Training Gear

I bustled through the lower-class classrooms on my tour, and by the time I trotted back, wonderful news was waiting for me.

“The prototype training gear is finished.”

“Already?”

“Rosini and our friends in the production track lent a hand. Thanks to ramping up the heat so quickly, casting time was cut down dramatically. Truly, there is nothing money cannot solve. Ho-ho!”

Arcadia proudly displayed the equipment.

I slipped on the boots and gloves to test them out. Because our sizes differed so much, a gaping void remained around my heels, and the gloves hung so loose and baggy that I looked like a toddler playing dress-up in an adult’s wardrobe.

Even so, the sheer heft was barely distinguishable from what I had worn back in Jona’s mansion.

“This is the real deal!”

“I am glad to hear you are satisfied. But is it truly possible to go about daily life while wearing something so dreadfully heavy?”

“Keep at it for a while and your body just adapts. It’ll be totally fine!”

To begin with, this was a world governed by status windows—a game reality driven by numerical stats. For freshmen of Gift Academy, who possessed physical baselines vastly superior to ordinary mortals, high-weight daily living training would easily let them master their own capabilities and reap massive gains.

Well, it’s pretty crude compared to what Jona crafted, though.

It severely lacked an ergonomic touch. Being so oversized, the gloves and boots pinched the flesh and threatened to rub the skin raw with every movement. There was no auto-balance feature to dynamically adjust the center of gravity in real time, either.

Of course, expecting that tier of craftsmanship from training gear hammered out by first-years—and an initial prototype at that—would be downright highway robbery. As long as I possessed an ounce of conscience, I could hardly throw a tantrum at Arcadia, Rosini, and the other crafting students who had poured their blood and sweat into making it.

“Is it okay if I take this over to Mob right now?”

“By all means. The sizing is mismatched, which might cause discomfort, but you can manage just as one does when donning plate armor—simply pad the interior with cotton, wool, or cloth.”

Still, because I had not planned ahead for the inner padding, another dilemma arose.

This is for a total newbie. Can I really just slap any old rag on him?

Not on your life. When roping a clueless newbie into a commitment, pay-to-win gear was the golden rule. If you decked someone out in top-dollar equipment from the moment they picked up a hobby, the sheer guilt of wasting the money would force them to grind like hell. It was the same way Koreans starting a new hobby—whether hiking, fishing, or cycling—invariably swiped their credit cards to equip a full set of endgame gear before taking their very first step.

Naturally, half of them ended up stashing those expensive toys in the closet like ancestral full plate armor meant to be inherited by future generations, letting them gather dust undisturbed. Even so, I had no cause to worry about my newbie shoving his weighted gear into a dresser or storage chest. After all, fools teetering on the edge of academic expulsion who were too lazy or clueless to grasp their own desperation could never survive a single semester at Gift Academy in the first place.

Mob is surprisingly diligent, too.

Contrary to his scrawny, unimposing appearance, Mob boasted a remarkably robust constitution. Right now, he was cutting his sleep to the bone, sporting deep dark circles under his eyes as he drilled day and night. For the sake of that earnest grit alone, I had to ensure he would never feel intimidated by some well-equipped peer from the neighboring class.

All right. Let’s get him a proper custom fit!

Now that everyone had pooled their talents to assemble the metal pieces, securing some decent inner padding was something I ought to handle by myself.

Professor Plato was a man more fervently devoted to Iron Man Training than anyone alive. Unpopular among the student body on account of his monstrously brutal curriculum, he had never once received a private visit from a student outside of lecture hours. Most examinees fled in terror the moment their eyes met his, terrified he would ambush them and force-feed them protein soup on the spot!

“Hmph. Weaklings.”

The professor paid them no mind. The exalted realm of a true iron man was not something such cowards could ever hope to attain. A touch of solitude. A dash of loneliness. Only one capable of grinding even those bitter sorrows into fuel for self-discipline, relentlessly testing personal limits through bodily reconstruction, could step closer to becoming an iron man.

As if proclaiming that the pursuit of strength had no finish line, Professor Plato threw himself into personal training day after day, even after having his soul bound to a living metal muscle sculpture.

