85. Daily Routine

In the dim graveyard, the sound of rain was punctuated by a series of muffled thuds.

Dean, acting like a madman, pounded his fists into the back of the head beneath him. His hardened knuckles struck like hammers, whistling through the air and leaving afterimages in their wake, painting the ground in shades of red and white before the rain washed it away.

Smash!
Smash!

The rain subsided.

Dean finally pulled back his blood-splattered, fleshy knuckles. Looking down at the pulpy, rotten coconut-shell of a head, he let out a long breath. A victor’s smile spread across his weary face as he stood up, kicked the bloody corpse aside, and turned to leave.

A hand clamped onto his ankle. He looked down—the mass of ground meat that was the head had rotated to face him, revealing a gruesome, demonic visage with a left eyeball bulging from its socket and a nose twisted to the left.

The facial features were identical to his own.

The Dean on the ground flashed a bloodthirsty, crimson light from his single eye, his mouth stretching wide to his ears to reveal red, gore-stained teeth in a cruel, mocking smile—

"Ugh!"

A muffled grunt erupted in the quiet bedroom.

Dean sat bolt upright in bed, reaching out to touch his pajamas, which were soaked through with cold sweat. A glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand showed it was only five in the morning, but all sleepiness had vanished.

"Shit. It never ends."

He muttered the words as he hopped out of bed and walked to the bathroom. Staring into the vanity mirror, he saw dark circles deepening under his pale eyes, which were threaded with a dense web of bloodshot lines.

Nowadays, he only needed four hours of sleep to maintain his energy for the day, but even those four hours were restless, plagued by nightmares about the "Shade-Eaters." As Tame had warned, the howls of the Shade-Eaters were taking a clear toll on him.

"I have no choice but to advance my meditation and pile points into Willpower to push through this."

...

Nightmares were nightmares. Life had to go on.

Since he stopped taking volunteer tasks from the LVPD, Dean’s schedule had opened up significantly. Aside from school and chatting with friends, Dean loved to spar with Gretchen.

With his Combat skill leveled up to 2, his close-quarters combat ability had seen an all-around improvement. Boxing, wrestling, Sanda, judo, grappling, and weapon combat—he could utilize any of them at a moment's notice. His level was roughly equivalent to five or six years of grueling training; if he entered the MMA circuit, he might even make it as a professional.

However, as his level increased, the efficiency of his daily training had dropped; he was only gaining one point of proficiency per week. Dean mused that perhaps only by killing enemies who were masters of combat would he experience that "rocket-boosted" thrill of leveling up again.

Additionally, Dean noticed an imbalance in his physical attributes. His 12.7 Agility gave him superhuman reactions; to him, the attacks of ordinary people already felt like slow motion. His 14.6 Physique exceeded the 12.0 limit of a normal male; his endurance was astounding, and his skin and muscles had become tough and dense. Unless an ordinary person struck his vital spots, their blows couldn't even leave a mark.

But his 11.3 Strength was severely dragging down these other stats. Whenever Dean attempted combat techniques that relied on raw power, like the "Iron Mountain Lean" or "Lifting Throw," he always felt he couldn't quite execute them properly.

Gretchen noticed his frustration and offered a suggestion for specialized strength training.

In downtown Las Vegas, at a 24-hour gym, the natural-toned lighting illuminated rows of neatly arranged equipment: barbells, dumbbells, power racks, bench press stations, chest machines, rowing machines, and treadmills.

By the squat rack, Gretchen was performing squats with a 50kg barbell resting behind her neck, lowering until her thighs were parallel to the floor, then rising slowly. With every repetition, the two tightly braided, dense boxing braids at the back of her head swayed gently. The beautiful muscle lines between her grey sports bra and leggings tightened and relaxed, possessing a raw, aesthetic power.

Standing behind her, Dean wore a cotton, sweat-absorbent blue t-shirt and athletic shorts that fell just past his knees. The speed-oriented muscles he had developed through combat training were hidden beneath his clothes, looking neither as defined or exaggerated as those of a professional bodybuilder, with no bulging veins or arteries. Yet, one touch would reveal them to be as solid as a fortress, brimming with explosive power.

