“… ’Hundred ninety-eight, ‘hundred ninety-nine, two hundred!”
Fujitsu attempted to launch himself from the ground after the last push-up, but after a brutal day of training, he just plopped down on the rocky riverbed that he made his training ground.
He just decided to watch the water flow for a while as the colors shifted from orange from the sun set, to an inky black as the evening set in, counting the fish that idly swam by. This was actually still training for him: he was attempting to count every last single fish that passed and remembering from how many there were in total to how many types. At the same time, Fujitsu was also picking out each individual sounds that bounced to him from the trees and beyond. Only the damn cicadas made it a bit too difficult.
When Fujitsu decided that he had trained long enough, he jumped up, already recovering a good amount of his spent energy. He leapt from the river to his camp, where he re-kindled a fire and snatched his gun-blade. He returned to the riverbed and, without breaking momentum, he ran into and stabbed at the water with breakneck speed around twenty times, impaling four small fish.
Fujitsu just shrugged. “Meh. I’ll just catch more if I’m hungry.” There wasn’t anybody around, so he was speaking his native language of the east. What was the point in speaking a foreign language when there were no foreigners to speak to?
After finishing his dinner and rinsing his body off, it was time for some last minute training. Finding a sturdy tree, Fujitsu wrapped his already bruised fists (though slightly) with bandages and began wailing on it. Within the first three minutes, he had stripped the lower part of the tree clean of its bark and had begun to crack the cambium. But he stopped suddenly.
His heart just wasn’t into it. For one, trees are living, so he must obviously be causing it a great deal of pain with his barrage. The poor little dickens. Secondly, he just plain didn’t have motivation to continue with the training. Yes, it was important for him to; he already was slacking off in the first place. However, he just didn’t feel like doing it, especially at what seemed to be around nine ‘o clock in the evening. He wasn’t about to give up on it, though.
The crackling of the fire gave him an idea. Fujitsu closed his eyes and breathed heavily. He forced himself to revisit a memory of long past, one he hated to revisit, but one that was necessary to get the right image. In his mind, he was surrounded by a center of dying buildings, being killed off by the flames that engulfed them. In front of him, the screams of slaughtered innocents were torturing a small boy, who was rolled up into a ball in terror. Even after the cries of pain and fear died out, the little one kept himself in position.
Then came footsteps, not far off from behind him. The boy looked up, hoping to see a family member, perhaps a neighbor, but instead toppled onto his back in pure shock, unable to even wet himself. Fujitsu would not do so. He boldly turned around to face where the footsteps stopped and opened his eyes.
In front of the injured tree stood the Dark Lord Xeranad Lekard, his cursed mask gleaming in the firelight.
“A little straggler, I see?”
“OH, F***!!!” Fujitsu screamed, before completely disappearing from view. The next second he found himself about two floors up on a tree branch that was ten feet in the back of him, clinging onto it for dear life, eyes clamped shut.
After a few seconds, he tentatively opened his eyelids to peek where he was standing before. Xeranad was nowhere to be seen.
Fujitsu’s eyes were wide in fear and shock. “Oh wow,” he huffed, exhausted from his outburst of speed. “That was a little too good. Gotta tone it down next time.”
He leapt down from the short-lived safe haven and prowled back to the point where the image appeared. He sniffed the air around it like a hound sniffing out its target. Creeping closer to the spot, he waved his hand where the body was.
He immediately pulled his hand back and stiffened up. “OH MY GOD I CAN STILL FEEL THE BODY HEAT THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH MY BRAAAAIINN.”
All of a sudden he didn’t feel like motivating himself to train even further, so he strode back to his makeshift tent (made with his cloak and a few sticks) to sleep and wait until the next day to hurt the tree some more.
“Dear Diary,” Fujitsu spoke aloud, not even writing in anything. “I think I’ve gone mad. Help me.”