CHAPTER 63: COMBAT TRAINING [II]

"Shut up," I muttered, already feeling my lungs tighten just from the thought of running.

Here’s the thing: ten kilometers is six miles. Six. Do you know the last time I ran six miles back on Earth? Never. Absolutely never. I once ran for the bus two blocks down and had to pretend I was just "admiring the architecture" while wheezing my soul out on the sidewalk.

And now this war hero, this mountain of scars and muscle, expected me to jog around like some kind of marathon champion? Not happening.

Still... I forced my legs to move. The alternative was standing still, and standing still under that man’s gaze felt like volunteering for execution.

Step one: run. Step two: don’t die. Step three: ... actually, there was no step three.

The line of students surged ahead, their boots pounding the dirt rhythmically. Some were grinning, already treating it like a race. A few even shouted encouragement to each other, which was disgusting, frankly.

I trailed behind almost instantly, legs screaming at me for daring to move faster than a brisk walk. My breaths came in sharp gasps. Every inhale felt like I was trying to suck air through a straw filled with nails.

Nyx purred in delight. "This is pathetic. I’ve seen rats run faster than you."

"Rats," I wheezed, "don’t... weigh... this much."

"You don’t either. You’re all skin and weakness."

I would’ve argued if my lungs weren’t on fire. My vision already blurred at the edges. Ten kilometers. Ten. By the end of this, they’d need to scrape me off the dirt with a shovel.

Somewhere behind me, the Iron Fang’s voice bellowed: "Keep running! If you collapse, you stay there until you crawl back to your feet!"

I nearly whimpered. Crawling sounded like a realistic strategy for me.

"Spirits save me," I muttered, stumbling forward. "If this doesn’t kill me, the cat’s mockery will."

My legs had already entered open rebellion. Every step sent little jolts of betrayal up my spine, as if my body was screaming, We did not agree to this!

Around me, the other students were still going strong. A few had even started chatting mid-run. Chatting. Like they were on some pleasant stroll through the countryside instead of slowly bleeding their souls out one lungful at a time.

Meanwhile, I was doing something between a jog, a limp, and a desperate prayer.

One noble shot me a smirk as he passed. "Having trouble already?"

"Trouble?" I gasped. "I’m... conserving energy. Pacing myself. It’s called strategy."

He sprinted ahead without looking back.

Nyx was howling with laughter inside my skull. "Strategy! That’s what you call it when you’re about to faint after one lap?"

"Not... fainting," I wheezed, "just... tactical unconsciousness."

My arms flopped uselessly at my sides as I shuffled forward. I must have looked like some kind of dying scarecrow that had escaped from a field. Sweat poured into my eyes, stinging them so badly that at one point I almost ran straight into a pole.

By lap three, my breathing sounded like an old man playing the harmonica. By lap four, I was convinced I had transcended pain and entered a new dimension of suffering, where the air itself hated me.

At one point, I slowed so much that a snail genuinely crossed my path and beat me. I swear I saw it give me a smug little nod before vanishing into the grass.

Nyx’s voice was smug enough for both of them. "Keep this up and you’ll die before the ten kilometers are over. Want me to write your gravestone? Here lies Loki, slain by cardio."

I nearly tripped from laughing, which hurt, because even laughing now felt like punishment. "Shut... up... Nyx."

The students ahead were already finishing their fifth lap. Some weren’t even winded. They ran like they had springs in their veins.

And then there was me. The tragic, gasping straggler dragging himself across the dirt, one weak step away from spontaneous combustion.

But hey, at least I was still moving. Barely.

I was seconds away from collapsing on the track and writing my will in the dirt when it hit me.

’Wait... I’m the North Star of the Academy.’

That was me.

And what kind of legend dies... during warm-up laps?

I spat on the ground. (Mostly saliva, possibly part of my soul.) Then I forced myself upright.

My lungs felt like they were auditioning for a horror film, and my legs wobbled like they’d been replaced with soggy breadsticks. But I couldn’t stop now.

If I quit, the noble brats would laugh. The professors would laugh. Even the grass would laugh. I couldn’t let that happen.

"No," I wheezed. "A North Star... doesn’t lose... to jogging."

Nyx was watching me from my shadows, giving his remark, which no one asked for.

And as a matter of fact, I definitely didn’t.

"Jogging? This looks more like you’re reenacting your own funeral."

"Shut... up," I panted, picking up my pace from "dying turtle" to "snail that believes in itself."

It wasn’t speed. Not even close. But it looked like speed if you squinted and ignored physics. My arms stopped flopping like broken fishing rods. My legs found something resembling rhythm.

And the best part? Other students were too busy with their own running to notice how close I was to cardiac arrest.

I grinned through the sweat and pain. "See? North Star... still shining."

Nyx chuckled. "Yeah. More like a dying candle, but sure. Shine away."

Step by step, I dragged myself forward. My body wanted to collapse, but my ego refused. That’s the thing about being infamous: you don’t get to quit. You just keep moving until people start making up stories about how you meant to look this bad.

And so I ran. Well... "ran."

But trust me — in my head, it was glorious.

In reality, I probably looked like a scarecrow learning how to salsa.

One kid tripped from laughing too hard at me — which I immediately counted as my first victory.

If suffering could be weaponized, I was already winning the war.