It had been a few days since my first real Dungeon dive—and with my stats stubbornly stuck at I0, I was more determined than ever to claw my way forward by sheer grind. Each morning, I woke up before the sun, wrestling free from the warm death grip of a sleeping Hestia—the hardest task of the day—pulled on my newly bought shoes (part of the two sets of cheap clothing I'd bought to blend in better), and headed out into the ruins surrounding our church.
The area was practically abandoned, spanning an entire block and then some, without another soul in sight. That meant no one to disturb and no one to witness my possibly pitiful attempts at training. A perfect place for my training grounds.
Now, even before getting yeeted into this world, I knew my stamina was trash. But that first dungeon run? That cemented it in my head. I was now painfully aware of how much my body sucked in terms of physical capabilities.
Years of sedentary modern life—lounging on the couch, endlessly scrolling through Reddit and YouTube—had eroded whatever athleticism I might have had as a child. My stamina had packed its bags long ago and wandered off in search of chips and soda.
So, with no magic trick or training manual to guide me, I decided to start with the basics: build up my stamina. And the method I settled on was simple—sprint. All-out, full-speed sprints. For as long as I could manage. Until my lungs felt like they were on fire, and my breath came in gasps loud enough to echo off the old stones surrounding me.
I didn't push myself to the point of coughing up blood—I wasn't that hardcore—but I made damn sure I couldn't stand when I finished. And then, I forced myself to stand anyway. Wobbly legs, screaming muscles, the works. All because I vaguely remembered some fitness article online saying it was better to stay upright after a run. Or maybe it was from some anime or show. I honestly didn't remember, but the thought was stuck in my head, and I was following that.
The first morning I tried it, I couldn't even walk back to the Church without my legs wobbling like wet noodles and face planting half a dozen times. They ached the entire day, and the next. And the next. Going to work was an uphill battle, and of course, both Miach and Naaza had noticed instantly. I had to reassure them—or rather, reassure Miach—that I was fine and this was just the result of a new workout routine I'd started.
Miach, kind soul that he was, brewed up a potion to help relieve muscle pain—one he promised wouldn't interfere with my muscle growth, as middling as it might have been for that single day of exercise. That was the day I learned that potions could speed up recovery and make training a bit more bearable. That's probably why I was able to hide the pain better the following days, even if it still hurt. I had a feeling that they both knew the truth anyway, especially Naaza.
Alas, there was one tiny little catch in me exploiting potions in my daily grind: the potions weren't free. And I wasn't about to take advantage of Miach's kindness just to save myself some soreness. A quick calculation showed that if I bought even one of those potions per day, I'd be running a deficit on my already meager income.
So, with a long, defeated sigh, I accepted the obvious answer—I was going to have to do this the hard way. At least, until I could start diving into the Dungeon more regularly and earning enough to afford small comforts like pain relief. Until that day, pain and I were going to have to become close friends.
On a related note, work at the Pharmacy was going decently. It gave my legs a chance to rest since I could do most of it sitting down, and it gave me a chance to learn more about potion making. I was slowly picking up the basics, easing into the rhythm of the job. And the novel experience about this magical phenomenon was slowly settling. Not quite fully settled just yet, but it wasn't a completely mind-bending and impossible phenomenon anymore. Only mostly so.
Potions still intrigued me, though the initial wonder had dulled somewhat. Potion-making as a whole felt more like working with old-world medicinal herbs and alchemy (chemistry's predecessor) than anything out of a magical RPG. I'd spent more time grinding ingredients with a mortar and pestle than I had stirring cauldrons or mixing glowing liquids in glass vials. The flashy stuff was still mostly off-limits, by the orders of Naaza, until I'd "become proficient in the basics." Her exact words.
I wasn't offended by that though. I knew better than to expect instant results in a completely new skill, and one with magic and proto chemistry involved. Potion-making had a learning curve, magic or not. And I was still very much a novice with embarrassingly little knowledge in the field.
Still, it was... kind of nice. A new skill to work toward. Something both new and unique to keep my hands busy, and yet, something that also helped me stay grounded by how unexpectedly mundane the activity felt. And most importantly, perhaps, something that earned me enough money to survive while I couldn't rely on adventuring inside the dungeon.