Dean was warming up with resistance bands, eyes fixed on the muscle movement in Gretchen’s back, studying the perfectly shaped, hard-earned glutes. In a later era, such behavior in a gym would inevitably lead to him being filmed and posted online: "Sisters, met a creep at the gym today. Total pervert."

*Clang...*

After fifteen squats, Gretchen racked the barbell and turned to Dean with a smile. "Did you see that clearly?"

"I picked up a few things." Dean put down the bands and handed her a towel. "Engage the core, chest out, glutes back... toes and knees aligned, no deviation... spine kept in a neutral position, no hyper-extension or hunching..."

"You analyze things well enough. Since your warm-up is done, get in there and try it!" Gretchen set aside her sweat towel and ushered him to the squat rack, loading an empty bar with 10kg plates on each side for a total of 40kg.

"Feet a bit closer, about shoulder-width apart. Head up, chest out, back straight."

"Rest the barbell on your traps and deltoids. Good."

"Inhale as you slowly bend your knees to squat. Exhale as you push with your legs. Beautiful!"

Under the careful guidance of his female coach, Dean performed twenty full squats with the 40kg load, his form flawless.

"Stop, put it back slowly." Gretchen’s warm, small hands touched the muscles of his shoulders, back, and thighs. "Do you feel any tearing sensation?"

"Nothing." Dean unloaded the bar and rolled his neck, his demeanor as relaxed as if he had just taken a stroll through a garden.

"The weight is too light. Let's add more and find your maximum."

Gretchen began loading more plates onto the bar. With each set of squats, Dean kept shaking his head.

"No, too light, too light..."
"Next..."
"Add more!"

Dean quickly reached 100kg, the maximum weight Gretchen had worked up to over a year.

"You only weigh 80kg, and you want to add more on your first time at 100kg?" Gretchen shook her head. "That's enough for today. Don't push it; if you hurt your lower back, you'll know what real pain is."

Dean didn't argue, but he performed twenty full squats with the 100kg load. His breathing remained steady, and there wasn't a single drop of sweat on him. He could now clearly feel the super-endurance granted by his 14.6 Physique.

Gretchen gritted her teeth, a flicker of deep envy in her eyes.

*Is talent really so much more powerful than effort and sweat?*

She asked, unwilling to accept it, "How many do you think you could do at this weight?"

Dean smiled. "I could do it forever."

Gretchen silently began moving the weight plates.

...

Dean’s weight load climbed from 100kg all the way to 180kg. Without realizing it, the sounds of machinery throughout the gym had fallen silent.

A dozen fitness enthusiasts who had been deadlifting, bench pressing, or curling dumbbells all stopped their work, casting looks of excitement and anticipation his way. Two muscle-bound men, dressed in tank tops and compression shorts, strode over from the power rack. They proudly displayed chest muscles that were at least a D-cup, thighs as thick as a normal person's waist, and glutes so firm one could balance a glass on them. They were even wearing professional gear like lifting belts, knee wraps, and wrist bands.

"Buddy, great work. That load is rare around here. What's your body weight?" One of the white, bearded giants asked, extending a hairy hand with respect—his arm circumference was already larger than Dean’s thigh.

"80kg."
"Are you going to keep challenging it?"
"Yes."

"Adding more is dangerous. We’ll spot you." Before Dean could answer, the giant called over his gorilla-like companion, and they stood on either side of the squat rack. "If you feel weak on the way up, let us know."

Dean steeled himself. Under the gaze of a dozen gym-goers and his two muscle-bound guardians, he kept challenging the weight.

From 180kg upward, Dean clearly began to struggle. During each squat, veins and arteries began to bulge on his neck, arms, and thighs; his face flushed red, and sweat began to bead on his skin.

200kg.
220kg.
240kg.

With each successful rep, the temperature in the air seemed to climb a few degrees. The group of fitness buffs stared straight at his thighs and back, their burning gazes seemingly intent on roasting him and devouring his muscular power.

260kg.

The barbell bent slightly under the weight of the plates. The onlookers held their breath.

Dean was like a mountain porter, carrying a load three times his own body weight. He squatted until his hamstrings touched his calves. Then, his gluteal muscles—hardened by countless hours of MMA and shooting training—began to contract, pulling his center of gravity from the bottom. His quadriceps followed, supporting him as he slowly rose.

