Month Two: Grit.
The pain never left. But something changed.
Wang wasn't just surviving anymore—he was adapting.
The soreness in his muscles still lingered like a second skin, but it no longer crippled him. His lungs still burned during runs, but now he kept pushing. The bruises faded faster, the reflexes sharpened, and the hesitation in his strikes began to vanish.
***
WEEK 5 — RUNNING
"Again."
Wang's boots slapped against cracked concrete as he powered through another lap around the gym's perimeter. The sandbag on his back bounced with each stride, thudding against his spine like a reminder of week one.
He didn't puke this time. He didn't collapse.
His shirt clung to his torso, drenched in sweat, darkened around his ribs and neck. His breath came fast, but steady.
He rounded the corner and pushed harder. Rocky stood with a stopwatch, expression unreadable.
"Time?" Wang panted, tossing the sandbag off his back with a loud thud.
Rocky checked the watch. "Cut off thirty-eight seconds."
Wang grinned through gritted teeth, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm.
Rocky gave him a single nod.
That was high praise coming from the bastard.
***
WEEK 6 — HEAVY LIFTS
The barbell groaned as Wang gripped it tight, knuckles whitening. 140kg.
One rep. Two. Three.
His cybernetic arm handled the load evenly now—more fluid, more instinctive. No longer just raw power; it was synced with his body. Balanced.
"Keep your back straight!" Rocky barked from behind. "You round that spine and I'll kick it straight."
Wang didn't answer. He was too focused.
Fourth rep. Fifth.
He locked it out and let the bar crash to the floor with a deep clang that echoed through the gym like thunder.
Rocky stepped forward, eyes scanning the form, the breathing, the way Wang shook his arms out and rolled his neck.
"Not bad," Rocky muttered. "You might actually be worth the calories you burn."
"Did you just compliment me?" Wang said, panting.
"No," Rocky snapped. "Now do it again."
Wang chuckled and got back into position.
***
WEEK 7 — SPARRING SESSIONS
Wang stood on the mat, gloves taped, sweat running down his temple.
Rocky cracked his neck and stepped in.
They circled.
Wang moved differently now. Lighter on his feet. Less predictable.
Rocky threw a jab.
SLIP.
Wang tilted his head just enough, the punch grazing past his cheek.
Rocky smirked.
"Not bad."
Wang countered, throwing a right hook—cybernetic and fast—but Rocky blocked it and moved in.
"Too slow."
Wang spun out, reset his stance.
They clashed again. Rocky led with a feint and then—
Wang ducked the cross.
DODGED TWO IN A ROW.
He could feel it. That rhythm. That adrenaline. His mind and body syncing like a machine learning how to survive.
He moved left to evade again—but his eyes flicked up, distracted by the sound of the ceiling fan squealing above.
That's when Rocky struck.
A short, brutal left hook slammed into Wang's ribs, sending him staggering back. Then the follow-up—a jab to the temple.
POP.
Wang hit the mat like a sack of bricks.
The lights dimmed for half a second. He groaned, rolling onto his side.
Footsteps. Rocky stood over him.
For the first time, the big bastard offered a hand.
Wang stared at it.
Then he grabbed it.
Rocky hauled him up in one brutal yank.
"You're getting better," he said. "Not good. Just better. You're moving. Thinking. Adjusting."
"Yeah," Wang muttered, rubbing the side of his face. "Until I think too hard and eat a fist."
"That's the fight, kid," Rocky said, stepping back. "You stop thinkin', you die. You think too much, you also die. You need to hit that sweet spot in between—where instinct and strategy shake hands and fuck."
Wang snorted. "Inspirational."
"You want a hug too, or are we going again?"
***
WEEK 8 — TECHNIQUE & COMPOSURE
This week, Rocky went full drill sergeant.
"Keep your chin down!"
"Stop telegraphing!"
"Follow through with the hips, not your goddamn ego!"
Wang absorbed every word like a sponge—sweat-soaked, battered, and ready to bleed.
He practiced slipping punches for an hour straight.
He ran footwork drills until his calves seized up.
He shadowboxed in the mirror while Rocky watched silently, arms crossed, nodding only once.
On Thursday, Rocky loaded Wang with body shots for thirty minutes straight.
"Clench the core. Breathe out with the hit."
Wang grunted as another fist drove into his ribs.
"Again."
WHAM.
"Again."
By the end, Wang could barely breathe. But he hadn't dropped.
***
WEEK 9 — A FIGHTER EMERGES
They went again.
Sparring. Round after round.
Wang didn't win. But he didn't go down in the first ten seconds anymore either.
He slipped. Blocked. Landed one or two counters.
Rocky tested him with combos. Wang ate most of them—but he rolled with the blows now. Learned to minimize the damage. Learned to endure.
Wang began to speak less, sweat more, and complain almost never.
He didn't notice the change.
But Rocky did.
One night, after their session, Rocky passed him a cold can of beer.
"You're not shit anymore."
Wang cracked the tab open, chuckling. "Thanks. I'll put that on my résumé."
Rocky took a swig of his own. "Keep this up, and you'll last in the pit. Hell, you might even win a round or two."
Wang looked down at his hands—scarred knuckles, callused palms, and that humming metal limb that had finally started to feel like part of him.
"I'm not dying in the pit," he said.
Rocky gave him a look.
"I know," he said simply.
Q: What's your favorite workout?