I approached the cute blondie from behind, not out of some creepy inbuilt predatory instinct, but out of shyness. I was in high school, and hadn’t quite worked up the confidence to consistently initiate conversation with the breast-equipped aliens from Venus.

“H-hey.” I finally managed. “I was wondering if you could-”

“Hmmm?” the girl interjected, popping out her wireless earbuds.

Right… I should have seen that.

“Hey,” I restarted nervously, “I was wondering if you could spot me at the bench press?”

The girl winced. “Sorry… I have a boyfriend.” she answered.

“R-right. Sorry.”

Any man with a brain and two arms can tell you where he was the first time he hit a 2pl8 1RM PR*.

Me? I was in high school when it happened. I wasn’t training for sports or anything, because…

I hated sports.

Soccer was cardio incarnate.

Baseball was fun if you were the coach’s son - then you got to pitch, while everyone else stood around and watched, hands on dicks. Football was fun if you were the coach’s son - then you got to be quarterback, while everyone else ran into each other, hands on dicks.

My dad wasn’t the coach.

I hated sports.

So instead of lifting with the football team, or practicing with the baseball team, or committing acts of terror against my lungs with the soccer team, I went to a gym just down the street from school and did my own thing in solitude.

The first day I ever lowered my back to the gym’s sweat-infused bench, I couldn’t even lift the bar with one plate on both sides - a measly 135. However, after a year of protein powder, creatine, and a generous growth spurt, I finally worked up the nerve one day to load a second plate on each side and lay nervously beneath it. I was the only person in the gym at the time (other than the alien). In retrospect, going for a PR in that environment was a bad idea. Most exercises in the gym have pretty safe options for bailing on lifts that you can’t quite hit. But for the bench press, if things go from 100 to 0, you’re up shit creek without any toilet paper. 

In all seriousness though, people have died. I know, because the internet made it impossible to not know. I watched their heaving bodies twitching one last time as they failed to lift the bar off of their crushed windpipes, the collars on the barbell preventing the weight from sliding off. So remember kids, you don’t always have to test your 1RM. But when you do, either have someone (competent) spot you, or use a safety rack.

Fortunately for me, the first time I attempted 2pl8 was a rousing success. The adrenaline kicked in at the bottom, and I rocketed that thang back up to the starting position (with a slight bounce off of my chest that would later be corrected). 

Deciding not to tempt fate again, I took the weights off the bar. Sometimes you gotta cash out before you crap out. I’d done enough for the day.

Zerch would have been proud of me.

---

 

I grunted with exertion, the ice knife held out in front of me, willing the invisible force to stand down. Just like way back then, straining against 225 in the empty gym, something was different today. I’d practiced with the knife many times before. I knew what the force felt like. Yet for some reason… It was like the force had decided to take a day off. It still pushed back against me, but without its usual crushing vigor.

I broke through this meager resistance with ease, and a cantaloupe-sized chunk of ice materialized just above the outstretched blade, eventually flinging itself with speed across the courtyard of the transport hub, shattering against a wall - and my old personal record shattered along with it.

I’ll never be as weak as I was yesterday… ever again.

I roared in triumph as my magic classmates looked on in awe.

“Looks like somebody hit their growth spurt.” Wilhelm remarked.

After taking possession of the ice knife from me, King Regnus had handed off the knife to Wilhelm, to be given the same security measures as the Staff of Aetheria. Our magic instructor had pushed against it, but the magic class was eventually given permission to test out the artifact for ourselves. Unlike the staff, most students would be able to cast ice magic on their first try, giving them their first real experience as a spellcaster. The compromise was that we would be able to try the knife out once, and that only those with talent would be given permission to practice with the knife more.

As I knew from my own experience, that policy was bullshit. I wouldn’t have been able to conjure up that missile on my first try, even on a great day. I would have put up a pathetic little pebble, like most of the students were in the process of doing behind me, the teacher would have shaken his wizened head in disapproval, and I would have never gotten another chance to do better.

In the entire magic class, there had been no discussion thus far of the extent to which magical ability increased with practice. No theories or studies, no training schemes, rep tables, or even a fleeting mention of progressive overload. Just endless tables of statistics about which kind of people tended to have greater aptitude for it. I don’t think our instructor even understood how to practice magic.

Scrawny fuck. He sure as hell doesn’t lift, either.

Pathetic.

Surprisingly, the ice chunk that Sylvana conjured was only marginally bigger than those of the other students.

“I was never any good at dynamic magic.” she explained dejectedly.

“Well, what’s your healing magic, then?” I asked.

“Static. It comes from the core.” she said, putting her hands on her hips and flexing her abdominals.