Spending my days with Naaza had also become a surprisingly welcome part of the routine. Her sleepy tone and deadpan delivery made it hard to tell if she was ever actually happy or annoyed.
I had… admittedly, developed a bit of a questionable habit during our time together. That was, watching her tail swish or her ears twitch whenever she moved around the shop. I always tried to be discreet, of course, but the temptation was real to just stare at her tails and ears. They looked so soft. So… fluffy.
I wanted to pet them.
But I wasn't an idiot. And suicidal.
Touching them without permission would probably result in my early entry into grave, courtesy of a sleepy-eyed Level 3 ex-adventurer who could still kick my ass without breaking a sweat. Despite how normal and unassuming she may look, she was much, much stronger than I was.
After work at the Pharmacy, I'd make my way back to the Church, daily earnings in hand.
I usually had some time to myself before Hestia came back from her job. Hers started later in the day and ended later too. But somehow, even with nearly identical hours, she ended up earning more than I did—just from selling Jagamaru-kuns.
Credit where it's due, Hestia was a great saleswoman.
…Or maybe—and this was the more likely answer—people, specifically men, bought Jagamaru-kuns because she was the one selling them.
She'd once casually mentioned how most of her customers were men. It didn't take me long at all to connect the dots. It wasn't the snack they were interested in—it was the person selling it.
It irked me. Just a little.
Okay, maybe more than a little.
Still, I kept that thought to myself. No use brooding over something I couldn't control. It's not like they could do anything except stare at her.
…Nope. That thought still bothered me.
Nobody should be ogling my Goddess, damnit!
Ahem, anyway, with a few hours to myself and nothing better to do, I figured I'd try something a little silly—but maybe worth the effort.
I would sit down, close my eyes, and try to recall my earlier fights with the goblins. The details were already a little fuzzy—blurs of green, flashing claws, and adrenaline-soaked panic—but I focused on it anyway. Tried to pick apart their movements, their habits. Any patterns even assumed ones.
There were a few I could think of, though it was hard to tell how useful they'd be since I was mostly relying on my unreliable memories. I hadn't even fought a dozen of them, and most of those encounters had been frantic messes where I barely came out on top. Still, I stuck with it. Tried to picture ways to counter their attacks. Visualize better positioning. Cleaner footwork. Smarter strikes. Then, I would get outside in a clearing close to the church and try to practise those moves. Get my body familiar with dodging and counters.
Was it working?
Hell if I knew.
But something about the process felt... a step in the right direction. I mean, I was doing something instead of nothing. That counted, right?
Basic swings. Blocks. Even some shoddy, half thought out, half made up Footwork.
I wasn't Goku. I wasn't some shonen hero unlocking power through sheer will and dramatic camera angles in a training montage. But I was someone who wanted to get better. So, I trained—not because it made a huge difference in the moment, but because it felt like the right thing to do. Or so I told myself. Doing something, better than doing nothing.
When my arms eventually got tired and my grip started to falter, I didn't stop. Not immediately. I'd push a little further, then finally let myself rest.
And when my thoughts began to drift and focus slipped away, I'd head off again—back to sprinting around the block, using the fallen down debris as a sort of obstacle course to do elementary parkour. More stamina. More endurance. More pain. More. Just… a little more.
Maybe it wasn't the most optimized training method–no, it definitely wasn't. But I figured if I just kept at it—day after day—eventually, it would add up.
Eventually.
After all, didn't my skill feed on my suffering and torment? I was hurting and suffering from training. And so, it counted.
And I knew it did because the vague container inside me would fill up just a little bit more every time I pushed myself.
If there ever was a great motivator to put my 110% into something like training, it was seeing that container fill up from my hard work and training-induced suffering.
It kept me on track, made me push myself even when my body and mind refused to or wanted to do anything else. Like lie down and rest.
Seeing that container slowly fill up each day, it motivated me like nothing else ever could. Even more so than the knowledge of my mortality in this world, in this dungeon town, where superpowered beings, gods and monsters lived.
I didn't know what would happen when the container filled up completely.
