This Is What Sex Is...

"Oh hell yeah! Hell yeah!!!!! So that's what the Status Window's Training Points were after — a workout that actually tastes good!!! It's sensory! It's mental! Physical training and mental training were supposed to go together all along!!!"

He sank into ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the squat in a near-trance, rolling the flavor of it across his tongue. Four sets of twelve later, the Status Window gave him a big thumbs-up: this squat, apparently, was the correct recipe for Training Points. It had actually handed over the points.

"And it's my first point. The first point since awakening! A virgin ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠point!!! I just popped my Status Window's cherry!!!!"

It was a special point. Weren't all firsts supposed to be precious? And now he had claimed that precious first. He was genuinely moved. These were points wrung out of honest, faithful effort — a result that actually meant something.

"Power! Let's dump it into Power for now. If I were out there beating zombies to death I probably would've put the first points into Agility, but I'm pumping iron right now, so Power's the right call."

He finished the squats, racked the barbell, and pulled up the Status Window to check what he'd earned. The text sat there, sharp and unmistakable.

He poured those two points straight into Power. The kind of Power that moved weight climbed higher. At this point, it was a load that would have made people uncomfortable in any ordinary gym — but this world's civilization ran ahead of his previous Earth's, and the training equipment had been slimmed down into something lean and brutally efficient.

"Iron King felt like it just made ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you harder to injure, more or less — but Rapid Recovery boosts your recovery not just in a fight, but during training too."

He was shaking out between movements, stealing a short rest before the next lift, when the trait kicked in. He was moving weight at about seventy percent of what the Status Window had granted him. By his old standards, that load was damn near a max-effort set. Lifting was never just about raw strength, though. You needed precise form and the right know-how — which was why, even in the middle of those squats, another trait had already been working.

"Hoo.... hup.... doing deadlifts, where the injury risk is high... I can feel the skill correction even more clearly... hoo....!"

Next up was the deadlift. He knocked out three light warmup sets, then got into the working weight. Deadlift. The name said it all. It was a genuinely hard lift, one that demanded real technical skill — and "technically demanding" was another way of saying the injury risk ran high. The reason it still sat among the Big Three, risk and all, was that the results were absolutely filthy. Precisely because it was dangerous and technically hungry, Lifting Technique Mastery was shining. For a guy who lived to pump iron, it was the sweetest trait imaginable.

The truth was, the Status Window had never told him to earn Training Points by lifting. Deciding that iron was the way had been pure gut. Awakened abilities seemed to reflect a large part of an Awakener's own disposition, so he'd figured that training he already knew — training he actually liked — would yield points more smoothly. And that call looked like it had been dead right.

"It's delicious... so fucking delicious... the trait's correcting my form and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my breathing for real. Deadlifts in that state... haaah... so fucking delicious..."

A smile rose on its own. This was, without question, a zombie apocalypse. He was training to survive. And even so, the gym-rat instinct writhed in him without a shred of shame. He could not stop the corners of his mouth from creeping up at that chewy, concentrated training effect.

"Fuck... this is some goddamn sex..."

This was sex. This was what sex was. This was how he had lasted twenty-four years without it. The happy time that had driven him into the grave had been the engine of those twenty-four years of sleeping alone — but the sex he got from pumping iron was a pleasure every bit as tremendous.

He was still riding that pleasure through about four sets of twelve deadlifts when the Status Window slipped him another sweet little alert and handed over the points.

"Whoa... the sense of achievement on this is unreal. You grind a brutal session and the results drop in immediately, and it just floods you with pride, this huge rush... haaaang! hnnn...!"

In his experience, people who loved pumping iron tended to share a similar streak. They were drawn to something you could do steadily — to the achievement you could actually feel through that consistency — and that was what pulled them under. Plenty of them started because they wanted to get healthier, or because they wanted to fix a disc. What turned them into gym rats in the end was falling into the gravity well of that achievement high. He was no different. He liked putting in honest work and getting a reward that fit. So when a reward this concrete landed after a session of stubborn iron, a far bigger orgasm than usual came rolling through him.

"I dumped four points into Power, so... I could probably throw on a heavier weighted vest than before and hang a barbell off my legs for pull-ups, right?"

One point left. The lift he picked to claim it was the weighted pull-up. Chin-ups, basically. He used to do his warmup sets and then throw on a weighted vest — but that was before he'd poured four points into Power. Even at F-Rank, his lifting power had already jumped in a way you could see. On top of that, he had stacked enough points to be knocking on E-Rank. He could feel it in real time: Power had improved, visibly, from the start of the session. The weight was stacking at a ridiculous speed. The vest he always wore wasn't going to cut it. He was going to need something heavier.

This was a training room inside a bunker built to ride out the apocalypse. Even so, as a gym rat, he had built it properly. The weighted vests alone came in a wide, lovingly stocked range.

"Let's hang a barbell from my ankles too."

The vest by itself wasn't going to be enough. He was going to attempt pull-ups with a barbell strapped to his ankles as well.

"Strict form... that's my style... drive it up with the lats... chest to the bar, chin clearly over... that's my pull-up... hoo....!"

He was not the type to police other people's lifting. If a method carried a real injury risk, he would offer a polite suggestion. Outside of that, he filed it under their personality, their style. Training was partly about health, sure — but wasn't the point also self-satisfaction? Enjoyment? Pull-ups were the poster child of that whole argument. You had to do them strict. No, kipping still did something. The debate never died. He was a strict-form guy. That did not mean he was going to dunk on the kipping crowd. He respected a kipping pull-up too.

"Whoa.... hup! Strict form still works even with this setup...! hnnn!! That's filthy...! My Status Window is insane...! Milking this thing feels so fucking good... hah!"

His strength had gone up enormously. He was wearing a vest far heavier than before, a barbell hanging off his ankles, and he was still knocking out pull-ups without the slightest strain. Lifting Technique Mastery did not just correct your technique when you produced force. It also tuned the sense of whether you could actually handle the weight.

"Wow, fuck, SEX! hyaaaang! Sex! This is what sex is! hyaahnnnn!!!"

Five sets of fifteen, all strict. He finished, and the iron orgasm burst out of him. The shout he tore out of his throat was close to a moan. It was not the ejaculatory sensation you got through the prostate. It was the high of adrenaline detonating through the entire body. But the feeling itself — the look on his face in that last second — was soaked through with that explosive, prostate-bursting quality of coming.

Whether the Status Window had properly felt that passionate Training Point milking or not, it offered up the last point without a fuss.

"Augh, sex! That was perfect sex!! That was the best!!! Augh!!! Hoo!! Hyaaaaang!!!!"

The best training. The best reward. Kim Taeshik shuddered through the session he had just put on, wringing every last drop of achievement out of the iron.

"That's really something. You actually went and had sex, huh. Our Taeshik just had himself some sex."

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.

A quiet round of applause, and a woman's even, deadpan voice. Yeon Dohui — freshly out of the bath, in a sleek pair of dolphin shorts and a crop top — stood there admiring his passionate iron-sex.

Ghk! Yeon Dohui. Right. Dohui was here!

She was watching him from the training room doorway in a crop top and hot pants. He had gotten so drunk on that overwhelming training high that he had forgotten she existed, and gone feral the way he always did, bellowing the word sex at the top of his lungs.

Huh...?

Tonight... put in work...?

At her words — a throb. Strength gathered in his lower half all over again.

"...........whoa..."

And once more, Dohui's gaze drifted down.