I’ll be the Red Ranger

- Oliver -

Each step was a monumental effort, more arduous and torturous than the last. Oliver's right foot dragged upward, heavy and trembling with exhaustion. His left foot tried to follow but failed, slipping and scraping against the cold, metallic surface of the stairway. His weary body could no longer withstand the relentless strain, and he collapsed onto the unforgiving steps.

Even his breathing was irregular, ragged gasps and shallow pants, as if each breath were a hard-won battle against the unseen force crushing his lungs. The air tasted stale, metallic, and every inhale seared his throat.

When his legs refused to carry him any further, his fingers stretched forward instinctively, grasping for any hope of ascent. The tips of his fingers brushed against the textured ridges of the steps, pushing, clawing, dragging his body upward, inch by agonizing inch. The sound of his nails scraping against the metal was muffled by his own stifled groans; a guttural mix of pain and unyielding determination. Blood began to seep from beneath his broken nails, at first a subtle stain tinging his fingertips with a hesitant crimson. Then, more freely, tracing small, stark lines along the steps; silent witnesses to his herculean effort.

Oliver's hands trembled uncontrollably, his chipped and cracked nails bearing testament to the cruel and constant friction. Beads of sweat rolled down his face, stinging as they seeped into his skin's tiny cuts and abrasions. His eyes blinked slowly, vision blurred by exhaustion and the salty burn of perspiration. Each droplet that fell was like a warning from his body, an urgent signal that his reserves were nearly depleted.

But stopping was not an option. His body protested vehemently, muscles ablaze with lactic acid, yet he pressed onward. His chin scraped against the steel with each forward lurch, the skin raw and inflamed. Every fiber of his being screamed for respite, but still, his hand reached out once more. The next step loomed ahead, indifferent to his suffering, a silent challenge.

For many, this ordeal would be akin to a personal hell, a ceaseless slog where time stretched interminably, and pain infused every cell like a corrosive poison, searing through muscles, gnawing at bones, and fraying nerves to the brink of collapse. Until there was nothing left within Oliver's mind but a singular, relentless command: "One more step."

"You're late," Dante's cold voice reverberated through the stark stairwell, his words laced with a hint of cruel satisfaction. "We'll have to increase your punishment. Perhaps instead of increasing the gravity by seven percent per floor, we'll make it eight or nine. Maybe that's the right number? We'll find out tomorrow."

Oliver was barely conscious of Dante's words as he dragged himself towards the final step of the long, winding staircase. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest. His right foot scraped upward, heavy and trembling, while his left slipped, failing to find support on the metal surface. His vision blurred, sweat stinging his eyes, but he could make out the silhouette of Dante looming above him.

Just as his fingers grazed the top of the step, Dante's boot pressed firmly against his shoulder. With a swift shove, he sent Oliver tumbling backward. The world spun into a dizzying blur as Oliver fell, his body striking each unforgiving edge of the steps before landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom.

For a moment, he lay there motionless, staring up at the endless flight of stairs that had become his personal battleground. The artificial gravity generators deactivated, and he felt the oppressive weight lift from his limbs. But the relief was fleeting; he knew that even this small increase in gravity would make tomorrow's climb an even greater torment. At a seven percent increase per floor, reaching the first floor meant bearing seven times his body weight. At nine percent, it would be thirteen times. A crushing load that pushed the boundaries of human endurance.

Oliver's breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale a sharp knife to his lungs. His uniform was torn, the fabric stained with a mix of blood and perspiration. The cold surface of the floor pressed against his cheek, a stark contrast to the feverish heat coursing through his battered body.

Footsteps echoed softly from a corridor branching off the stairwell. The children from the thirtieth floor emerged. Small figures in ill-fitting uniforms, their eyes shining with concern. Due to his punishment, Oliver was barred from receiving any medical treatment outside of sanctioned training exercises. But the children had taken it upon themselves to care for him.

"Come on," whispered a girl with short, black hair. "We have to get him back before they see."

Several pairs of hands, small but determined, slipped under his arms. Together, they began the arduous task of dragging him away from the stairwell. Oliver winced as his body protested, but he lacked the strength to help or hinder them.

They slowly navigated the corridors of the fortress while dragging Oliver.

Upon reaching his quarters, they eased him onto the thin mattress of his bunk. One of the boys produced a rag and began wiping the blood from Oliver's face, while another retrieved makeshift bandages.

"He's broken," a boy murmured, glancing nervously at the others.

"Definitely," agreed another, his brow furrowed with worry.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"The way he’s grinning… it’s like he’s not there," the girl said softly.