“Hello, Professor!”

Yet today, an event occurred that should have been inconceivable—something that had never once transpired during his daily regimen. A student had approached him on their own initiative to strike up a conversation.

Without halting his heavy lifting, Professor Plato bellowed:

“I do not entertain grade disputes.”

“We haven’t even sat for our midterms yet!”

“Then is it an assignment? I accept no appeals regarding assignment evaluations either.”

“I didn’t come because of homework either!”

“Then for what purpose have you come? If you intend to petition me to become your club advisor, I already oversee both the Herculean Smash Club and the Flesh Resonance 1000 Club, so I refuse.”

“I came to ask if you know where I can get my hands on some padded cotton armor!”

“Padded cotton armor?”

Expecting a desperate senior on the brink of failing graduation, whining and haggling over fractions of a point, what actually greeted his ears was a request for padded gambeson gear. The innocent, delicate voice had struck him as uncharacteristic of an upperclassman from the start, and indeed, standing before him was none other than Orknodi, a fresh-faced first-year child who had yet to shed an ounce of baby fat.

“My friend’s training gear is the wrong size, so he needs some thick armor padding to line it with.”

With her shy smile and charming, sweet cadence, she was an exceptionally clever little fox of a girl. When she grew older, she was bound to leave a trail of weeping suitors in her wake. Provided she did not undergo some cursed dark evolution like the Mesgaki Imperial Princess—smugly mocking folks with taunts of So weak, so weak~♡—she was an exemplary student whose future was immensely promising, whatever she chose to become!

“May I inspect this training gear?”

Professor Plato, rarely known for gentleness, softened his expression into a warm, benign smile for this remarkable first-year who showed so much potential in so many ways. Delighted, Orknodi unslung the training gear bundled across her back and set it down with a thunderous thud.

A small cloud of dust billowed from the impact, making it plainly visible that considerable mass had been packed inside.

“Hoh.”

Lifting them in his hand, his metal muscles registered a faint, unmistakable strain. Indeed, for a first-year, these boots and gloves carried an impressive amount of weight.

“I know not who this youth may be, but any student undertaking advance conditioning for heavy armor deserves the highest commendation.”

Swinging a blade unarmored versus swinging one clad in heavy plate differed in every imaginable parameter—from the kinetic force channeled through the blow and the baseline strength demanded, to the sword’s arc and stamina depletion. For an aspiring warrior who yearned for greatness, preparing ahead through acclimation drills was precisely the correct doctrine.

Naturally, the vast majority of students never bothered with such rigor. Using the academy’s demanding timetable as an excuse, they chased every fleeting amusement, gorged on decadent meals, and lounged around at every opportunity, squandering the golden hours of their freshman year like worthless trash.

“His name ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is Mob! He’s in the lower class, but he’s super, super diligent!”

“Is that so?”

If Orknodi praised him to such an extent, the boy was undeniably no ordinary student.

“Conveniently, I have no lectures scheduled at present. Summon him here at once.”

“Okey-dokey!”

A short while later, a scrawny young lad presented himself before the living statue. He possessed none of the postural deformities that came from poor habits, and while the density of his musculature was nothing extraordinary, it showed clear evidence of earnest, painstaking refinement within his means. He appeared to harbor an instinctive aptitude for internal breathing techniques as well, channeling mana instinctively so that his muscle fibers were tightly compressed.

“You possess talent.”

“Th-thank you, sir...?”

Professor Plato’s heavy metallic hand delivered a series of firm, rhythmic pats to Mob’s forearms, abdomen, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thighs. Mob was utterly gripped by panic, his mind racing with wild terrors—Could Orknodi have sold me out to this demon professor just to secure extra credit?!—though naturally, she had harbored no such sinister plot.

His physical fatigue runs far deeper than outward appearances suggest.

The speed at which his damaged muscle tissues repaired themselves was failing to keep pace with the cumulative injuries stacking up from unceasing workouts. To have reached such extreme strain despite cycling between upper and lower body splits proved that this boy had steeled his heart with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sheer, unadulterated venom.

“I like you!”