Throughout the process, Dean felt he had transformed into a precision crane. Every muscle, every "part" of his body—especially his thigh muscles—worked in silent, perfect unison, condensing into a massive upward force.

His face was red as blood, and every muscle under his t-shirt was trembling.

He stood up straight with 260kg on his shoulders.

*Clang!*

With a crisp sound of metal striking metal, the barbell was safely racked.

In an instant, Dean’s tense facial muscles relaxed, and a flood of hot sweat poured from every pore. A feeling of exhaustion, paired with an ultimate sense of satisfaction and accomplishment distinct from combat, washed over him. He couldn't help but grin.

The two muscle-bound guardians then lifted his arms, hoisting him off the ground.

"Congratulations, man! You’ve set a new squat record for our gym. I hereby declare that until this record is broken, all equipment is free for you to use."

A flash of surprise crossed Dean’s eyes. His 11.3 Strength theoretically hadn't reached the 12.0 ceiling of a normal male, so how did squatting 260kg set a record, surpassing these giants who were nearly two meters tall?

*Could it be that the strength gained from combat skills is more balanced?*

Before he could process it, a tanned, scantily clad Latina beauty with long legs approached, flashing a sweet smile. She gently brushed her fingers across his back, giving him a small jolt.

"Do you practice wrestling?"
"A little."

"Your thighs are so thin, it doesn't look like you train. How could you lift 260kg?" Another bald powerhouse reached out a hairy hand to pull at his pant leg, eyes glowing as he studied Dean’s thigh circumference.

"What are you doing... hey, get your hands off!"

A group of muscular men and women crowded around Dean, asking questions and trying to get hands-on advice.

"Show some respect, everyone! Don't touch my butt!" Dean threw a desperate, pleading look toward his girlfriend outside the crowd.

Gretchen tossed her thin braids, hands on her hips, watching the scene with a smug smile. The frustration of being outdone earlier had completely vanished.

"I thought you said you could do it forever? Keep squatting for them!"

...

From then on, Dean went to the gym four or five times a week for free, bench pressing, squatting, deadlifting, and doing pull-ups, exercising every muscle group and enjoying the thrill of constantly challenging his limits.

Beyond fitness, the battle with the Shade-Eater made Dean realize that his marksmanship was seriously lacking. His effective range was at most 30 meters, whereas the Shade-Eater’s god-like accuracy at 80 or 90 meters was almost akin to a superpower, and its effective distance far exceeded his "Shadow of the Past."

Dean looked forward to the day he could possess such a trump card, without having to rely too heavily on the nine-minute god-mode state of the "Shadow."

At the Combat Field shooting range, Dean stood before the lane, holding an automatic AR-15. His breathing was steady, eyes fixed on the target 20 meters away. He felt the slight sway of the muzzle, his index finger gently touching the trigger, holding it down—

*Da-da-da!*

The deafening gunfire echoed. Shell casings flew, and the muzzle climbed.

Dean emptied a magazine in one breath, white smoke and debris swirling as a dozen new bullet holes appeared on the target in the distance.

"Hmm, over 50% accuracy. Better than usual." Dean set the weapon down and wiped it gently.

Beside the lane, at his feet, lay a dense pile of over five hundred spent casings.

During this time, he had been relentlessly grinding his shooting skills, half pistol and half rifle, firing at least five hundred rounds a day, sometimes over a thousand. His accuracy was visibly improving, and he had faintly grasped the feel of "aiming intentionally, firing unintentionally."

If the range hadn't been free for him, he would have gone bankrupt.

Moreover, he was able to keep it up thanks to his Physique and the "Ironman" talent, which provided powerful recovery. For an ordinary person, such insane training would have forced their wrists and shoulders into early retirement.

After setting down the AR-15, Dean switched to a Remington M870 shotgun for 10-meter targets, then to a TAC-50 sniper rifle for 100- and 200-meter targets, repeatedly training, feeling, and absorbing the Level 1 shooting technique.

The last battle had fully exposed the weakness of his short effective range and insufficient power with a pistol. If he had been carrying a high-powered weapon, the victory would have been easier.

The only problem was that he only had 3,000 in savings, he lacked the connections to buy automatic weapons, and long guns were bulky and inconvenient to carry; if he walked around with one, he would easily alert his enemies.

He couldn't help but dream: it would be perfect if he could get a superpower like an inventory space.

