Chapter 30: The Weight of Strength

The warehouse was silent except for Jackim's labored breathing. He had completed the brutal endurance training, but Zhou wasn't impressed. He wasn't here to be impressed. He was here to break and rebuild Jackim into something stronger.

Jackim wiped the sweat from his brow, his arms aching from carrying the metal rod all day. His stomach was empty, his throat dry, but his mind was sharp. He had endured ridicule, exhaustion, and pain—but he was still standing.

Zhou studied him with cold eyes. "Get up."

Jackim's body screamed in protest, but he forced himself to his feet. His legs trembled beneath him, and sweat dripped from his chin.

Zhou tossed a wooden staff at him. "Show me what you've learned."

Jackim barely had time to grip the weapon before Zhou moved.

---

A blur.

Jackim barely raised the staff in time before Zhou's strike sent a shockwave through his arms.

Too fast!

Zhou didn't give him time to recover. Another strike—this time to his ribs. Jackim staggered back, gasping at the sharp pain.

"Pathetic." Zhou's voice was like a blade, cutting through Jackim's frustration. "If you collapse after one hit, how will you survive real combat?"

Jackim gritted his teeth. He had trained, endured, and pushed past his limits. And yet, he was still too weak.

Zhou swung again. This time, Jackim moved.

He barely dodged, twisting his body to avoid the full impact. His staff shot out in retaliation—not fast enough to hit Zhou, but fast enough to make him step back.

Zhou smirked. "Good."

Jackim exhaled, steadying himself. His body felt like it was falling apart, but inside—he felt something shift.

He wasn't the same person who had started this training.

And he wouldn't stop here.

---

Later that night, Jackim dragged his aching body through the streets. He had no energy left to return to his apartment, so he stopped by a small diner. The neon lights flickered above him as he stepped inside, the scent of fried food filling the air.

The moment he walked in, the atmosphere changed.

People stared.

A waiter hesitated before approaching him. "Sir, do you have a reservation?"

Jackim glanced at the half-empty diner. "No."

The waiter's eyes flicked over his worn-out clothes, sweat-stained from training. "I'm sorry, but we're full tonight."

Jackim exhaled slowly. He knew this game.

He wasn't dressed in a designer suit. He didn't reek of wealth. And because of that, they didn't want him here.

A group of young men in expensive jackets laughed at a table nearby.

"Did you see that? They turned him away without even checking."

"Probably some broke loser who thought he could get in."

"Disgusting."

Jackim clenched his fists.

Someday, these same people would bow before him.

Without another word, he turned and left.

---

By the time he reached his apartment, every muscle in his body begged for rest. He collapsed onto his bed, his vision blurring.

Then—his phone vibrated.

A message.

From an unknown number.

"You're getting too close to something you shouldn't. Walk away while you can."

Jackim's eyes narrowed.

His mind raced. He had been training, keeping a low profile, avoiding unnecessary attention. Yet someone was watching him.

He read the message again.

Then, without hesitation—he deleted it.

Whoever had sent it didn't know one thing about him.

He never walked away.