The next morning, Max’s body came to collect on his boldness.
Every muscle fiber, from his calves to his shoulders, felt as if it had been stretched and hammered overnight.
As he tried to get out of bed, an involuntary groan escaped his lips; it was a dull, stabbing pain, yet strangely satisfying.
To Max, it wasn’t mere fatigue; it was the sound of the old foundations of his past life being demolished to make room for a stronger structure.
Each pang was proof that, finally, he was inhabiting his own reality rather than just sliding through it using mental tricks.
Ignoring the violent protest of his nerves, he forced himself to get dressed and walk toward the sports complex.
The journey was slow, but his [Player Mind] kept the discomfort in a separate compartment, allowing him to observe his own suffering with an almost clinical coldness.
Upon entering the gym, the scent of magnesium and the metallic echo of weight plates greeted him once more.
He located Laura Soler immediately in the free weights area.
If she had seemed energetic yesterday, today she struck him as a force of nature.
She was mid-set on squats with a weight that would make most of the men in the room pale.
She moved with a hypnotic cadence—a harmony of power and control that seemed to defy the laws of gravity.
For her, effort was not a struggle, but an expression of absolute mastery over her own biology.
Max stood at a respectful distance, staying out of her line of sight so as not to break her concentration.
In his past life, he would have felt envy or bitterness at such a display of capability.
Now, he observed her with the eye of a strategist who recognizes excellence.
He waited patiently for her to finish.
When Laura finally returned the bar to the rack with a dry, controlled thud, Max approached.
He didn’t do so with the upright posture and icy gaze he used to disarm rivals like Leo or to impress the Investors Circle.
This time, he let his physical vulnerability be visible.
His humility wasn’t a persuasion tactic, but a sincere acknowledgment that, in this temple of iron, he was the weakest link and she was the ultimate authority.
“Laura, excuse me,” he began.
“You helped me a lot yesterday.
I was wondering…
if it’s not too much trouble, if you could guide me a bit.
I don’t know where to start, and I don’t want to injure myself.”
Laura wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, sizing him up.
Accustomed to guys approaching her with ulterior motives, Max’s frankness was refreshing, to the point that an amused smile lit up her face.
“Hmm, a client,” she teased.
“Alright, ‘rookie.’ But I’m warning you, my workouts are no game.
If I tell you to do ten reps, you do ten reps.”
While she spoke, Max used [Player Gaze].
[Laura Soler]
Level 4: Elite Athlete
Title: The San Javier Bullet
Status: Energetic.
Amused by the situation.
Surface Thought: The kid seems motivated.
Let’s see how serious he is about this.
The first real training session began under a harsh light that highlighted every one of Max’s weaknesses.
Laura wasn’t a cheerleader; she was a surgeon of movement.
Her method was a blend of technical precision and relentless demand.
She guided him through a full-body routine, using her hands to correct the alignment of his spine or the rotation of his shoulders with firm, professional touches that brooked no argument. Visit novelping . com for the full chapter.
Every rep was agony.
Lactic acid burned through his muscle fibers like molten lead, and his lungs constricted in a desperate effort to catch air.
Under any other circumstances, the pain would have been a signal to stop, but Max activated [Player Mind].
In his mind, the suffering became external data—a notification he could ignore.
His face remained impassive, his eyes fixed on a point on the wall while his body trembled on the verge of collapse.
Laura watched him with growing curiosity; she had seen hundreds of men try to impress her, but never one who accepted the torture with such icy calm.
That silent determination began to carve a groove of respect into the athlete’s perception.
The next day, the ritual repeated itself.
The dull morning ache transformed into a sharp fire under Laura’s tutelage, but Max already perceived a change.
It wasn’t just the System’s help; it was a fundamental reconnection with his own biology.
He could feel his muscles responding—a subtle harmony between his will and his flesh that hadn’t existed 48 hours earlier.
During a brief break, while Max tried to normalize his heart rate, Laura leaned against a weight machine, evaluating him with narrowed eyes.
“Why the sudden interest in all this?” Laura asked.
Max took a sip of water, his breath still ragged.
He gave her an answer that was a half-truth, but in this new world, it was his most profound doctrine.
“I realized that to succeed in what I want, I need to have discipline in every aspect of my life, not just academics.”
The answer, laden with a maturity unusual for a young man his age, seemed to resonate with her.
