Kryptonians: Man of Steel

Chapter 1512 The Weak Hero

The second... the aching sensation in his arm surged back like a fierce tidal wave, the pain so sharp it almost made him let go.

He grunted, and with sheer willpower, pulled himself up a few more centimeters before losing control and falling heavily onto the concrete floor, the impact sending a shiver down his shinbone.

The third one... was downright torture.

His body had barely left the ground a few centimeters when his arm betrayed him completely, and his strength vanished instantly.

He fell straight down, his knees slamming heavily onto the ground with a dull thud.

"Ugh!"

The excruciating pain made him curl up, gasping for breath.

He looked down and saw that his knee was badly scraped, with blood seeping out and mixed with the dust on the ground, causing a burning pain.

My palms were also chafed raw from the excessive force and friction with the rust, causing a sharp pain.

[Pull-ups: 3/1000] - The scarlet number silently proclaims the cruelty of reality.

Sweat mixed with dust, leaving several messy streaks on his face.

He slumped onto the cold, dirty cement floor, his back against the cold wall, looking up at the cold, unfeeling metal door frame.

A thousand times?

This is a complete joke.

Despair, like icy seawater, instantly overwhelmed the last vestiges of willpower.

My arms were shaking violently, the wound on my knee was throbbing with pain, and my lungs felt like they were filled with burning coal.

It felt as if every bone in my body was wailing, and every cell was screaming for me to give up.

"Never mind... let's leave it at that..."

A faint voice echoed in my heart, full of temptation, "Punishment is punishment... The unknown? How bad can it get... It's better than dying right now..."

He closed his eyes, his weariness like a heavy lead weight, pulling him toward the abyss of darkness.

The thought of giving up was so sweet, as if all the pain, pressure, and absurd tasks would vanish instantly if the taut string were loosened.

Just as my consciousness was about to fade, a face suddenly appeared in my mind.

It wasn't the twisted monster shadows in the abandoned factory, nor the cold blue interface of the system.

It's Komachi.

The worried look on Komachi's face was clearly visible.

She frowned slightly, her usually vibrant eyes now filled with concern, and her lips were gently pursed—an expression unique to her when she tried to appear strong and reliable but couldn't hide her inner worries.

Hachiman Hikigaya could even clearly "hear" her voice, which was usually full of energy but might be tinged with caution at this moment: "Onii-chan? Are you alright? You look... so tired."

Then, as I opened the door, the familiar, warm scent of home wafted towards me.

Perhaps it was the aroma of leftover food from dinner, or the smell of sun-dried bedding, or perhaps... the faint, refreshing scent of milk soap emanating from Komachi.

That was the only haven for his weary soul.

And... that miso soup that always tastes a bit too salty.

Steaming hot, the dish features tender white tofu cubes and vibrant green seaweed strips floating in the broth. Although it's a bit salty, it's made by Komachi herself, a clumsy yet heartfelt flavor.

"...Fine, whatever trouble it may be."

In the darkness, he faced the wall covered in dust and sweat, and with his last ounce of strength, he mumbled the whisper he had uttered before falling asleep the night before.

His voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible, yet it carried an undeniable resolve.

This thought, like a faint yet tenacious ray of light, pierced through the thick fog of despair. This was the only real and precious "truth" that he, Hachiman Hikigaya, who had been forcibly given the title of "Apprentice Hero," could grasp in this absurd reality.

He suddenly opened his eyes, and the dullness deep in his pupils was replaced by an almost ferocious stubbornness.

The wound on my knee was still bleeding, the stinging pain in my palms was still excruciating, and the muscles in my arms were trembling uncontrollably from exhaustion.

But all of this was temporarily suppressed by a more primal and tyrannical force.

He gripped the cold, rough edge of the door frame tightly with both hands once again.

His knuckles turned white from the exertion, and sharp, stabbing pain shot through his calloused palms, stimulating his nerves.

This time, he didn't think about the unattainable thousand times, nor did he look at the despairing number on the system interface.

He simply gritted his teeth and poured all the remaining strength in his body, all his resentment, anger, attachment to "ordinary life," and craving for that "salty miso soup" into the muscle fibers of his arms and back.

"Well--!"

A suppressed growl squeezed out from deep in his throat.

His body trembled as he struggled against the pull of gravity, rising upwards extremely slowly, inch by inch.

Sweat poured down his forehead and temples like a stream, flowing into his eyes and causing a stinging pain, but he didn't even bother to blink.

Release, fall.

Grab it again, and climb higher.

With each fall, a dull ache shot through the wound on his knee, but after landing, he only paused briefly, took a deep breath of the air that smelled of rust and dust, and then jumped up again, grabbing the door frame.

Repeat, repeat mechanically.

The movements became increasingly distorted, the amplitude decreased, and the speed slowed down.

The muscle soreness had long since exceeded a certain threshold, turning into a deep-seated numbness and burning sensation, making every exertion feel like tearing myself apart.

Sweat seeped into a small, dark, damp patch on the concrete floor beneath him.

Time has lost its meaning.

Only the scarlet number after "pull-up" was slowly and laboriously climbing upwards at a snail's pace: 7...8...9...10... Each jump was accompanied by his heavy, bellows-like breathing and the dull thud of his body hitting the ground.

[Push-ups: 0/1000] - When the pull-up count finally stopped at the ridiculously small number of [Pull-ups: 15/1000] after countless falls and rises, Hachiman Hikigaya glanced at the new task that followed.

He didn't even have the strength to force a cold smile.

He fell straight forward like a piece of rotten wood with its bones completely removed, his whole body slamming heavily onto the cold, hard floor of the living room.

My face was pressed against the cold, dusty floor, and my nostrils were filled with the mixed smell of dust and sweat.

Every breath tore at my ribs, every heartbeat pounded against my eardrums, creating a thunderous roar in the empty silence.

Sweat poured out like a flood, soaking through the sportswear and leaving a large, dark, irregular stain on the floor.

[Sword Swings: 211/1000]

[Long-distance running: 532m/1000m]

Pull-ups: 15/1000

Push-ups: 0/1000

[Mission countdown: 14:22:18...]

A cold blue interface floated before my eyes, and a scarlet countdown ticked silently.

(End of this chapter)