The first week hit Jin Hao like a freight train, and it didn't let up. He'd figured Self-Dominance would be tough—two hours of exercise, three hours of study, no talking—but he hadn't expected it to feel like his body and mind were being torn apart and stitched back together every damn day.
His apartment in the Tianyuan Housing Complex was still a dump, the peeling walls and flickering bulb a constant reminder of where he'd started, but now it was a base camp, a launchpad for something bigger.
The futon was shoved aside to make room for a cheap set of dumbbells he'd bought within the 50,000 yuan, the linoleum scarred with sweat stains from push-ups and sit-ups.
Outside, the world kept spinning—Zhonghai's neon skyline buzzing beyond his window—but he was a ghost in it, silent, focused, a man on a mission.
The exercise was brutal.
Day one, he'd hit the streets running, lungs burning after ten minutes, legs wobbling like jelly by twenty.
He'd stumbled back home, cursing Wirs under his breath, thinking he'd never make two hours.
But by day three, something weird clicked—he wasn't just recovering faster; he was improving faster. A simple set of push-ups that left him gasping on Monday had him cranking out double the reps by Friday, his arms trembling less, his chest tightening with new muscle.
He'd jogged a mile, then two, then five, the pavement pounding beneath his sneakers, and his stamina stretched like it was elastic.
It wasn't normal. No way a guy like him—F-rated, soggy mess Jin Hao—should bulk up this quick.
Then it hit him: the 5x XP Booster. Wirs had said it boosted "experience gain," and he'd assumed it was some vague game mechanic.
But this?
This was real.
Five times the gains—muscle, endurance, even the way his body learned to move. He tested it at a rundown gym a few blocks away, the kind with rusty weights and mirrors cracked like his ceiling.
A week of bench presses, and his scrawny arms started filling out his sleeves. A month of squats, and his jeans hugged thighs he didn't recognize. It hurt like hell, and I mean it really fucking hurt—every fiber screaming, every joint creaking—but the pain paid off fast, and that kept him going.
The study part was a different beast.
Three hours a day, locked in his head with books he'd nabbed from the Zhonghai Public Library—strategy, psychology, charm, anything that sounded like it could sharpen him.
At first, he'd doze off ten pages in, the words swimming on the page, his brain foggy from years of warehouse grunt work.
But that 5x boost kicked in here too.
He'd read a chapter on game theory—some dry stuff about prisoners and dilemmas—and by the next day, he could map out moves like a chess player, seeing traps and counters in his mind.
A book on body language had him noticing quirks he'd never clocked before: the way a guy at the gym puffed his chest to hide insecurity, or how the librarian's tight smile screamed impatience.
He devoured The Art of Seduction by some old dead guy named Greene, and the tactics stuck—how to mirror someone's energy, how to plant a seed of doubt, how to make them chase you without even knowing why.
It wasn't just memorizing; it was absorbing, like his brain was a sponge on overdrive.
He started scribbling notes on a pad, filling it with ideas—how to read a room, how to twist a conversation, how to make someone feel like they needed you.
By month three, he was running mental simulations, plotting imaginary showdowns with Bai Zhenghao, dismantling the bastard's smug grin with words alone.
The no-talking rule? That was the real kicker. He'd ditched his phone the first day after confirming the payment, tossing it into a drawer with a dead battery, cutting off Zhou Lei and the world.
At the gym, he'd nod at the regulars—gruff old guys with calloused hands, skinny teens flexing in the mirrors—but kept his lips sealed, eyes forward.
Running through Zhonghai's backstreets, he'd pass vendors hawking dumplings, kids kicking soccer balls, couples arguing under flickering streetlights, and he'd stay mute, a shadow slipping by. It was isolating as hell.
Some days, he'd catch himself mumbling to the walls, just to hear a voice, then stop cold, remembering the penalty: system deactivation.
He'd see Lei's beat-up scooter parked outside a noodle shop once, and his chest tightened—wanted to wave, to yell, to spill everything—but he turned away, kept running. The silence built something in him, though. A stillness. A focus. Like the noise of the world had been sandpaper, and now his edges were smoothing into something sharp.
Halfway through, around month six, he nearly broke.
The gym had become a second home—iron clanking, sweat dripping, his body leaner and harder than he'd ever dreamed—but the grind was relentless.
No rest days, no cheat meals, just rice and chicken he'd cook in bulk, protein shakes from the starter cash, and endless reps.
His hands blistered, his knees ached, and one night, after a two-hour session of deadlifts that left him dizzy, he slumped against the gym wall, staring at his reflection. He didn't look like F-rated Jin anymore—shoulders broader, jaw sharper under the stubble—but he felt like a machine pushed past its limit.
"This is insane," he thought, the words loud in his head but trapped behind his teeth.
"I can't keep going. I'm gonna snap." That's when Intuitive Divergence kicked in—a prickling down his spine, a flash of déjà vu, like the system was whispering, You're off track, pivot.
He dragged himself home, slept ten hours, and woke up realizing he'd been overdoing it.
The quest said "daily," not "destroy yourself." He adjusted—mixed lighter runs with heavy lifts, stretched to ease the soreness—and the gains kept coming, steady now, sustainable.
The library became his mind's gym. Beyond the seduction and strategy books, he dug into history—stories of warlords and tycoons, men who'd clawed their way up from nothing.
He learned about Sun Tzu, how to win without fighting, how to make your enemy overestimate you. A psychology text taught him about "dark pool" traits—confidence, manipulation, a touch of ruthlessness—and he saw himself in them, or at least the self he could become.
He even snagged a beat-up book on martial arts, practicing stances in his apartment, the futon shoved aside as he threw clumsy punches that turned precise by month ten.
It wasn't just knowledge; it was power, stacking up in his head like bricks for a fortress.
By the last month, he was a different man. The mirror showed it—muscle corded under his skin, posture straight, eyes sharp with something new.
The 5x boost had turned a year's work into five, maybe more, sculpting him faster than any normal grind could.
He'd run ten miles without panting, lift twice his body weight, recite seduction tactics like poetry.
The silence had honed him too—no distractions, no chatter, just him and the goal.
Lin's face still haunted him, but now it fueled him, a promise of payback. He'd sit on the futon at night, staring at that cracked ceiling, and think, This was all or nothing, and I chose all.