August's Street Trees (3)
Strength, muscular endurance, and cardiopulmonary endurance formed the foundational elements of individual combat sustainability. And when it came to daily habits for honing those three, nothing beat running. It was one of the most practical skills in real combat, after all.
Water. I endured excruciating thirst as I ran along the mountain path dyed deep indigo by the dawn. A weighted vest, a heavy backpack, a gas mask strapped to my face—I pushed through 6 kilometers of winding terrain in intervals. To temper the body while running the body reinforcement incantation, it had to bear that much load. Sprinting full-tilt up a slope over a hundred meters long spiked my heart rate to its max in an instant.
I need water. Anyone who's run seriously knows. How fast can I go, and for how long? How much pain and exhaustion can I endure? Unless you keep shattering those thresholds over and over, you can't tap 100% of your physical potential. You end up quitting and collapsing before you even reach your limit.
My head's burning like hell.
...So my practical runs had to push me to my maximum threshold with the reinforcement incantation active. They had to wring my mind dry with agony. And amid it all, I had to verify if I could still construct combat incantations. All of this contributed to my ultimate survival.
"My god..."
Reaching the mineral spring near the summit—my destination—a middle-aged woman with a camera stared at me in shock. Ignoring her, I clutched the stone wall and ripped off the gas mask like it was trying to kill me. My ragged breaths sounded like a tuberculosis patient on death's door.
"What kinda workout leaves you like that? You okay, kid?"
I nodded vaguely and dumped a ladle of the pooled spring water over my head. Then I scooped another and gulped it down desperately. Even at sunrise, summer was summer. My boiling brain finally started to cool. It felt like I'd crossed a fiery hellscape and barely escaped back to the normal world. A truly illusory relief.
Hoo— Exhausted, I slumped onto the stone wall by the spring. The damp rock transmitted a gritty chill to my palms propping me up. A bit sticky, too. The woman who'd been fretting over me now eyed my pants.
"Berry juice stains don't come out easy."
"...That's fine."
August and berries. Words that shouldn't mix by season, but here they did. The area around the spring was black and white with them, thanks to the massive king cherry tree rooted nearby. A cherry tree blooming and dropping fruit nonstop in this sweltering heat.
"Here for the flowers?"
She smiled at my question. "Heard there's a cherry tree here that never wilts. Came early to beat the crowds."
"Happening a lot these days, huh?"
"Yeah... News talks environment hormones, global warming, cosmic radiation—all that complicated stuff. Dunno about it, but it sure looks nice."
With abnormal tree growth and mutations surging worldwide, academia was in crisis mode, churning out hypotheses. Global warming didn't explain mutations; cosmic radiation got debunked by declining solar sunspot activity. The leading theory now: environmental pollution. Endocrine disruptors—or similar contaminants—affecting animals and plants alike. It even tied into the spike in cancer rates.
Japan was catching heat again. Independent scholars and activists blamed Fukushima's radioactive water release; the government countered that no link existed to recent anomalies.
'Fukushima power'—that was some hilarious internet shit Kyung-tae quoted. Olympics records shattering left and right? Blame radiation. If true, Japan should've dominated every event after everyone "supported" by eating their food.
"Not scared?"
She hummed, gazing at the flowers. "Heard to be careful just in case, but what're the odds? Everyone's fine. Fenced off and all."
The "just in case" meant pollutants. Based on the top pollution hypothesis, authorities warned against approaching mutated or overgrown trees. Assumed those spots were heavily contaminated. Close to the truth, at least. But people who'd picnicked, attended church, grinded in clubs during pandemics? They brushed off cancer warnings too. Cancer was cancer; flowers were flowers. Exhibit A: the oblivious woman before me.
Now she eyed my discarded gas mask. "Masks are out these days, but you wear that? Not uncomfortable?"
Subtle weirdo vibe. Even at peak pandemic, gas masks were rare. But this was for training. Old riot squads used masked runs to build lung power. I picked it up, brushed off dirt, and replied indifferently.
"Uncomfortable, yeah. But I'm a scared guy."
Scared enough I couldn't sleep easy till London burned. My truth made her burst out laughing.
