's steps, waiting for the moment he faltered.
Lap five ended. John was still steady, breath calm, no sign of slowing.
The teacher lowered the crutch, voice slicing through the air.
"Stop. You may rest for five minutes."
John turned his head, locking eyes with him. In that instant, he saw it—the challenge hidden behind the cold mask. Rest, or keep running.
teacher's expression didn't flicker. No raised brow, no twitch of the lips, just that same flat stare that seemed carved from stone. But John read it all the same. Those eyes weren't offering permission, they were baiting him. Take the break and you're just another kid who grabs at comfort when it's handed over. Keep running, and you step into my line of fire.
The silence stretched between them, thick and charged. Around him, the other students had already slowed or stopped at the fifth lap, some bent double, panting like their lungs might tear. A couple glanced sideways at John, waiting to see if he'd accept the so-called privilege. It would be the easy choice, the logical one. teacher had given him the out, after all. No one would blame him.
But John felt the weight of those stares, and behind them, the weight of the teacher's test. His chest rose and fell with steady breaths, sweat sliding down his temple. His muscles hummed, not with fatigue, but with restrained energy. He could stop. He could stand there, take the five minutes, blend into the crowd.
Or he could show that he wasn't built to bend under someone else's leash.
His jaw tightened. He dragged the back of his wrist across his cheek, clearing the sting of sweat from his eyes, then shifted his weight forward. His foot struck the ground hard, decisive, echoing across the training yard. One step bled into another, his stride stretching long and sure. Lap six had already begun.
The answer wasn't spoken aloud. It pulsed in the rhythm of his steps, each strike on the concrete a defiance, a promise, and a challenge flung right back at teacher.
John's answer wasn't spoken. It thundered with every step.