The first rays of dawn, pale and hesitant, filtered through the grimy windows of the old gym, painting streaks of weak light across the dusty wooden floor. Kazuki stirred from his restless sleep on the hard bench, every fiber of his being screaming in protest. His muscles, though subtly rewired by the 'VolleyGod System' just hours ago, still felt as if they had run a marathon – a marathon against an invisible opponent, fueled by an impossible demand. Yet, beneath the throbbing aches, a strange, undeniable hum resonated within him. A feeling of readiness.
He slowly pushed himself up, his limbs stiff, but not as leaden as they should have been after such an intense, unceasing effort. The air in the gym was cold, heavy with the scent of old wood and the lingering metallic tang of his own sweat. He stretched, tentatively at first, then more boldly as he noticed the subtle ease in his movements. His Jump Timing Lv.1 felt… natural. As if his body had always been capable of such precision, but a mental block had simply been removed.
He walked towards the water fountain, each step surprisingly light. The events of the previous night flooded back: the pulsating blue screen, the absurd challenge, the system's stern warning of "permanent access termination." It wasn't a dream. The faint, phantom glow still lingered behind his eyelids, a constant reminder of the impossible reality he now inhabited.
As he drank deeply, the cold water a shock to his system, the familiar blue screen flickered into existence before him. It was no longer urgent or demanding, but merely present, a silent companion waiting for his full attention. The text was in the same ancient-digital Japanese script.
"Good morning, User. Adaption Process: 12% complete. Physical Conditioning: Stage 1 initiated."
Kazuki swallowed, his throat suddenly dry again. Adaptation process? What exactly was he adapting to? And "Physical Conditioning: Stage 1"? It sounded so clinical, so… systematic. Just as the thought crossed his mind, the screen shifted again.
"Current Skill Tree:
Jump: Jump Timing Lv.1 (Next: Air Balance Lv.2)Serve: LockedFocus: LockedStamina: Locked
"Next Challenge: 'Hawk's Eye Precision.' Objective: Track and accurately respond to 1,000 randomized light signals within 15 minutes. Failure will incur permanent penalization to Focus stat."
A cold knot formed in Kazuki's stomach. Hawk's Eye Precision. The title alone sent a shiver down his spine. And the consequence: permanent penalization to Focus stat. This was even harsher than the previous challenge's "access termination." A permanent penalty would mean his analytical, calm style of play, his most natural advantage, would be crippled before it even had a chance to blossom. This system was ruthless, designed for absolute efficiency, absolute mastery.
Just then, faint light sources, no bigger than a fingernail, began to appear around the gym. They dotted the walls, the ceiling, even the floor, appearing and disappearing in erratic patterns. They were tiny, blinking LEDs, almost imperceptible at first, but then a single one on the far wall flared bright green.
"Challenge initiated. Focus. React."
A digital countdown timer, a stark red 14:59, appeared at the top of the screen.
Kazuki took a deep breath. This wasn't about brute force. This was about something he prided himself on: his perception, his ability to read and react. His "aura" of quiet analysis. He forced himself to calm his racing heart, to quiet his internal monologue. He had to become a predator, his eyes the hawk's, scanning, anticipating.
He tried to follow the first light. It blinked off, and another, far across the court, immediately flared. He spun, his head snapping to track it, but by the time his eyes registered its position, it too vanished, replaced by another. He was too slow. His eyes darted frantically, trying to catch every new light, but they moved with a chaotic, unpredictable rhythm.
The screen flashed a warning: "Missed Target: 10."
He knew he couldn't simply chase them. There were too many, appearing too randomly. He closed his eyes for a moment, clearing his mind. He needed a system. His analytical mind, though overwhelmed, began to search for patterns. Was there a sequence? A rhythm? He opened his eyes, forcing them to relax, to take in the entire visual field rather than focusing on individual points.
The blue screen, as if reading his thoughts, subtly shifted its display. A faint, almost transparent grid appeared superimposed over his vision, dividing the gym into sectors. When a light appeared, a small, subtle indicator on the grid would also flash, showing its approximate location.
"System Guidance: Expand Peripheral Vision. Anticipate Quadrant Shifts."
This was it. The system wasn't just testing him; it was actively teaching, providing real-time feedback and hints. He focused on expanding his peripheral vision, letting his eyes soften, taking in the entire court. When a light appeared, he didn't snap his head directly to it, but instead, registered its quadrant on the grid, anticipating where the next might appear based on the flow of the randomized sequence. It was like a complex game of whack-a-mole, but with his entire visual field as the board.
His fingers, by instinct, twitched, wanting to point or tap, but the challenge required only mental tracking and internal "response." He imagined himself on the court, seeing the entire play unfold, anticipating the opponent's spike, the setter's next move. This wasn't just about lights; it was about training his mind for the court.
The numbers on the screen began to climb, slowly at first, then gaining momentum: 50. 75. 100. His eyes burned, but he ignored the discomfort, immersing himself in the flow of the lights, becoming one with the erratic dance of the targets. He learned to distinguish between true signals and phantom blips, to filter out the irrelevant stimuli. His heart rate, which had spiked at the beginning, now settled into a steady, focused rhythm.