Would I get a stat boost? A new ability? Pass out and wake up inexplicably stronger with no explanation? Become Saitama, the One Punch Man?
I had no clue whatsoever.
But I didn't care about that now. That container was slowly filling.
And it was proof enough. Proof that something deep inside me acknowledged the effort I was putting in. That the Essence of the Struggler was watching. Recording. Weighing every moment I chose the hard path instead of the easy way and rewarded me for my struggles with those tiny droplets that collected in that imaginary container.
I'd thought it was something that had a malicious intone to it. But after my new daily routine, I began to see it in a slightly different light.
It felt like a contract. A brutal, silent one. No guidance, no system alerts, no skill pop-ups or cheery pings about level-ups and upgrades. Just pain and perseverance measured out in invisible drops. A quiet but clear appreciation for my efforts in this world. And a reward waiting for me at the finish line.
And I'd be damned if I let that meter stop moving, I had decided.
I had taken it as a personal challenge to fill up that meter as fast as possible— without risking my life or well-being, of course. Even the thought of doing something dumb like going alone in the dungeon to fight monsters with my life at stake was ruthlessly crushed the moment I'd look at Hestia's earnest and happy face every day. I lacked the plot armour Bell had. And I couldn't cause her distress from my stupid decisions born off of intrusive thoughts. So, I decided I'd stick to my simple but somewhat effective training method.
I had patience, if nothing else, and I could wait until I was able to tap into whatever potential power my skill was going to give me. Until then, I'd maintain and improve upon my new lifestyle.
-x-
At nighttime, dinner had turned into an interesting affair once both Hestia and I started working.
Now that we could actually afford basic groceries, Hestia went out and bought ingredients to put together a somewhat proper kitchen setup.
Well—proper might be stretching it. It was more archaic and bare bones than what I was used to, a few steps above cooking over an open fire and a couple steps below modern stovetops and microwaves. But I wasn't complaining. It meant we could cook our own meals and stop relying on restaurant food that costed more than if we cooked it ourselves.
There was just one teeny, tiny hiccup.
"Hey, Hestia?"
We were in the middle of arranging the day's ingredients. I passed her a small sack of salt from the small pile of groceries lying in a heap.
"Yes, Ethan?"
She chirped back, cheerfully organizing the things we'd bought from the market.
"Do you… know how to cook?"
Honestly, I didn't. Back in my world, I'd never bothered to learn. Too many takeouts, too much instant food, and exactly zero effort to give. Now, though, it was starting to feel like a valuable life skill that I'd missed out on, regrettably.
Hestia froze mid-motion. A small jar dangling from her fingers, her smile suddenly looking just a little too bright.
"O-Of course! I can cook!"
She said, puffing up slightly—which, need I remind anyone, did things to her assets. I swear, those things had a gravitational pull of their own. How else could they hijack my attention so effortlessly. Every. Damn. Time!
"I'll cook tonight! You'll see how good I am."
Her words didn't garner confidence, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt at the time. Maybe she was just nervous. It might have been a while for her. I mean, considering she was alone here, she should know basics at least. It kinda sorta made sense that a goddess of the hearth knew how to cook. Or was that a stereotype I was making?
Anyway, that night, Hestia did cook dinner for us.
That night, I nearly choked to death from the amount of salt in the vegetable stew.
I survived, somehow. But I came out of it a changed man and a few extra droplets in the metaphorical container of my first skill.
The food was… not edible… and I had still eaten it all. But only barely, to keep Hestia's heart. It took effort. Painful chewing. Willpower. And several prayers to the ROB.
I didn't say anything beyond a simple nod—which I hoped she interpreted as a nod of acceptance—not approval! Still, I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth and hurt her feelings. Not when she looked at me with those hopeful and expectant eyes. Gah, in that moment I felt like such a sucker for doing that.
But right then and there, as I tried to drink away the taste of that stew with plenty of water, I made a silent vow to myself:
I was going to learn how to cook.
Not just to save money from takeouts and restaurant food. Not just to be helpful around.
But because if I had to endure another round of Hestia's cooking, I might just not live to see Level 2.
-x-