Kazuki found himself back in the familiar, sterile confines of his classroom, the mundane drone of his teacher's lecture a stark contrast to the exhilarating, terrifying events of the past two mornings. His textbook lay open on his desk, but his eyes, still burning slightly from the 'Hawk's Eye Precision' challenge, saw not the intricate diagrams of historical events, but the phantom blue glow of the VolleyGod System's interface. Every fibre of his being felt rewired, subtly but profoundly altered. The world seemed sharper, colours more vibrant, the murmur of his classmates more distinct, almost painfully so. It was as if a veil had been lifted, revealing a layer of reality he had never before perceived.
He tried to focus on the teacher's voice, on the chalk scratching against the blackboard, but his mind kept replaying the cascade of data that had appeared after his second challenge. Peripheral Vision: +25% efficiency. Cognitive Processing Speed: +18%. Decision-Making Time: -15%. These weren't just minor improvements; they were significant, almost unnerving enhancements to his core being. He could feel the difference. When the teacher quickly pointed to a map on the wall, Kazuki's gaze effortlessly snagged the precise location before the teacher's finger even landed. When a classmate fidgeted with a pen, he could almost predict the exact moment it would drop. His mind felt like a supercomputer, processing information at an accelerated, almost overwhelming pace.
The "Statistik Tubuh" panel the system had revealed was what truly haunted him. It wasn't just a simple stat screen from a video game. It was an invasive, almost disturbing, read-out of his very biology. He remembered the detailed diagrams of his musculature, highlighting subtle increases in muscle fiber density – areas he hadn't even known existed, now subtly reinforced. Charts of his metabolism ratio, optimized for faster energy conversion, flashed in his memory. And then there was the numerical representation of his "Muscle Limit," a seemingly arbitrary number that had significantly increased. It was terrifyingly precise, analyzing every biological function, every potential, dissecting his very human form with cold, digital efficiency.
He scribbled absently in his notebook, not notes for class, but diagrams of what he remembered from the system's display. A sudden, chilling thought struck him: This isn't just about making me a better volleyball player. This is about making me… something else. The phrase "AI pembentuk atlet level militer" echoed in his mind, clearer than any of the teacher's words. It made sense now. The extreme challenges, the brutal consequences, the systematic breakdown and rebuilding of his physical and cognitive abilities – this wasn't about nurturing a high school athlete. This was about engineering one.
The rumors of the "Reiwa Cyber Initiative" during the past few years had been vague, hushed whispers among the older generations. It was talked about as a classified government project that aimed to elevate human performance to unprecedented levels, particularly in young, developing individuals, through advanced bio-interfaces. But then, it had been abruptly shut down after what was vaguely referred to as "the incident of human failure." Details were scarce, almost non-existent. Some said it involved catastrophic physical breakdowns, others whispered of psychological torment. All that was certain was that it was deemed too dangerous, too unethical, and vanished from public discourse as quickly as it had appeared.
Was the VolleyGod System a rogue remnant of that project? An advanced prototype that had somehow escaped the ban, waiting for the precise, isolated conditions of a collapsing gym and a desperate, overlooked individual to activate? The thought sent a jolt of icy dread through him. He wasn't just a participant; he was a subject. A living experiment. A potential 'human failure' in the making. The system was meticulously dissecting his very biology, rebuilding him piece by painstaking piece, into something more than human. But at what cost? What if the "incidents of human failure" were not just about physical breakdowns, but about losing one's very self?
He swallowed hard, pushing down the surge of unease. He looked at his hands, ordinary hands, yet they felt different, subtly stronger, more responsive. He looked at his reflection in the dark window beside him, a normal face, but his eyes held a new, intense spark. He was better. He felt stronger. He felt more. And that feeling, despite the underlying dread, was intoxicating.
The internal scrimmage was tomorrow. A pit formed in his stomach, but it wasn't the familiar one of dread. It was a new kind of nervousness, an exhilarating anticipation. He couldn't wait to test these new abilities. He wanted to see their faces. He wanted to feel the ball, to use his newfound precision. He wanted to show them that "Number 0" was about to become something entirely different. Something they could never have predicted.
As the school day dragged on, Kazuki found himself constantly analyzing, observing. His peripheral vision, boosted by the system, picked up every minute detail. He could see the nervous twitch in the teacher's eye, the slight slump of a classmate's shoulders, the subtle shift in the light outside the window. His cognitive processing speed allowed him to take in multiple conversations at once, processing snippets of information and fitting them together like pieces of a puzzle. He felt both hyper-aware and strangely detached, observing the world as if through a high-definition lens, every detail amplified.
During lunch, he found a quiet corner, trying to delve deeper into the system's capabilities. The blue screen flickered open at his mental command, a silent presence that only he could perceive. He navigated to the "Skill Tree" that the system had briefly mentioned.
It was an intricate, branching diagram, starting from a central core and fanning out into various categories. He saw his unlocked skills, Jump Timing Lv.1 and Focus: Zone Entry Lv.1, highlighted in a vibrant green. Other branches, like Serve and Stamina, remained locked, shrouded in a digital mist.
He tapped, or rather, willed his mind to tap, on the 'Jump' branch.
