"As long as it runs, the aesthetics don't matter."
Roan muttered to himself as his desktop flickered to life. The fans on the massive 3090 didn't even spin yet—the idle load was a joke to a card this powerful. But Roan didn't launch the simulator immediately.
He decided to test a shortcut.
If the Mind Palace could train his driving technique, could it train his physique? He'd never tried before because he'd never needed to. Now, with a "Hell Week" protocol looming, he had to know.
He lay back on his bed, closed his eyes, and sank into his mental sanctuary. He pulled up the Hell Week Training Manual Marcus had provided.
Neck Strength Drills.
In the Mind Palace, Roan visualized himself performing heavy neck-harness lifts. He simulated the tearing sensation of muscle fibers under load, the burning build-up of lactic acid, and even the slick, cloying feeling of sweat on his skin. He ran the simulation for an hour, his body on the bed occasionally twitching in response to the vivid phantom pains.
An hour later, Roan snapped his eyes open.
The room was still, save for the faint hum of the computer. He reached up with high expectations, squeezing the back of his neck. According to the simulation, the tissue should be engorged with blood, pulsing with the trauma of a workout.
Nothing.
His fingers met soft, unconditioned muscle and the very real, lingering soreness from yesterday's race. He stared at the ceiling and let out a long, weary sigh.
"Right. No shortcuts."
If this were a cultivation novel, he'd be reborn by now. But this was a world governed by physics. For a carbon-based lifeform, there was no such thing as an "Over-The-Air" hardware update. To upgrade the flesh, you had to pay in seconds of real-world suffering.
Sunday morning arrived with the annoying chatter of birds.
Roan was jolted awake by a gnawing hunger. He rolled out of bed with the stiff, cautious movements of a rusted machine, terrified of aggravating yesterday's injuries. But as he bent over to retrieve his phone from the floor, his body moved with fluid ease. No catch. No sharp stabs of pain.
He froze, phone in hand. The pain was gone.
The lactic acid that had made him want to quit existing yesterday had been devoured by his young metabolism in a mere eight hours of sleep. He remembered his weekend endurance races—sessions where he'd drive, sleep for four hours, and drive again. He'd always attributed his Monday morning energy to adrenaline, but now he realized he'd been gifted a freakish recovery rate to compensate for his poor durability.
"I've been wasting this on all-nighters for iRating," he mused.
His fitness was still F-Rank—the bottom of the barrel—but his body's demand for fuel was S-Rank. With his parents still out on their academic grinds, Roan grabbed the cash left on the table, snatched a leftover bun, and headed out.
The neighborhood park was a theater of the absurd. Senior citizens were engaged in a "Martial Arts Convention" of morning exercises: people slamming their backs against tree trunks to "open their meridians," others crawling like crocodiles on all fours, and some cracking whips that sounded like gunshots.
Roan chewed his bun, planning to bypass the chaos, until something caught his eye under an old locust tree.
An elderly man in a white exercise suit stood with his hands behind his back, his feet dangling inches off the ground. He was swaying gently in the breeze. At a glance, it looked like a tragedy. Upon closer inspection, it was "Neck-Hanging Kung Fu." The man's chin was nestled in a leather harness connected to a strap looped over a thick branch.
Roan's Mind Palace activated instantly. The old man vanished, replaced by a complex mechanical model. Red arrows pointed downward—Force of Gravity. Green lines traced the cervical spine—muscle resistance. Passive stretching... active contraction... core stabilization...
This is...
Roan's eyes widened. This was structurally identical to the $1,000 "Iron Neck" training devices used in F1 gyms. One hung from a tree; the other hung from weight plates. The underlying physics were exactly the same.
He swallowed the last of his bun, his gaze sharpening. It was a low-cost Iron Neck.
The vertical hang provided traction, but if he modified the setup—swapping the leather for high-tension resistance bands and shifting from vertical suspension to horizontal resistance—he could simulate 5Gs for the price of a few water jugs and a strap.
"Total cost... maybe fifty bucks?" Roan's eyes lit up with the fire of a poor man discovering a New World. Who said racing was only for the rich? If you understood physics, everything was a substitute.
The old man finished his set, his feet touching the ground as he exhaled a long breath of "qi." He opened his eyes to find a teenager in a school uniform staring at him with predatory intensity.
"Sir!" Roan said, wiping his mouth. "How long have you been doing that? Could you show me the ropes?"
The old man blinked. He was used to being ignored by "distracted" youth. "Three years," he said proudly. "Rain or shine. Once you hang, the blood flows."
Roan nodded. Three years of neck endurance. No wonder the old man's neck muscles looked like coiled cables.
"Is the core logic traction?" Roan asked, pointing to the harness. "Or do you actively fight the pull?"
"Fight?" The old man waved him off. "Young man, you must be at peace with the tree. Don't fight everything. We had enough fighting in the old days."
Roan didn't listen to the stories; his mind was already "modding" the harness. "I get it," Roan said, staring at the canvas strap as if it were a technical manual. "Is there anything special about the material?"
"Special? It's just sturdy!" The man patted the strap. "Find an old backpack strap, sew a chin-cup, and hang it high. It's better than the store-bought junk. Cheaper, too."
He looked at Roan suspiciously. "Why does a boy your age want to hang his neck? Too much time looking down at your phone? Is your spine shot?"
"My spine is fine," Roan said, thinking of the cockpit. "I'm just worried I won't be able to handle 5Gs."
"5G?" The old man's eyes widened, clearly confusing gravitational force with cellular data. He pointed a finger at Roan. "I knew it! You kids and your 5G internet! The radiation is melting your brains! Yes, hang! Hang early! Go home and make a strap before it's too late!"
Roan nodded solemnly. "You're right. If I don't 'hang' soon, my neck is going to fail me on the track next week. Thank you, sir! Where's that hardware store you mentioned?"