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Dragged into a battle of strength, Aaron found himself outmatched by the tiny foe. Gradually, he lost ground, overexerting himself until the oxygen in his blood thinned to nothing. His vision blurred.
Aaron opened his eyes—and found himself in a race.
When he came to, he was standing in the middle of an endless track.
Aaron: …What is this? I've… never raced before. Why am I here?
Confused, he turned to look around. No audience. No one. Only a starting line behind him, and ahead—a steep path fading into a fog of blinding white.
Then he saw it. A silhouette. In the distance, running away with impossible speed. Perfect form—shoulders low, arms swinging in flawless rhythm.
Aaron didn't know why, but his heart screamed to chase. Not to win. But because standing still felt unbearable.
He leaned forward and ran. Pushed himself. Harder. And harder. But just a few hundred meters in, his body betrayed him. His shoulders sagged, lungs burned, each step dragged like wading through quicksand. He reached forward—but the shadow remained just as far.
And then—he fell.
No sound of impact. Just the sensation of surrender. Knees met the burning track. Hands pressed into the searing ground.
Then came the noise—not from the shadow—but from either side. Stands had risen without warning.
Deafening roars echoed. But not for him.
Half the crowd erupted for the figure ahead, thunderous applause crashing like waves. The other half… turned to Aaron.
Those eyes—hollow, cold, penetrating. No words were needed. Their gaze said it all:
You're not worthy.
You thought you could change?
You're still just the same dumb thug.
The whispers began. Mosquitoes buzzing by his ears. The voices he thought he'd buried long ago.
What effort? All you know is how to fight.
Trying to run? That's cute.
Aaron clutched his ears, trembling.
Aaron: No… NO! WHY THOSE FACES?!
Each stare became a memory. Teachers who'd given up. Classmates who'd avoided him. Those looks—like cold water down his back as he walked through school halls, bruises still fresh.
Aaron: That's not me anymore… Please… Stop…
But they didn't. They didn't need to speak—their silence was crueler than words.
Aaron collapsed completely. Head down, fingers clawing into the track. Not from exhaustion—but from the unbearable exposure. Nowhere left to hide.
Then—a hand reached out. No spotlight. No grand music. Just a hand. And a voice he knew all too well.
Sacium: Come on. Time for gym.
The entire world fell silent, like it never existed. Only the hand remained. Only that voice. Aaron looked up, eyes red, body spent. But his chest still rose. His heart still beat.
Aaron: Yeah… Yeah… Let's go… But… can we walk a bit first?
The scene shifted. The two of them walked down an alley of memories.
Aaron's mother lay on the floor, her face swollen. A younger Aaron had thrown himself at the debt collectors—only to be kicked away.
Since then, he'd sworn to get stronger.
He fought. Dropped out. Worked jobs. Forced himself to be a man.
Then one day, he realized he needed a high school diploma. He returned—but the stares hadn't changed.
The same contempt came back.
So he fought again. Became "the boss." But deep down, he knew—he had nothing.
Then came Sacium's punch. Strong. Brutal.
But Sacium didn't insult him. Didn't judge. He simply reached out—and showed him how to train.
Aaron: …Since then, I've just been chasing you… without even realizing it.
The silhouette ahead stopped. Turned. It was Sacium.
Sacium: Get up, Aaron. I told you—don't let their voices decide who you are.
Aaron: But I… I'm not as strong as you…
Aaron trembled.
Sacium: So what? Everyone has their own strengths. You've got power I don't.
He reached out. Aaron took his hand.
Sacium: You've already started running. Don't stop now.
As Aaron started to run again, the old voices remained. The whispers still echoed from afar. But this time, they were just wind in his ears—heard, but powerless.
Each step didn't feel easier—but they no longer dragged with fear.
Sacium stayed behind—not left behind, but running beside him, without needing to lead.
And then, Aaron pushed one last time. Not to catch up. But to surpass something inside.
He ran past Sacium—not to prove he was stronger.
But to declare:
I'm not running for anyone else anymore.
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