Indeed, a faint, almost delirious smile played upon his cracked lips. The children's comments weren't unfounded. Since receiving his punishment, Oliver had teetered on the brink of breaking, his mind wandering to dark places. The thought of using his Green Crystal to escape the oppressive confines of the fortress had become a tempting thought.

But something had changed. Each day, despite the torment, the smile on his face grew a little wider.

On the first morning after his punishment began, he had awoken to find a flickering notification hovering in the periphery of his vision.

| +500 Experience Points

| +1 Strength Point

He blinked, scarcely believing his eyes. The pain and exhaustion had transformed into a tangible reward. It was as if the system acknowledged his struggle, reaffirming his purpose.

The second day, a similar message appeared.

| +500 Experience Points

In the following days, the experience points began to diminish incrementally—450, 400—but the gains were still substantial, far exceeding what he could achieve.

To obtain such a staggering amount of experience, Oliver would have to battle a dozen Orks every single day.

‘If I had to fight daily without my armor, I'd end up like this too,’ he thought, glancing down at the myriad of bruises and cuts that marred his skin.

Each evening, as the relentless cycle of punishment and training drew to a close, Oliver found himself gazing at the ethereal glow of his status interface. The translucent screen hovered just above his palm, casting a faint light across his weary features.

| Status Page

| User: Oliver [Nameless]

| Level: 4 [Knight]

| Experience: [3280/800] [Click to Evolve]

| Credits: 10.810

| Stats

| Strength: 8 [Pawn] [Buy for 400 Exp]

| Agility: 22 [Bishop] [Buy for 400 Exp]

| Constitution: 11 [Knight] [Buy for 1600 Exp]

| Energy: 23 [Bishop] [Buy for 1600 Exp]

His finger hovered over the upgrade buttons, the temptation gnawing at the edges of his resolve. It would be so easy to tap them, to channel his hard-earned experience into bolstering his strength, making the crushing gravity exercises more bearable. Or to enhance his constitution, allowing his battered body to heal faster from the relentless strain.

Perhaps even evolve to the next level and unlock new potentials waiting just beyond his reach.

But he recalled the pattern he had noticed during his initial days of training: the easier the regimen became, the less experience he gained. The system rewarded hardship, not comfort. The tougher the challenge, the greater the reward.

With a resigned sigh, he pulled his hand away. "Not yet," he whispered to himself.

Yet his gaze lingered on the interface, drawn back the new Stat.

| Stats

| Strength: 8 [Pawn] [Buy for 400 Exp]

| Agility: 22 [Bishop] [Buy for 400 Exp]

| Constitution: 11 [Knight] [Buy for 1600 Exp]

| Energy: 23 [Bishop] [Buy for 1600 Exp]

| Myth: 1 [Unknown]

For the first time, Oliver had obtained a point in Myth.

Yet, despite the significance of this achievement, he felt no different. There was no sudden surge of strength coursing through his veins, no newfound resilience fortifying his weary muscles, not even a subtle shift in the ebb and flow of his internal Energy. It was as if the accolade was merely a phantom, an intangible marker without effect.

Perplexed, Oliver pondered how this mysterious point might be influencing him. He considered and dismissed several theories, each more speculative than the last. Perhaps it was affecting his cognitive abilities? Or maybe it was enhancing his perception on an imperceptible level? The possibilities spiraled endlessly, yet none provided a satisfactory answer. He contemplated seeking out Athena to inquire directly. However, fatigue clung to him like a heavy cloak, and a nagging suspicion whispered that even she might not possess an explanation for this enigma.

Wanting to look again at the only clue he had, Oliver accessed his personal interface, scrolling back through previous notifications. His eyes settled upon the message he had received after returning from the exercise. He read it again carefully, hoping that a second pass might unveil hidden insights.

| You obtained [1] Myth Point

| The Myth of the Tireless Atlas has been added.

| "When all else crumbled, he shouldered the weight of the world."

Lives had been saved—hundreds, in fact. The myth of deliverance had manifested in reality on that fateful day when Cassius defied even time itself. Amidst the chaos of collapsing structures and the muffled cries of those trapped beneath the rubble, he moved with unwavering purpose. With his Mecha, he ran through the chaos, lifted burdens that defied human limitations, shielded the vulnerable from impending doom. He hauled innocents back from the precipice of death, clearing debris that seemed immovable to all others.

It wasn't merely raw power that fueled him. It was determination, an indomitable spirit that refused to yield. It was the embodiment of a promise: that no one would be left behind. And so, when the dust finally settled and the echoes of destruction faded into silence, the names of Cassius and the Atlas-M resounded among the survivors. Stories spread like wildfire, tales of a lone figure who stood against insurmountable odds, whose very presence rekindled hope amidst despair.

Oliver closed his eyes happily upon reading the message, preparing himself to once again climb the Silo.