Month Three: Breakthrough.
The bruises faded faster now. The soreness still came—but it felt earned, like proof of progress. The gym no longer felt like a torture chamber. It felt like a forge.
Wang wasn't just surviving training anymore.
He was thriving in it.
***
WEEK 9 — FASTER
Wang tore around the gym lot like a man possessed.
The sandbag on his shoulders wasn't just weight anymore—it was fuel. His strides were longer, cleaner. His core stayed locked, breath timed to every movement. No side cramps. No collapsing lungs.
Rocky stood by the fence, arms crossed, stopwatch in hand.
"Forty-four seconds faster," he grunted as Wang skidded to a halt, panting but upright.
Wang grinned through the sweat. "That's almost a compliment."
Rocky shrugged. "Almost."
***
WEEK 10 — STRONGER
CLANG.
The bar hit the floor with a violent thud, echoing through the weight room.
160kg. Deadlift. No hesitation.
Wang's grip—both human and machine—was steady. He didn't need to be reminded of his form anymore. He knew it instinctively now. He felt it in the alignment of his spine, the burn in his thighs, the click of his teeth clenching together at the top of the lift.
"Again."
Rocky loaded another plate.
170kg.
Wang didn't blink.
He lifted it like it owed him money.
***
WEEK 11 — SHARPER
Sparring had become ritual.
The two circled the mat, each step calculated.
Wang feinted with a left, ducked under a jab, and countered with a hook to Rocky's ribs.
Thud.
Rocky grunted. "That was a shot."
Wang didn't celebrate. He followed up.
Cross. Jab. Slip. Rotate out.
He was fluid now, breathing steady, movement efficient. The cockiness from month one had vanished. He wasn't just fast or strong—he was present. Sharp.
Rocky stepped in with a heavy swing.
Wang slipped it and stepped back, chest heaving, gloves raised.
The bell rang.
Rocky gave him a look.
"You're not just a brawler anymore," he said, wiping his brow. "You're a fuckin' fighter."
***
WEEK 12 — THE PUNCH
The gym was half-lit by buzzing fluorescent lights. Dust floated in the air, drifting through the stale heat like motes in a dream.
Wang tightened the tape around his hands, flexing the fingers on his cybernetic limb. It buzzed faintly—quiet, obedient.
He stepped onto the mat.
Rocky was already waiting. Bare-chested, gloves on. Solid as ever.
"Last spar before your first match," Rocky said. "Let's see if you remember everything I beat into you."
Wang exhaled, nodded.
They squared up.
Rocky came in fast this time—testing him. Quick jabs, faint foot feints, pushing the pace.
But Wang was ready.
He parried one, then two. Slipped the third. His footwork was smooth now—gliding rather than stomping. Every movement fed into the next.
Then Rocky threw a heavy left.
Wang ducked it.
And that's when instinct took over.
From the low angle, Wang rotated his hips and let the cybernetic fist fly.
CRACK.
The punch landed square in Rocky's gut—just under the ribs, precisely where all those months of drilling told him to aim. The force rippled through Rocky's massive frame.
And for the first time since training began—
Rocky stumbled back.
The big man's eyes widened as he fell to one knee, breath punched out of him in a stunned grunt.
Silence filled the gym.
Wang froze, eyes wide. His breathing was ragged. For a second, he didn't believe it happened.
"Shit," Wang muttered, yanking his gloves off and stepping forward. "Rocky—fuck, I didn't mean—"
But Rocky just let out a wheezy chuckle, rubbing his side where the hit landed.
"Bout fuckin' time."
Wang extended a hand. "You alright?"
Rocky looked up, grinning through the pain.
"You ever not apologize after landing a good hit?"
"I thought I broke something."
"You did, asshole," Rocky grunted, slapping his hand into Wang's and letting himself get pulled up. "You broke the streak."
Wang blinked. "The what?"
"Fifty-three days straight without me hittin' the mat."
Rocky stood tall again, wincing as he rolled his shoulder.
"That punch… that was real. You felt the opening. You didn't think—you acted."
Wang nodded slowly, still breathing hard. "Yeah. Didn't even see it until I was already moving."
"That's it," Rocky said. "That's the sweet spot."
Wang looked down at his metal fist, then back at Rocky.
"Sorry about your ribs."
Rocky chuckled. "Don't be. It's the most fun I've had all fuckin' month."
They walked off the mat, shoulder to shoulder now—not just trainer and student. But something closer.
Respect earned. The hard way.
Q: What's your workout routine like?