Chapter no.33: Human Sweat

Hell. Kozen had been through hell.

Training for polyphasic sleep wasn't just hard—it felt like fighting his own body and mind every single day. The cycles of waking after twenty-minute naps left him in a state that was neither awake nor asleep. His thoughts would blur and split, reality and dreams weaving together like tangled threads. The training drills became surreal, the days and nights indistinguishable from each other. Sometimes, his legs felt like they were moving through mud, his body aching for rest that never seemed to come. Rika's voice was a constant in the haze, pushing him forward with commands that seemed to echo through the fog in his brain.

The obstacle courses in the dead of night were relentless. He had to sprint, climb, crawl, and jump, all while fighting off the overwhelming urge to just stop and let sleep claim him. There were nights when his vision blurred, and the only thing keeping him on his feet was sheer force of will. But that wasn't all; Rika was always adding something new to break his limits. Caffeine doses kept him from crashing completely, but it wasn't enough to stop the exhaustion from gnawing at him, grinding down his resolve.

But not everything was relentless hardship. Amidst the chaos of training, Rika took time to teach him how to garden. At first, Kozen didn't understand the purpose of it, but it turned out to be one of the few peaceful moments in his training. The simple act of planting seeds and watching them grow into something tangible was satisfying in a way he hadn't expected. He found himself looking forward to those sessions, enjoying the quiet rhythm of tending to the soil, Watering the plants, and watching them grow. It was grounding, like finding a tiny patch of sanity in the storm.

Cooking was another unexpected addition. Rika taught him zero-waste cooking—using every part of an ingredient to create multiple dishes. It wasn't just about making food; it was a lesson in efficiency and resourcefulness. From one vegetable, he learned to create soups, purees, sauces, and even savory snacks. The focus wasn't just on survival, but on thriving with what you had. It was surprisingly relaxing, almost therapeutic, taking a simple ingredient and finding new ways to use it.

But then there was the conditioning—the real conditioning. Skin and bone conditioning wasn't like the rest. It was brutal. Rika's method involved hitting different parts of his body with sandbags, wooden sticks, and hardened ropes to toughen his skin and strengthen his bones. The pain was sharp at first, then dull and throbbing. Each session left his arms and legs bruised and aching, his knuckles split and sore. But as the training continued, the bruises faded quicker, and his tolerance for pain increased. It was about becoming resilient, hardening not just his body but his mind.

There were days when the contrast between planting delicate seeds in the soil and smashing his fists into coarse sandbags seemed almost laughable. But that was the rhythm of his life now—a delicate balance between breaking himself down and finding moments of peace amidst the struggle.

Through all of it, Kozen held onto one thought: This is temporary. This is necessary. Every piece of training was designed to forge him into something more, something that could survive and endure when everything else crumbled. But even as he pushed himself to adapt and grow stronger, that lingering question gnawed at him: Trust goes both ways. When will I get to know why?

Some days, he thought about asking Rika, demanding answers. But he knew the look she'd give him—distant and resolute. And that look was all the answer he'd get. So he held onto his resolve, telling himself that every ounce of sweat and every bruise would pay off when the time came. But the uncertainty remained, heavy and silent, waiting in the back of his mind.

"Kozen! Have you been practicing the breathing methods?" Rika's voice cut through the heavy air, snapping him back to reality. She was sitting on a dirt bike, a mean-looking machine with thick, rugged tires caked in mud from countless practice runs. The frame was sleek, painted a deep black that seemed to swallow the light, and the handlebars were reinforced with padded grips, likely for better control during high-speed maneuvers. Even the exhaust pipe was modified—wider and sturdier, a sign that this bike wasn't built just for speed, but endurance over rough terrain.

Kozen gave a silent nod, though he wasn't really sure if he had. It had been nearly a month since this training began, and he still didn't feel like himself. Every day was a cycle of exhaustion, dull pain, and fleeting moments of clarity between the haze. Just shit and numb, he thought. The words echoed in his head as if they were the only way to describe what his existence had become. Numb to the exhaustion, numb to the questions, and numb to the creeping doubts that occasionally stirred beneath the surface.