"Jump: Jump Timing Lv.1 – Improves synchronization between muscle activation and ground contact for optimal verticality and landing stability. Next: Air Balance Lv.2 – Enhances mid-air equilibrium and body control during complex aerial maneuvers."
Underneath, the pathway to Air Balance Lv.2 was a thin, dotted line, indicating it was the next logical progression. To unlock it, he surmised, he would need to complete another specific challenge related to jumping or mid-air control.
He then explored the 'Serve' branch, which was still locked.
"Serve: Locked. Requires foundational 'Power Generation Lv.1' and 'Launch Vector Lv.1' skills. Unlocking methods: Consistent high-intensity core training and advanced ball trajectory analysis."
This was fascinating. The system wasn't just granting abilities; it was guiding his training. It was telling him what he needed to do to unlock specific skills. High-intensity core training and advanced ball trajectory analysis. These weren't generic workout tips. They were precise instructions, almost like a personalized curriculum for superhuman development.
He moved to the 'Focus' branch.
"Focus: Zone Entry Lv.1 – Initiates a state of heightened concentration, filtering distractions and enhancing immediate sensory input. Next: Reaction Buffer Lv.2 – Reduces latency between sensory perception and motor response, improving instantaneous reaction time."
The prospect of reducing his reaction time even further was electrifying. On a volleyball court, milliseconds could mean the difference between winning and losing. A quicker reaction to a spike, a faster read on a block, could change the entire momentum of a game.
Finally, he accessed the 'Stamina' branch, which remained locked.
"Stamina: Locked. Requires foundational 'Pain Tolerance' and 'Muscle Optimization' skills. Unlocking methods: Sustained high-intensity endurance training and precise caloric management protocols."
Pain Tolerance. The name itself sent a shiver down his spine. The system wasn't shy about what it demanded. It wasn't just about physical strength; it was about mental fortitude, about pushing through the agony. And "precise caloric management protocols"? Did that mean the system would also dictate his diet? The invasive nature of it was unsettling, yet he couldn't deny the allure of its promise.
The system also displayed "Bonus Info Sistem" (System Bonus Info) that he hadn't fully processed before. It detailed the overarching categories: Serve, Jump, Focus, Recovery.Recovery was a new one, perhaps a sub-category under Stamina. It further explained that "Skill Tree terbuka jika ada kombinasi latihan tertentu" (Skill Tree opens if there is a certain combination of exercises). This meant his daily challenges were precisely curated to unlock these foundational skills, pushing him along a predetermined path.
He also noticed a subtle timer, not for a challenge, but for something else. "Adaptation Cycle: Day 2 of 7." The system had given him a strict deadline. Seven days. Seven days to change his status as a benchwarmer, or all progress would be erased permanently. This added a layer of immense pressure, a ticking clock that pushed him to utilize every available moment, every ounce of his new capabilities.
The thought of 'permanent system deletion' sent a chill through him. It implied not just the loss of his progress, but potentially the severing of his connection to the system, leaving him as he was before, or worse, with lingering, un-adapted remnants of its influence. The fear was a powerful motivator.
After school, instead of heading straight to the gym, he made a detour to the library. He needed to understand more about the "Reiwa Cyber Initiative." His boosted cognitive processing speed helped him scan through archives, old digital newspapers, and academic papers with astonishing efficiency. Most of the information was indeed classified or heavily redacted, but he managed to piece together fragments. The project had focused on integrating bio-sensors and neural interfaces with human athletes to "optimize" their performance. The "human failure" incident was shrouded in mystery, but a recurring theme was the body's inability to cope with the rapid, artificial enhancements, leading to organ failure, muscle degradation, and severe neurological damage. It was a stark warning, a chilling reminder of the danger he was willingly embracing.
He forced himself to push those dark thoughts aside. He had made his choice. He would go all in.
That evening, he was back in the old, soon-to-be-demolished gym. The cool air, the dust motes dancing in the faint light, the familiar scent of old wood – it was comforting in its solitude. He activated the system, ready for whatever the next daily challenge would be. He had completed the jump challenge, the focus challenge. What would the system demand today? Another test of his physical prowess? Or perhaps something even more insidious, delving deeper into his nervous system, his very mind?
He braced himself. The blue screen flickered open, displaying the summary of his progress and the available challenges. He selected the next challenge, a decision that felt almost inevitable, driven by the burning desire to finally prove himself.
As he lay on the bench later that night, utterly drained, the silence of the old gym enveloped him. The system flickered into view one last time, a final, cryptic message before he drifted into sleep.
"Challenge Completed. User adaptation: Ongoing. Data integrity: Stable. Next phase of conditioning scheduled. Remember: consistent input yields consistent output. Failure to adapt will result in termination of process."
The words resonated deep within him. Consistent input yields consistent output. This wasn't just about daily challenges; it was about continuous improvement, a relentless pursuit of perfection. The system was a demanding master, but its rewards were unparalleled. He thought about the upcoming internal scrimmage. He would face Coach Tanaka, his teammates, the same old dismissive looks. But something had fundamentally changed within Kazuki Shōra. He was no longer just a '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.