...

Aside from his routine of combat, fitness, and shooting, Dean set aside three nights a week to study legends.

In the desolate Old South Street, at the Tribeca house:

"You're just in time. I have your favorite roasted fish today." The kind-faced woman welcomed Dean into her home, and they quickly fell into their familiar rhythm.

Tribeca sat in front of the sofa, holding a massive, meticulously compiled book of folklore, and began to tell stories with great emotion. Dean enjoyed the feast, occasionally asking questions about her narrative...

"The Wendigo is a cruel, malicious supernatural entity with immense spiritual power, originating from legends in the northern United States."

"The Algonquin-speaking tribes of Canada also have related legends."

"Native American?" Dean took a sip of his Ajiaco soup; his mother and uncle were Native American.

"In the Native American version, greed, environmental destruction, and cannibalism are what give birth to a Wendigo."

Tribeca’s finger traced a picture in the book of a massive monster with a human body and a deer head.

"According to the information I've collected, the Wendigo has a human body and a deer head. Its entire skeleton and heart are made of solid, indestructible ice."

"It stands 20 to 30 feet tall, its massive mouth filled with sharp, protruding fangs that can easily snap human bones. It is incredibly strong, and its claws are as sharp as scythes."

"If you ever encounter one in the frozen wilderness, don't even think about fighting it head-on. Use the terrain to block its massive frame and run for your life."

Dean nodded. "Have you ever seen one?"

"I only heard it from an old friend. He settled near Rogers Pass in Montana, in the northern U.S. There was a period in the past where every winter, local residents who went out to purchase supplies would go missing. The local police would always find scattered blood, irregular bone fragments, and massive, non-human deer hoofprints leading deep into the snowy mountains. Searching was extremely difficult."

Tribeca looked up.

"But in the last ten years or so, this legend has started to fade. The disappearances have become fewer and fewer."

"What’s the reason for that?" Dean ate a spoonful of oily rice.

"I believe that Wendigo moved house, changing to a place more suitable for hunting... after all, it ages slowly and has a long lifespan... it will migrate many times in its life."

...

"In fact, based on my years of research into folklore and my own personal experiences, I've discovered that there is a subset of man-eating 'monsters,' including Wendigos and werewolves, that share a common trait: they could clearly survive on normal food, and obtaining it isn't difficult, but they insist on eating humans."

"It's as if it's a curse, an instinct etched deep into their genes, but there's no definitive conclusion yet."

Dean was thoughtful.

"And do you know? Such terrifying man-eating monsters even have followers." Tribeca paused. "They worship these monsters as totems and gods, and they try to imitate them."

Dean set down his fork, suddenly finding the pickled pork in his bowl a bit jarring.

"Are these followers just seeking psychological stimulation, or are they mentally ill?"

"No, they are a group of born anomalies. Most of the time they eat ordinary food, but every once in a while, they must consume 'special food,' or they lose control and turn into monsters driven by hunger."

A flicker of fear flashed in Tribeca’s eyes.

"These anomalies look no different from ordinary people, and you can't tell anything is wrong in their daily lives. But their physiques are slightly above average, and their sense of smell is extremely acute, comparable to a hunting dog. They can smell their own kind from several streets away, and they can smell other people's health conditions to select their prey."

Dean’s eyes lit up, and he asked a few more questions.

The atmosphere in the hall was incredibly harmonious and warm, the two of them looking like a grandmother and grandson.

...

From the beginning of October to the middle of the month, for over half a month, Dean’s days were fulfilling and disciplined. Balancing study and training, his various abilities were fully honed—

Dean Lu
Character Level: 2 (180/300)
Age: 18
Physique: 14.6
Strength: 11.3 → 11.4
Agility: 12.7
Perception: 10.4 → 10.5
Spirit: 14.3
Willpower: 12.2
...
Specialties: [Omitted]
Abilities: 5/5
Combat Lv2 (0→2/300)
Shooting Lv1 (100/200 → 116/200)
Shadow of the Past Lv1 (22→37/200)
Balanced Meditation Lv1 (73→88/200)
Shapeshifting Lv0 (Countdown: 5 days)
...

"Five days until the new ability activates. I need to find a suitable target to draw some blood and prepare to go all-out with the shapeshifting."