One piece: Without a system, I have to survive!

The jungle air was thick with humidity as I sat cross-legged on the ground, my body still aching from the fight.

Across from me, the mysterious warrior—my new "teacher"—leaned against a tree with a relaxed smirk.

"Before we start, you should know something," he said, his sharp eyes locked onto mine.

I swallowed, waiting.

"Training under me won't be easy. It'll be hell."

His smirk widened.

"But if you survive, you'll become stronger than you ever imagined."

A chill ran down my spine.

Survive?

I was starting to question my choices.

Lesson One: The Body is a Weapon

"First things first," he said, standing up. "Forget that club of yours."

I frowned. "Why?"

"Because right now, you're using it as a crutch."

His tone was sharp, almost mocking.

"A real fighter doesn't rely on weapons. They make their body the weapon."

He cracked his knuckles.

"So before you even think about swinging a club again, you're going to train your body to the limit."

I gulped.

Something told me this was going to suck.

Brutal Beginnings

The training started immediately.

Push-ups. Sit-ups. Squats. Running.

At first, it seemed simple.

Then he added weights.

Then he made me do them faster.

Then he increased the number.

By the time I hit my 300th squat, my legs felt like jelly.

But he didn't stop there.

"No breaks," he ordered. "Get up."

I groaned, dragging myself to my feet.

"Now dodge."

What?

Before I could react, a rock flew straight at my face.

BAM!

It hit me square in the forehead.

"OW, WHAT THE HELL?!" I yelled, clutching my head.

The bastard laughed.

"You need better reflexes," he said, tossing another rock in the air.

Then—he threw it.

I barely dodged in time.

"Good. Again."

More rocks came flying.

And that was just the first day.

Day After Day of Pain

The next few days were a nightmare.

Every morning, I was woken up by a kick to the ribs and forced to start training immediately.

Every time I collapsed, he made me start over.

Every meal I ate had to be earned.

By the end of the first week, my muscles screamed in agony.

By the second week, I could barely stand.

But by the third week—

I felt different.

Stronger. Faster. Sharper.

My punches weren't wild anymore. They had form.

My dodges weren't desperate flails. They had precision.

The pain was still there. But now—

I was learning how to endure it.

A Deadly Sparring Match

One evening, after another brutal session, my teacher stood before me with a grin.

"Alright," he said. "Time for a test."

I blinked, exhausted. "A test?"

He cracked his knuckles.

"Try to hit me."

My heart skipped a beat.

He wasn't serious, was he?

But from the glint in his eyes, I knew he was.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself.

I clenched my fists.

Then—

I attacked.