"Heart Rate: 130 bpm (Optimal Focus Zone)."
At 500 lights, a new set of challenges emerged. The lights began to flash in pairs, sometimes even triplets, requiring him to register multiple points simultaneously before they vanished. The speed increased, the patterns became even more chaotic, deliberately designed to overwhelm. His head began to throb, a dull ache behind his eyes.
"Sensory Overload Detected. Initiating 'Zone Entry' Adaptation."
A strange sensation washed over him. The gym, the flickering lights, the timer—everything seemed to recede, becoming a distant hum. His vision narrowed, not in a literal sense, but as if everything extraneous had been filtered out, leaving only the essential dance of the lights before him. Time itself seemed to slow down, stretching, giving him precious milliseconds to register and respond. This was the 'Zone,' the state of ultimate concentration athletes sometimes described, a state he had only ever glimpsed in his most intense moments of solitary practice. Now, the system was actively forcing him into it.
He breathed deeply, maintaining the 'Breath Strike' technique from the previous night, oxygenating his strained brain. His body was a vessel, his mind a finely tuned instrument, processing data at an astonishing rate.
950. 980.
His eyes were watering, his head pounded with a dull rhythm, but he was in it, fully immersed. The lights were no longer just lights; they were pathways, connections, a language he was beginning to understand. He could feel where the next light would appear, a subtle premonition that guided his gaze.
998. 999.
The final light flared, directly in front of him, then vanished.
1,000!
The timer, which had just ticked to 00:12, froze.
A series of triumphant chimes, more melodic and complex than the previous night's, filled the gym. The blue screen glowed brightly, displaying a celebratory message that made Kazuki's heart swell with pride.
"Challenge Completed: 'Hawk's Eye Precision.' Skill Unlocked: Focus: Zone Entry Lv.1."
Below it, a new cascade of information appeared, detailed and comprehensive, a true "Statistik Tubuh" panel that went far beyond mere skill upgrades.
Focus: Zone Entry Lv.1 (Next: Reaction Buffer Lv.2)Peripheral Vision: +25% efficiencyCognitive Processing Speed: +18%Decision-Making Time: -15%
The screen expanded, revealing even more intricate data. There were diagrams of his musculature, highlighting subtle increases in muscle fiber density; charts of his metabolism ratio, now optimized for faster energy conversion; even a numerical representation of his "Muscle Limit," a seemingly arbitrary number that had significantly increased. It was terrifyingly precise, analyzing every biological function, every potential.
Kazuki stared, awe-struck. This wasn't just a simple game interface. This was a true AI, dissecting his very biology, rebuilding him, piece by painstaking piece, into something more. The rumors about the "Reiwa Cyber Initiative," the "failed project" to create "super athletes" through bio-interfaces, suddenly felt chillingly real. He wasn't just a participant; he was a subject, a living experiment in a project deemed too dangerous for humanity. The thought sent a jolt of fear through him. What if he was the "human failure" they spoke of? What if this system, in its relentless pursuit of perfection, pushed him beyond his limits, destroyed him?
But then he looked at his hands, no longer trembling, at his eyes, which felt sharper, more attuned than ever before. He looked at the empty gym, at the phantom echoes of the lights he had just conquered. He was better. He felt stronger. He felt more.
The screen subtly flickered, displaying a final message that seemed to settle deep into his very consciousness.
"User adaptation proceeding as expected. New parameters for 'Muscle Optimization' and 'Fatigue Recovery' are now available in Skill Tree. Daily limit: One challenge per day. Current Daily Challenge: Complete."
He had completed his daily challenge. One challenge per day. It was a strict limit, designed perhaps to prevent overload, to allow his body to adapt, to prevent another "incident of human failure."
Kazuki stood there for a long moment, the cool air of the gym gradually seeping into his exhausted frame. The initial shock had worn off, replaced by a profound sense of purpose. This system, mysterious and dangerous as it was, was his only path to break free from the shackles of mediocrity. He had tasted a glimpse of superhuman ability, and it was intoxicating.
He walked out of the gym as the first students started to arrive for morning practice, their sleepy eyes not noticing the quiet figure slipping through the back door. He felt different. He carried himself differently. The world seemed sharper, colors more vibrant, sounds more distinct.
He remembered the internal tryout scrimmage that was coming up soon. Coach Tanaka would be there, making his usual dismissive remarks. His teammates would be there, ready to laugh him off. But something had fundamentally changed within Kazuki Shōra. He was no longer just the 'potential benchwarmer.' He was a work in progress, a secret weapon in the making. And he couldn't wait to test his new abilities on the court. He wanted to see their faces. He wanted to feel the ball, to use his newfound precision.
The thought of the upcoming tryout, once a source of dread, now filled him with a quiet, simmering excitement. He was ready. Ready to show them that "Number 0" was about to become something entirely different. Something they could never have predicted. The ghost of Coach Tanaka's dismissive words, "You lack aura," echoed in his mind, but this time, they were met not with pain, but with a silent, determined smile. He had an aura now. An unseen, internal aura, forged in the solitude of a dying gym, powered by a mysterious system, and waiting to erupt onto the court.