Raw talent taking root despite his common lower-class background, paired with a relentless hunger rarely seen in a freshman. The professor saw within the boy an echo of his own distant youth, back when he had endured blood-sweating torment day after day while clinging to the singular dream of reviving his fallen homeland, the Florence Kingdom.

A student like this was well worth the investment.

“I shall bestow upon you padding fashioned from pure Barmetz Cotton.”

Barmetz Cotton was a legendary flora renowned as the primordial origin of all cotton. Historically, all cotton in existence had sprung forth when wild Barmetz from the Spirit Realm was first transplanted into the Middle Realm. Considering how even modern cotton—degraded countless times over by the barren soils of the mortal realm—remained invaluable in armor craft, one could only imagine the astronomical worth of the primordial Barmetz fibers.

Plato wondered whether these first-years could even comprehend such an artifact, but to his amusement, Orknodi immediately made a face as if someone were dropping solid gold ingots into a roaring furnace.

Unless one is raised in extraordinary luxury, the value of that cotton is not easily recognized...

Looking past Orknodi’s delicate features and uniform, Plato’s gaze settled upon the immaculate white gloves extending all the way past her elbows, and he nodded in silent comprehension.

A child hailing from an unfathomably wealthy lineage.

Professor Plato was so thoroughly obsessed with the gospel of muscle development that not even the wild, terrifying rumors surrounding Orknodi across the campus had ever managed to penetrate his ears.

While students often viewed Professor Plato as a hazardous lunatic hawking suspicious protein brews to unsuspecting passersby, he was actually remarkably generous to those who earned his respect. Provided you displayed genuine enthusiasm for physical development, he would readily step up as a faculty advisor and shower you with practical support.

The Herculean Smash Club and the Flesh Resonance 1000 Club were living proof. Though, when I had poked my head in out of curiosity, they felt far less like martial circles and far more like a traveling strongman circus merged with a hardcore bodybuilding commune.

“Mob, you hit the jackpot!”

“Huh? Me?”

“That stuff is insanely expensive.”

“H-how expensive?”

“Hmm...”

Recalling the market value from the game, I tallied the conversion in my head.

“Roughly the cost of a full suit of magitech plate armor!”

“What?!”

Magitech armor was so astronomical in price that even highborn aristocrats couldn't easily purchase an equipment authorization permit with their academy Points. Hearing that this fluff was worth its weight in gold—nay, infinitely pricier than refined gold—shocked Mob to the brink of fainting.

“What if I drop some of it?! When I take these off, strands will stick to my sweat and pull loose! If even a single fiber drifts away, I’m throwing away something more valuable than pure gold!”

“Ah, fret not over minor details. Put them on at once.”

Professor Plato let out a booming laugh, seized the thick tufts of cotton, and crammed them ruthlessly into the boots and gloves with sheer physical might before thrusting them into Mob's arms. I could have sworn I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠heard a sickening crunch echo during the process, but I chose to believe my ears were playing tricks on me.

“Ugh... It’s so heavy.”

“And yet, does the interior not sit comfortably against your skin?”

“Yes. Thanks to you, Professor, the fit is incredible. Thank you so much.”

“Think nothing of such trivialities. The true reason for your gratitude begins now.”

“Pardon?”

“Did you not voice grave concern over the prospect of shedding fibers of Barmetz Cotton?”

Wait. He isn't planning to 'solve the problem by removing the cause' and confiscate the shiny new gear now that it turned out so good, is he?

I watched anxiously from the sidelines, but my dread proved entirely misplaced. He wasn't robbing the boy. He was modifying the gear.

CRUNCH!

Devoid of the slightest shred of malice, acting entirely out of boundless goodwill, Professor Plato clamped down with his bare hands and forcefully crushed the metallic cuffs of the boots and gloves, warping the rigid metal until it molded air-tight around Mob’s wrists and ankles.

“Aaargh?!”

“Behold! I have eradicated your worries at the root.”

Professor Plato beamed with immense, radiant pride.

“If you wear boots and gauntlets that can never be removed, you will never lose a single strand of cotton. With your current level of strength, it is physically impossible for you to ever take them off!”

The professor had not stolen the training gear.

Instead, exactly like an abominable cursed artifact, he had rendered it completely un-unequippable.