I think, therefore I am.
Can't remember who said that, but it fits the mood.
Some people take it as a simple declaration of existence—"Look at me, I'm alive! How cool is that?"
But is it really that shallow? Or am I reading too much into it when I say that it could also mean our thoughts shape our existence?
I think this so-called system needs to activate as fast as possible.
Therefore, I must do push-ups.
I check my phone—a beat-up Samsung with a cracked screen and peeling case.
9:27. Good enough.
I ignore the lingering stench of vomit nearby. I didn't even make it five steps before the system notification appeared. The puddle of sick still glistens on the marble floor.
Alas, it's irrelevant.
And therefore, I don't think about it.
Just like I DO NOT THINK about the gaps in my original memories.
Can't recall my real name. Can't picture my family's faces, or even remember their names. General knowledge seems untouched—I can still pull random quotes out of my ass and, you know, fucking speak—so someone clearly wiped only the personal stuff.
But I don't think about that... For now.
I think about the task at hand.
I drop to my knees, prepared to work out.
Then, reality slaps me in the face.
It seems I underestimated the weakness of my flesh.
I'm not just "out of shape" weak. I'm fucking fragile.
The moment I try a push-up, my arms extend like brittle twigs. Pale, scrawny forearms, mottled with old bruises. They quiver pathetically as try to lower myself. My form is so bad I'd probably beat myself if I saw it.
One... two... three...
The noodles I call arms tremble like they're about to snap. I can practically hear the protesting creak of tendons as they strain against bone. Every time I lower my body, my abdomen screams in protest, the spot where I took that kick feeling like someone's still pressing a hot iron against it.
I'm already sweating buckets, droplets splattering onto the floor beneath me. Is this body sick?
No. The new memories tell me otherwise.
Lee did this to himself—rotting away on a couch, barely eating one meal every two days, so I suppose he was/I am sick of malnutrition.
What the fuck, Lee.
At least he didn't wear glasses. Small mercies, I guess. Getting punched with frames digging into your face must be its own special hell.
YOUTH SYSTEM BOOTING UP! 2%
1% for three push-ups? Good. Should be done in no time... maybe... hopefully.
I yank off the ugly beige shirt—still stained with vomit, the fabric sticking to my skin—and toss it aside, going bare-chested for round two. The hallway air feels cold against my damp skin.
I don't bother looking at my physique, no point in getting even more annoyed.
Though I do catch a disturbing glimpse of protruding ribs and concave stomach.
Fucking hell, Lee.
I drop back down, palms slapping against the floor tiles.
Three more push-ups.
Huffing. Puffing. My arms feel like lead. My core trembles and threatens to give out completely. Each time I lower myself, a sharp stab of pain shoots through my back where that boot had connected, the bruised muscles along my spine feeling like they're being torn anew.
The floor spins beneath me, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision.
Are those stars I'm seeing?
Am I actually getting lightheaded?
My shoulders feel like they're being pulled from their sockets, the rotator cuff screaming in protest... but I can keep going.
BOOTING UP! 4%
Huh? Only three more push-ups, but I got two percent? The math ain't mathing.
The muffled sounds of teachers lecturing and students chattering drift through the classroom doors as I start experimenting.
I do another set of three—chest heaving, ragged breaths echoing in the empty hallway—two more percent.
Then I try only two. It's much easier than doing three, which makes sense since it's literally cutting a third of the exercise.
And I also get nothing. Not even a 1% increase.
Clearly, I'm missing something.
So I push for five.
Bad idea. Halfway through the fourth one, my arms start shaking uncontrollably. By the fifth, my triceps are on fire. My tendons scream, each fiber feeling like it's being torn apart. The superficial muscles have given up entirely, and now the deep stabilizers are threatening mutiny. My elbows buckle violently, refusing to lock, until I finally can't try anymore.
My chest crashes against the cold floor, chin smacking the hard surface. Copper floods my mouth as my teeth slice into my tongue. The impact reawakens the throbbing in my already swollen face, my bruised cheekbone feeling like it's just been hit all over again. A fresh wave of nausea washes over me as the pain radiates through my jaw, blending with the fire in my arms.
But I am thinking of something else.
BOOTING UP! 13%
A seven percent jump, huh?
So it's based on exertion… or maybe just pain?
If this were a normal workout, I'd have to stop before I wrecked something permanently. Medical knowledge from my past life flashes through my mind—rhabdomyolysis, tendon avulsion, stress fractures. All very real possibilities in this pathetic meat suit.
But then I glance at the blue screen hovering in front of me. The progress bar sits at 13%, unmoving, the blue light pulsing in rhythm with my racing heart.
Youth System... Welcome to Konoha... Do push-ups to load the system...
Yeah, I think I know where this is going...
No way in hell I'm dragging my feet with this one.