He understood now why Takashi had left those magazines in his room. He'd barely touched his phone in this hell, only glancing at it occasionally to see if someone messaged or called him—or to check for any new updates. It wasn't like there was anyone he really expected to hear from. And even if there was, it wasn't as if he had the energy or the will to scroll through social media or mindlessly browse the internet. Not after what each day put him through. And the magazines? Even thinking about them was exhausting; whatever curiosity or need they were meant to fulfill was buried under layers of fatigue.

Rika had also been giving him these strange documentaries to watch—ones that delved deep into human evolution and physiology.

"I've been thinking a lot about what really sets humans apart from other animals," she had explained to him, leaning against the bike as the engine idled softly. "People always credit intelligence, and sure, that's a huge part of it. But there's more to it than that—our survival, our dominance, came from a combination of factors that most overlook. Evolutionarily, our biggest advantage wasn't just our brains; it was our body's endurance and its ability to sweat."

She had this way of speaking, her voice steady and almost clinical, like she was narrating a story or delivering a lecture. Kozen could almost hear the documentary's narrator echoing in his head as she continued.

"Other animals can be faster or stronger, but they're limited by overheating. Take predators like big cats—they have short bursts of incredible speed but burn out quickly, relying on stealth and surprise to hunt. Humans, on the other hand, evolved to outlast and outmaneuver these predators. Our ability to cool our bodies through sweating allows us to maintain our stamina over long distances, to run down prey, or to keep going when others have to stop. We were built to endure, to keep moving when the odds stacked against us. This gave us an advantage that wasn't immediately obvious to our ancestors' predators—or to the prey they chased."

And that's where Kozen's training came in. Rika was starting a new program with him, focusing on mastering his breathing and stamina, pushing his endurance to new limits. It wasn't just about running longer—it was about running smarter. About understanding the rhythm of each breath and how it tied into everything else: his muscles, his heart, his focus. Every inhale and exhale had a purpose, a function that extended beyond just getting air into his lungs.

"We're starting with interval sprints," she'd told him earlier, "and gradually extending to long-distance runs, focusing on maintaining optimal breathing patterns throughout."

It all sounded so straightforward when she explained it, but the reality was something else entirely. 

The end goal? Rika wanted him to be able to catch up to a moving motorcycle—just by running and controlling his breath. Kozen had thought she was joking the first time she said it, but now he wasn't so sure. With everything else she'd thrown at him, catching up to a bike didn't seem as impossible as it did absurd.

Yet, in all of this, there was a burning curiosity simmering beneath Kozen's exhaustion—a question he couldn't shake: What is the limit of my body? The thought gnawed at him during every sprint, every grueling obstacle, and every bruising hit. How far could he push himself before he hit the wall and couldn't go any further? The curiosity kept him moving forward, even when his legs felt like lead and his lungs felt like they were shrinking with every breath.

Kozen snorted when Rika said something over her shoulder—he didn't quite catch the words, but he understood the intent. She revved the engine, and the dirt bike roared to life, its wheels kicking up dirt as she took off. Without thinking, Kozen took a deep breath, forcing himself to fill his lungs to capacity. His chest expanded, the air sharp and almost cold as it rushed in. As he started running, he exhaled slowly, forcing the breath out in a controlled stream to keep his heart steady and his focus sharp.

Inhale for three steps, exhale for three. That was the rhythm he'd been trained to follow. Keep the breathing steady, even when his body screamed to gulp in as much air as possible. He could feel the burn in his calves and thighs as he pushed himself to keep pace with the bike. It wasn't just about running—it was about finding that balance between exertion and control, about trusting his body's ability to adapt to the rhythm he set.

Every time the bike sped up, he had to adjust, lengthening his strides without breaking the pattern of his breathing. The trick was to keep the oxygen flow steady, to prevent his muscles from locking up or his vision from tunneling. Rika was deliberately pushing him to find the breaking point, and he wasn't sure how far he had to go before he reached it. But part of him wanted to know—needed to know.

As he ran, a quote floated to the surface of his mind, something from one of those old philosophy books he'd glanced through back in his old life:

"It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it."

No, that wasn't it. He shook the words away, digging deeper into his memories as his legs pounded the dirt, chasing the bike's tail light in the dim light of dawn. And then, it came to him, a clearer recollection:

"It is a shame for a man to grow old without seeing the beauty and strength of which his body is capable."

The words struck a chord, resonating in his mind like a challenge. What am I capable of?

Author Note: More chapters on P@treon.com/LordCampione.