In the world of the elite athlete, discipline was the only currency with real value.
Laura gave him a smile of genuine approval, a spark of camaraderie igniting between them before she shouted, “Break’s over!
Let’s go!”
When the gym “torture” finally ended, the transition was drastic, almost cinematic.
Max returned to his room feeling the comforting weight of fatigue.
He immersed himself in a scalding shower; the steam seemed to dissolve not only the sweat and exhaustion but the last remnants of his former weakness.
Stepping out, he dressed in one of the bespoke shirts Victoria had helped him choose.
The high-quality fabric brushed against his now-sensitive skin, and as he buttoned up in front of the mirror, he noticed his posture had changed.
The training hadn’t given him massive muscles yet, but it had granted him a physical presence—an anchoring.
He adjusted his collar and looked himself in the eye.
Physical pain had acted as a whetstone for his intellect.
He felt centered, dangerous, and absolutely ready.
The “Oracle” no longer inhabited a body that would betray him; now, mind and form were beginning to work in lethal synchrony.
The strategic battle awaited him, and for the first time, he felt strong enough to carry his own destiny.
At exactly 4 PM, sunlight filtered obliquely through the library’s large windows, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the thick, silent air.
Isa was already there, seated at the same oak table, surrounded by a fortress of econometry books.
Her posture was one of architectural rectitude—impeccable and distant.
The air between them was charged not just with expectation, but with an almost electric intellectual tension.
Max sat down across from her.
For the first time, he didn’t feel like an intruder, but an equal.
He presented his proposal with icy clarity, every word measured to leave no room for doubt.
“I’m proposing a provisional three-month partnership.
During that time, I will provide you with analysis and predictions.
I won’t ask you to understand my ‘method,’ only to judge the results.
At the end of the three months, if the profits and the accuracy of my predictions haven’t outweighed your need to know my secret, we shake hands and go our separate ways.
Isa listened without blinking.
To her, this was more than a business offer; it was a scientific experiment with defined parameters.
However, her analytical nature did not yield easily.
“It’s an interesting proposal,” she admitted, her voice as calm as his.
“But it still doesn’t resolve the fundamental problem of trust.
How can I partner with a ‘black box’?”
It was the moment.
The question that had haunted him.
Max looked her directly in the eyes, his concentration absolute.
System, activate [Conceptual Black Box] on Isa Lovelace.
Concept to designate: ‘My Analysis Method’.
He felt a subtle drain of energy, the cost of activating such a complex skill.
While the System worked, he began his verbal counterattack, his voice imbued with the persuasion of [Persuasive Voice].
“I’m not asking you to trust a black box, Isa.
I’m asking you to trust yourself.
Trust your ability to evaluate data, to verify results, to know when an investment is profitable.
My method is irrelevant.
The only thing that matters is whether the numbers I give you are correct or not.” He leaned forward slightly.
“Think of my method as a mathematical axiom: you don’t need to prove its origin, just use it to solve the problem.
Or are you going to tell me your curiosity is stronger than your desire for results?”
Isa frowned, her mental gears turning at full speed.
Max saw an almost imperceptible shift in her expression.
The inquisitive sharpness in her eyes seemed to…
soften, replaced by a pragmatic resignation.
Her mind, subtly influenced by the skill, had begun to categorize “Max’s method” as an impenetrable variable—a problem too abstract to solve at the moment.
The most logical and efficient route was to focus on verifiable results.
She exhaled slowly, a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of her own curiosity away with it.
“Three months,” she finally said, her voice firm.
“And every prediction will be subjected to rigorous scrutiny.
At the first significant failure, the deal is off.”
“It’s a deal,” Max replied, extending his hand across the table.
Isa shook it.
Her grip was strong, decisive, purely professional.
The instant their skin touched, a silent ding, for his ears only, confirmed the success of his maneuver.
[Principal Partner condition met!]
[Isabel Lovelace has been added to your Pack.]
[Current Pack Members: 1]
[Skill [Pack Leadership Lv.
1] now active.]
They pulled apart, the pact sealed.
Max felt a new connection with her—not emotional, but systemic, as if an invisible thread now linked them on his status panel.
He had just forged one of the most important alliances of his new life.
But as he walked away from the library, an inevitable question settled in his mind: How long would the fragile construct of his “Black Box” hold up under the implacable scrutiny of the university’s greatest genius?
The three-month countdown had begun.