“Do that again for me?” I said, placing my hand on her obliques.

“Do you need healing?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

“Aww come on! This is magic class! And I’m a slow learner, I need all the extra… studying that I can get.”

“We have combat training right after this, I’m sure you’ll need healing very soon.” she consoled me.

Thanks for the confidence boost…

The last student in class took his turn with the knife. After a couple of attempts, he finally managed to conjure a peanut-sized hunk of ice. Yelling in triumph, he grabbed it and hurled it to the ground.

The teacher shook his head and made a note on his clipboard. The kid pleaded with him for a bit, but there would be no exceptions to the process. No talent? Nothing doing.

I decided to call the teacher ‘Phil’ for the rest of the term. Because this asshole was a fucking gatekeeper.

---

 

Our blunted swords connected in a loud clash. The other guy’s sword bounced backwards. Mine kept going. I took advantage of his recoil and lunged forward, swinging quickly and connecting with his neck. He went down with a squeal - I was victorious!

The short-arms instructor gave me a nod.

“Well done Bradley! That would’ve been a lethal strike! Looks like you’re finally putting some effort in.”

I grit my teeth. I’d been trying as hard as I could all year - today was just an exceptional day. The sword felt lighter. My strikes felt heavier. The diagnosis was clear: I had become noticeably stronger. I hadn’t lifted since getting that shackle removed, but I got a sneaking suspicion I knew how it would go. Today wasn’t really exceptional after all - it was the new normal!

The kid that I’d bested regained his footing with a huff.

“Davon!” The instructor said. “You’re one of the 64, correct?”

“Yeah.” The kid said through heavy breaths - he was a portly guy, so standing up was a big deal for him. Of course, with his size and stature, most of the knocking down happened to the people he fought.

“Looks like you’ve gotten complacent! Face off against Bradley one more time. And this time, pretend that if you lose, he’ll take your spot in the tournament. Because if you lose, he’ll take your spot in the tournament.”

The other students in the short-arms group gathered around, instantly invested. Most of the practice fighting we did wasn’t at full-speed - nobody wanted to get too fucked up, and the best way to do that was to pay it forward and not fuck up your opponent. Unless your name was Burt. In that case, the world was your whack-a-mole.

I really hadn’t been trying to go medieval on Davon’s neck just then. All of my movements were just a bit more fast and brutal than I was used to. A few days ago, that strike would have been parried, and a few blows later, I would have been on my ass, cursing my pathetic life. Our training was to aim for weak points, but I had no idea what to do once I actually connected.

“Fuck ‘em up, Bradley!” a certain tall, blond maniac cheered from the sidelines.

Davon’s face scrunched, and his breathing changed. He wasn’t recovering any more - he was charging up. His beady eyes were glued on me. He wasn’t going to lose this.

The bright summer sun beat down into the arena. By design, there was no shade in sight. Nowhere to hide.

“Begin!” the instructor shouted.

Davon surged forward.

As strong as I’d become, I didn’t have the sheer mass to withstand what he was trying to throw at me.

So rather than meet him head-on, I backpedaled quickly, barely escaping his range. He pursued me a bit longer, then slowed to a standstill.

He wasn’t tired - he was waiting.

Good.

With blubber-boy’s momentum dampened, I took the initiative and advanced.

We each feinted a couple of times, then swung with all our combined might. I went for the neck, and Davon tried to block just as I had done earlier.

A massive shock went down our swords, and with a painful vibration, they both fell out of our hands.

Our unarmed training instantly kicked in.

Davon crouched low and charged. I crouched and met him, but he managed to bowl me over and land on top. I squirmed desperately, but Davon wasted no time, quickly capturing one of my arms and giving it a painful twist.

“AAH!” I shouted out.

Distracted by the pain he was inflicting, Davon temporarily left a weak point open, and without hesitation I moved - kneeing him painfully in the groin. In an instant, I was on top of him, one arm around his neck in a chokehold.

Davon pounded the ground weakly with one hand - tapping out the exact morse code sequence for “U-N-C-L-E”.

“Winner: Bradley!” the instructor announced.

It wasn’t the prettiest victory ever. Not something I’d brag about openly, at least. But it had gotten the job done. 

I’d punched my ticket for the main event.

Burt caught my gaze, and I could tell that we were both thinking the same thing:

Just a few more weeks… and then it’s you and me.

Mere days ago, I would have been dreading the encounter - a foregone conclusion of shame and humiliation. But now…

I raised my arms in victory - then quickly lowered the bad one, as a painful twinge raced through my shoulder.

Dislocated? Nah… but close enough.

I caught Sylvana’s gaze, and she quickly looked away.

Too late… I know you saw me.

You know what time it is.