"Funny guy. Body like yours, scared of what? TB only kills old folks like me."
Hearing "kid" at my age felt weird. My body—refuge built by that mentor bastard—was a mess of deviations.
"Oh?"
She tapped under her nose, then jolted. "Sudden nosebleed?"
That crimson was a dark prophecy for her near future. I asked quietly.
"Anyone in your family work around here?"
The area crawled with org businesses. My question probed if she was kin to an associate. But she was busy plugging her nose with tissue.
"Nah. Live here, work elsewhere."
"I see."
No obligation to help, then. I stood to leave with dry farewell.
"Gonna head out. Get lotsa good shots."
A greeting—and advice. Short life ahead; more photos, less regrets. My meddling ended there.
Descending, Kyung-tae approached from off the path.
"Turned out for the best."
"How so?"
"Dead bodies give grounds to close the mountain, right?"
He'd spotted the red omen too. I nodded half-heartedly.
"We'll see."
This mountain was org property. Yet wards and city bulldozed trails, signs, stairs—trampling rights. Fence it? Urban Parks and Greenspace Act violation—endless admin harassment.
Why'd I put HQ with the mountain at our back?
Not feng shui bullshit. Escape routes for crises. Lawsuits against enviro authorities? Time sinks; even wins meant whiny locals flooding complaints over lost "freebies."
Org had dealt with similar before. Attracting state eyes wasn't productive. But now? Maybe worth bribes to enforce rights. My crew needed bigger, stealthier training grounds with easy access. One hidden foothill wasn't cutting it.
"Stragglers?"
Kyung-tae grinned. "None."
Sure enough, guys trickled in from steep woods. No point making 'em match my run—they'd drop. Tactical mobility and terrain familiarization: cross-mountain paths. All had open circuits, basic mana resistance.
Back at HQ, 2-on-1 irregular sparring with Kyung-tae and security. Boxing useless in ability-crush fights, but our "sparring" ditched pure rules. No leg locks; everything else fair in brawls. Adapted to enhanced vision/reaction times. Legs next, once comfy.
Whoosh— Punch glances headgear. I close in, uppercut chin. Thwack—solid block, cross-arm defense. Confirm, drop torso, side-step. Rear blow whistles overhead. Ignore back-grabber, diagonal rush at Kyung-tae, jab ribs.
"Urk!"
Blast rattles eardrums. Brute force cracks ribs through gear. Cost me a straight to the back. Hit spine, echoes chest, climbs throat.
Screech— Soles skid. Stomp reset wobble, twist torso, elbow. Gear deflects left straight barrage. Counter to face as he folds inward. Another boom. Glove spring + reinforced muscle = deafening rings per hit.
"Raaah—!"
No breather—Kyung-tae full tackle. Shoulder to gut pure kinetic; arms lock waist. Diaphragm shock steals breath. Shift stance, brace—too late, tipping. Power can't bridge weight gap; airborne, I grit teeth, twist hard. Flip attempt: 70% success. No full reverse, but double overheads to his head frees me. Straight into close-range flurry from the other.
Pop-pop-pop-boom—body blows climb ribs to collar. Big punch feint draws dodge; precise opposite step gaps us. My feet too quick now.
Thirty more minutes: sweat/heat vapor cancels AC. All reinforced, multiple rings—inevitable. I step down; Soo-yeon, enduring 30 on another, quits too—drowned-rat exhausted.
Even beat, I scanned my crew. No more tweaks needed now. Daily drain, no circuit ruptures or mana leaks. Good—my base designs, personalized optimizations paying off.
"Good work, hyungnim."
"Yeah..."
I chugged Soo-yeon's drink, mopped sweat. Kyung-tae, sprawled on stairs, grinned hype.
"Man—earlier was nuts. Airborne, pure core torque pins me? Our weight class gap... Overwhelming power nullifies everything. Felt that."
"Getting pinned's what to reflect on."
"C'mon, hyungnim... How perfect in 2v1?"
"Draw the line at 'can't,' stay there forever."
"True, but..."
"Go shower. Time to eat."
"Yessir."
Only thoughts: shower, chow. Starving like death.