When the Countdown Hit "0"
The moment the countdown reached "0," Marcus's right stump convulsed sharply.
Not a spasm — a response.
A cold current surged from the base of the severed finger up his arm, straight to the back of his skull. His vision went black for an instant, then deep in his right pupil, a blue light ignited. Steady, unwavering, it hovered in the lower-right corner of his sight, like a screen affixed to the air.
The panel unfolded.
[Martial Arts Mastery System Activated]
[Current Status: Alive]
[Boxing Proficiency LV1 (0/1000)]
[Combat Mastery: Locked]
[Dodge LV0]
[Jump LV0]
[Stamina LV0]
[Endurance Experience: 0]
The fields appeared line by line, in pale blue text, borderless, silent, with no background sound — just the information itself. It neither shouted nor fussed, simply listing there in quiet defiance, incongruous with the pool of blood beneath him, the flickering red light above, and the crooked shelves in the corners.
Marcus stared.
He knew this wasn't a dream.
The warmth from earlier still coursed through his body, crawling from the wound in his abdomen up his back, as if something were reattaching his bones. He blinked; the interface didn't vanish. Focusing on the Boxingentry, memories flashed unbidden — as a kid throwing punches in an alley, his fists weak, getting kicked flat; practicing shadowboxing behind the store, punching a tin barrel and scraping his knuckles; being pinned down by a drunk and managing a desperate punch that only staggered the man.
The system noted: "Historical effective punches: 7."
Below it, smaller text: "Each genuine exertion accumulates experience."
He understood.
This thing remembered everything he'd ever done.
Not watching from the sidelines, but recording each of his movements. Even if no one acknowledged him, even if he was beaten down, so long as he truly threw a punch, the system recognized it.
He tried moving his fingers.
His left hand could lift slightly. Brushing his fingertips across his mouth, he found the blood had dried into a crust. Slowly, he dragged his left hand to his abdomen, where blood still seeped, his shirt soaked and clinging to his skin. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the fabric edge and peeled it upward bit by bit.
The fabric tore with a faint sound.
He ripped the blood-soaked half of his shirt free, folded it into a thick pad, and pressed it back onto the wound. The motion made every muscle in his body tremble, but he didn't stop. Right hand bracing, shoulders straining, he dragged himself ten centimeters toward the wall corner. Though only a small shift, his posture changed — now leaning sideways against the base of a shelf, his back supported, his left hand able to press the injury more firmly.
The instant the cloth pressed against his abdomen, the panel flashed a new prompt:
[Defensive bodily action detected]
[Endurance Training initiated]
[Progress: 0.3%]
His breath hitched.
Not from pain, but from clarity.
He knew what this meant.
All those days of being beaten, smashed, thrown — none were wasted. Now the system was telling him: so long as he stayed standing, so long as he kept moving, it all became something.
He didn't need anyone to teach him how to survive.
He could train himself.
Shifting his gaze from the wound back to the panel, he read each word intently. Beside Boxing, he spotted a tiny arrow; pulling it down revealed subcategories:
[Straight Punch: 0/500]
[Hook Punch: 0/400]
[Swing Punch: 0/600]
No explanations, no tutorials — only numbers. He knew what they meant: he had to land punches himself, and only then would the counts rise.
He raised his right hand, spread the fingers, then slowly clenched them.
That punch hadn't been thrown yet.
But it wouldbe.
More than once.
He closed his eyes for two seconds, then opened them — the blue light in his right eye steadier. The panel remained, data unchanged, but he felt different. Before, he'd been a man lying on the floor waiting for death; now, he was someone who knew how to keep living.
He looked down at his hand.
The stump's white skin showed plainly. Gently rotating it, a flash of blue ran along the bone. This time he saw clearly — the light emanated from beneath the skin, as if his veins carried not blood but data.
He didn't find it strange.
Only natural.
As if it had always belonged to him.
Outside, the street was silent. Wind whistled through the broken glass door slit. Inside, no hum of fluorescent tubes, no shifting cameras — just his own breathing, rising and falling, growing steadier.
He began recalling the countdown.
From 100 to 0, each second felt like a knife slash. But he'd survived — not by luck, but because he hadn't let go, hadn't closed his eyes, hadn't allowed himself to slip away. He'd held onto life with his breath, held back the blood with sheer will.
Now the system told him: that holding counted too.
[Survival will threshold met]
[Basic neural response binding complete]
[Martial arts growth path unlocked]
New prompts appeared.
He didn't feel elated.
Just nodded.
He knew this was only the beginning.
Pressing his left hand harder against his abdomen, the bleeding slowed. Feeling the pressure on the wound, he watched the Endurance Trainingprogress bar climb: 0.3% … 0.4% …
Every extra second he endured increased the number.
He didn't need to run, jump, or strike anyone.
So long as he remained there, conscious, feeling the pain, he was growing stronger.
He looked up.
The ceiling crack was still there, slanting from upper left to lower right, as if cut by a blade. He studied it for three seconds, then looked away.
He no longer needed it to remind him he was alive.
He had his own way.
Raising his right hand, he threw a short, abrupt straight punch into the empty air.
The motion was small — his shoulder moved less than ten centimeters. The punch halted halfway, lacking power. But he threw it.
The panel instantly refreshed:
[Straight Punch: 1/500]
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Not a smile.
Confirmation.
He knew how light that punch was. But to the system, it was the first.
The true first punch.
Pulling his arm back, he rested it on the floor. Breathing deepened. He knew he couldn't rush — the wound remained, strength nearly spent, sitting up was still difficult. But he had time.
He didn't need revenge immediately.
He only needed to land one more punch tomorrow than today.
Endure one more second.
Increase proficiency by 0.1%.
Leaning against the wall corner, eyes open, the blue light faint in his right eye, his gaze locked on the panel.
[Boxing Proficiency LV1 (0.2/1000)]
The numbers didn't move.
But he knew they were advancing.
Like blood flowing, breath continuing, heartbeat keeping him alive.
Lifting his left hand, he smeared a trace of blood onto the knuckles of his right.
Not a ritual.
A mark.
These wounds, this pool of blood, this night of pain — none were the end.
They were the starting point.
Staring at the panel, he said quietly:
"Again."
The instant the words fell, a new line flashed at the bottom of the panel:
[Sustained high-intensity will output detected]
[Hidden module "Limit Break" unlock condition initiated]
[Progress: 0.01%]