*
**Nine days.**
The number circled in my mind like a vulture over a corpse. Nine days until the qualifiers. Nine days until I stepped into that ring—either to win, or to die.
It was strange how quickly a new life could become routine. Morning runs, controlled breathing, protein-rich breakfasts. Training at the dojo. Hours in the gym, sweat pouring as I practiced the **Extremely Basic Body Strengthening Manual**, squeezing every drop of strength from a body that wasn't even mine.
And by night?
**Casinos.**
At this point, I knew how to dress, how to blend, how to leave before drawing attention. The money kept coming—slot wins, card games, even coin tosses. My **Luck** stat was a golden goose, and I was milking it dry.
But while the cash piled up, something more dangerous kept eating away at me—**stagnation**.
My progress with the manual was painfully slow. In three more days, I barely pushed it to **7%**. At this rate, full synchronization would remain a distant dream. Even worse, the more I practiced, the more I understood: this manual wasn't designed to make you powerful—it was designed to **build a foundation**, and a slow one at that.
Foundation meant nothing when death was waiting **in nine days**.
So, I shifted focus. If strength was crawling, maybe influence could sprint.
But again, I was alone.
No insiders, no leads. Everyone around me was either a regular trainer, a fellow student, or someone completely irrelevant. I needed **leverage**. I needed someone with ties to the **tournament committee**, the **judges**, or maybe even the **bracket planners**.
Someone with access to the system I was trying to break.
So I began watching more than just training routines. I started **observing people**.
There was one guy—a slightly older student, built like a bouncer, always chatting with Coach during breaks. Not sparring much, but always hanging around.
His name was **Victor**, and according to Garen's memories, he wasn't even a participant in the tournament.
But he was connected. His uncle owned a local fight promotion company. And if I remembered correctly, one of the officials on the National Tournament Board used to work with that same company.
They also have a small group of sponsored participants in the tournament called *three lung group* signifying Thier endurance based builds and hight stamina fight, all things considered they were considered low level grunts with a gimmick of dragging figts they would lose in 5 minutes to lose in 15 minutes
**Bingo.**
The side mission said:
> *"Befriend or bribe anyone with authority who may help you win."*
I didn't have time for chess.
I needed to play **poker**.
So that evening, after a long day of training and gym work, I found Victor at a small food stall outside the center, chewing on greasy meat skewers like they were his last meal.
"Mind if I join you?" I asked casually, holding a soda can.
He looked up, raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. "Sure. You're Garen, right?"
"Yeah."
We chatted. Small talk at first. The weather, the training, the weird dude at the center who still wore crocs during sparring. Then I steered the conversation—carefully—towards the tournament.
He perked up. Said his uncle used to work with one of the current bracket setters.
Jackpot.
I didn't push. Not yet. But I ended the conversation with something subtle.
"Hey man, I owe you a drink sometime. You know, just in case you ever need a favor."
He laughed. "Sure. As long as it's not a protein shake."
We exchanged numbers.
---
That night, I didn't gamble.
Instead, I went back home and for the first time in a while, didn't train.
I just sat.
I knew this lead of Victor and his promotion company and ragtag group of fighters were not much . This was just the first step, The Fighters Expo Tommorow was the real deal . Tournament Heavyweights would be there
**I had money.**
**I had a potential lead.**
**And I had nine days.**
It wasn't much.
But it was something.
---