Inside Meinze Fitness, Noah Vale finished signing the paperwork for his membership.
After spending nearly two hours touring the facility and discussing options, he ultimately purchased the most comprehensive package available—an entire year of full access.
The plan included premium membership privileges, a private lounge area, recovery treatments like massage therapy, and personal coaching.
The total came to ten thousand dollars.
One of the gym's trainers, a muscular man in his thirties named William Smith, stared at Noah with a puzzled expression.
"You're telling me you don't want a structured program?" Smith asked slowly.
"Nope."
"You don't want me setting weekly targets?"
"No."
Smith frowned.
"And you don't want me pushing you through workouts or tracking progress?"
"No."
Noah shrugged casually.
"All I need from you is to make sure my form stays correct and that I'm not doing anything that might cause serious injury."
Smith blinked.
"So you basically want a safety monitor."
"Exactly."
The trainer scratched his head.
In all his years coaching athletes and fitness enthusiasts, this was the first time someone had requested something like this.
But Noah remained completely serious.
He didn't need a training plan.
As far as he was concerned, the method was simple: push every exercise as far as his body could tolerate.
The system would analyze the effort and convert it into progress.
The only real danger was injuring himself with poor technique.
Which was exactly what the trainer was there to prevent.
Besides, Noah still had unspent attribute points in reserve.
If things got dangerous, he could always rely on the panel as a last resort.
Noah folded his arms.
"Look, I've already paid. If this setup doesn't work for you, I can request another trainer. Or just cancel the membership and go somewhere else."
Money talked.
Especially in New York City.
Smith sighed.
"…Fine. When do you want to start?"
Noah glanced across the gym floor, where rows of dumbbells sat neatly arranged by weight.
"Right now."
He stepped over to the rack.
"Let's start with twenty kilograms."
Smith leaned against a nearby machine and watched.
At this point, he had already classified Noah as the typical wealthy kid with too much enthusiasm and not enough discipline.
Three days, he thought.
He'll quit within three days.
As long as Smith kept an eye on him and stepped in if something looked dangerous, there shouldn't be any problems.
An hour later, Smith's relaxed attitude had completely vanished.
"Wait—hold on," he said urgently. "Stop for a second."
Noah had just finished another set of abdominal crunches.
He collapsed onto the floor afterward, lying there like a completely drained battery.
His entire midsection burned.
After catching his breath, he looked up at the trainer.
"What's wrong?"
"You told me to correct your form if something was off," Noah said. "My technique was fine, right?"
Smith shook his head.
"Your form is perfect. That's not the problem."
He rubbed his forehead.
"The problem is the intensity."
During the past hour, Noah had cycled through nearly every major bodyweight and resistance exercise available.
Dumbbells.
Squats.
Push-ups.
Barbell lifts.
Core work.
Every set had been pushed to absolute failure.
Smith had seen professional athletes train hard before.
But this was different.
The kid wasn't training like someone trying to improve.
He was training like someone trying to destroy his own body.
The final repetitions of each set were the worst.
Noah's muscles trembled violently, his face pale with pain—but he kept going anyway.
The level of sheer determination was unsettling.
For a moment, Smith had even wondered if the teenager might collapse right there on the gym floor.
Thirty minutes earlier he had been mildly amused.
Now he was genuinely worried.
"I'm serious," Smith said. "If you keep pushing like this, you could develop rhabdomyolysis."
Noah frowned slightly.
Having his workout interrupted felt irritating.
He was certain that last set of crunches could have produced more results.
Ignoring the protest, Noah rolled over and resumed the exercise.
Smith sighed helplessly.
Two more hours passed.
Noah continued training relentlessly, pushing every movement to the limit.
Eventually, exhaustion began catching up to him.
His strength dropped.
The number of repetitions per set shrank.
Breaks between exercises grew longer as his body struggled to recover.
By the end of the session, Noah had wrung every last bit of strength from nearly every muscle in his body.
He collapsed onto a yoga mat, completely spent.
At that point he felt like a burnt-out engine—nothing left to give.
"…That's enough… for today," he muttered weakly. "We'll continue tomorrow."
Smith let out a long breath of relief.
"Good idea," he said quickly. "Come on, let's get you to the recovery room."
Inside his head, the trainer added silently:
Tomorrow?
Kid, you'll be lucky if you can walk tomorrow.
After a long shower and an extended massage session to loosen his muscles, Noah was barely able to stand.
Smith helped him back to the entrance of his apartment building.
Watching the exhausted teenager struggle to stay upright, the trainer hesitated.
"You sure you don't want to get checked out at a hospital?"
"I'm fine," Noah said calmly.
"You can head home. See you tomorrow."
He braced one hand against the wall and slowly walked inside.
The door closed quietly behind him.
Back in the apartment, Noah sank into a chair.
Physical training was finished for the day.
But that didn't mean he had to stop improving.
If my body needs rest…
I'll train my mind.
He had already set a goal earlier.
Stay awake for twenty-five hours.
No exceptions.
"No sleep tonight," Noah murmured. "If the moon stays up, so do I."
He turned on his computer.
At first he planned to search for breathing techniques or low-impact exercises—things like meditation or slow martial arts routines that might help develop mental focus.
But then another thought flashed through his mind.
Noah froze.
"…Wait."
He immediately opened the Interdimensional Chatroom interface.
Even though the administrator—Overlord—had muted him, Noah could still access the chatroom itself.
He couldn't send messages.
But the group interface had several other tabs.
One of them was labeled Files.
Inside were dozens—no, hundreds—of uploaded documents.
Noah clicked one randomly.
The download finished instantly.
Just as he suspected.
Being muted didn't prevent him from downloading files.
It only blocked communication.
Noah's pulse quickened.
If the members of that chatroom truly came from different worlds…
Then the files they uploaded might contain knowledge from those worlds.
He started scrolling through the list.
After about a minute, one title caught his eye.
Noah leaned closer to the screen.
"Violet Dawn Energy Manual"
Uploader: The Noble Blade