Chapter 48
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 48
Chapter Title: Very Nice Indeed
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The selected cadets stared down at the two pieces of chicken breast, half an apple, and boiled egg whites laid out before them, shooting me looks that screamed, No way we're only eating this, right?
I met their wistful gazes with unwavering resolve.
"From today until the competition, this is all you're eating. Break the rule, and you'll pack your bags and leave the academy on the spot."
"……."
"……."
By the time they'd come this far, quitting was no longer an option.
I ramped up the weights gradually, careful not to injure them, and customized the workout volume to suit each one's build and balance.
In a sweltering room without AC, as sweat poured off them, I had them sip lightly salted water nonstop to replenish fluids and electrolytes.
Couldn't have them collapsing from dehydration, after all.
The training hall rang with the constant whir of jumping ropes, shouts echoing as weights clanged, and grunts from loft training—nonstop chaos.
The fire there burned from dawn till dusk without end, and more often than not, they'd crawl out on all fours when it was time to leave.
In their body overhaul plan, reflexes and ki sense training ranked right up there with raw strength work.
I led them to a custom training area I'd rigged up for just that.
Several ropes dangled from the ceiling, each ending in gourds brimming with water.
They eyed the setup curiously. What's all this?
"This'll sharpen your ki sense."
"Isn't wall meditation the gold standard for that?"
"Never seen training like this before."
Gourd dodging.
This was my brainchild, born from days of trial and error.
Inspired by a hilarious YouTube clip of foreigners blindfolded and dodging 2-liter water bottles swinging from ropes.
Fine-tuned right, it'd be killer for building ki sense.
Plus, there was another perk.
"Eek! It's cold!"
"Hahahahaha!"
"Hee hee hee hee."
"Kiki kik."
"Ow, my gut!"
"Look at that fool! Kekeke!"
Miss a gourd, and it smacks your head, bursting open to drench you.
The onlookers doubled over, clutching their sides.
In an era short on entertainment, this was prime comedy gold.
Amid the endless tension, they needed moments like this to unwind.
But we weren't here to goof off, so I laid down the law.
"Funny, is it?"
"……."
"Ahem!"
"Hrmph!"
They snapped back to serious mode and dove in.
Most couldn't dodge a single one properly.
Yang Cho-gun alone seemed to gauge their positions.
For my demo, I gave five gourds a shove in every direction.
They swung wildly, crisscrossing like pendulums gone mad.
The watchers gawked, half in doubt.
I blindfolded myself, stepped into the chaos, and slipped through like a ghost—dodging every one.
As if I could see them clear as day.
"Whoa!"
"Is that even possible?"
Jaws hit the floor.
Dodging five erratic swings blind was tough even with eyes wide open.
They came at you from front, back, sides—no blind spots.
No eyes in the back of your head? Godlike stuff.
After weaving for a bit, I grabbed each gourd, stopped them, and pulled off the blindfold.
"How about that? Good view?"
"Heh heh heh."
"Unbelievable."
Sima Ryang let out a hollow chuckle.
Pyo Gi-myeong inspected my blindfold top to bottom, hunting for peepholes.
Found none, he conceded in genuine awe.
"You're something else."
"Can't get rattled by this much. You need at least this level to hang with them. Clear?"
"……."
"……."
The faces that had been laughing moments ago drained of color.
"No worries. Two months, and you'll dodge three with ease."
"For real? Possible?"
I nodded.
"Of course."
But I kept quiet about the next phase: wooden blocks.
Then heads would really crack.
Next up: reflex sharpening.
Simple setup.
Pairs face off, hands extended—one grips a small ball, the other rests their hand atop. Ball holder drops it without warning; catcher snatches it mid-fall.
Easy on paper, but unbeatable for reflexes.
Just the opener, though.
Balls drop at different speeds by weight—go heavier, difficulty spikes.
One hand to two? Harder.
Off-beat drops? Even tougher.
They alternated roles.
Miss and hit the floor? Penalty: flick to the forehead.
Snap!
"Ow, shit?"
"Told you to catch it."
"Yeah? Your turn now."
Foreheads flushed beet red as they hammered away.
Next drill: still pairs.
One draws a line about 10 cheok (3 meters) long, stands dead center.
Partner lobs balls wildly left and right into the zone.
Center guy plays goalie, snags 'em, fires back—endless loop.
Looks like kids' play, but unpredictable angles demand laser focus.
Faster throws crank the heat; two balls doubles it; three turns it manic.
I even whipped up tab balls for them.
Headband with a ball on a string—punch it nonstop to keep it floating.
Standard intro drill in modern fight gyms—huge boost to combat reflexes.
Another game-like one: tray of copper coins tossed skyward, snatch with fists.
Top earner scored a sweet 1 sijin (two-hour) break—eyes lit up, blood in the water.
Fun, rivalry, no boredom—just pure immersion. I tailored it that way.
Day by day, their ki sense and reflexes visibly sharpened.
The training grounds buzzed nonstop.
Not a single one sat out—they all craved my regimen.
Too many bodies, not enough gear, so bodyweight drills filled the gaps.
Exhibit A: wall walks.
Handstand basics, really.
Back to wall in plank, shove legs up with arms.
Massive load crushes the upper body.
Ten reps to start; master it, then handstand pushups.
Shoulders and arms bear full bodyweight—shoulder press on steroids.
No cakewalk, those.
These guys were battle-hardened martial artists; civilians would've tapped out.
Tamer variant: pike pushups.
Prone, drag legs forward max, pike shape—ass sky-high, push.
Angle shifts load to shoulders, press-level burn.
Pyo Gi-myeong nailed pikes, strutted like a peacock.
"Piece of cake. This even count as training?"
I graciously fetched a chair.
"Legs up top, then. Welcome to the new world."
"Haha... why drag this out?"
"Anything uncomfortable, just say."
"You're the uncomfortable one."
"Hahaha. Then scram."
"Cold as ice, you are..."
He griped but hoisted his legs up.
"Set?"
I said it with all sincerity.
"Very nice indeed."
A brutal schedule, sleep the only reprieve.
Under the grind, their bodies morphed at warp speed.
Three squares a day: chicken breast only, just like me.
No point explaining osmosis or science to the salt whiners.
Muscles are mostly water.
Too much salt? Body craves fluid to balance, cells leak water into blood—bloat city.
Bulked mass turns puffy; cutting to sharp definition? Tough sledding.
Sodium tweak sharpens the chisel.
Zero salt's no good, though—essential stuff.
Ditch it entirely, health tanks, muscle growth stalls.
So I rationed it: fixed daily dose dissolved in their water.