No matter the time or place, Wriothesley was always there—standing in front of the punching bag, striking it with relentless determination. For the past five hours, he had been training non-stop, pushing himself beyond his limits. In his pursuit of the dream he longed for, he forced his body to endure unimaginable exhaustion, yet he refused to stop. The vision of becoming a renowned boxer echoed louder in his mind with every punch.

His bloodied, bandaged fists trembled with each blow. The once-protective fabric was now frayed and torn from the constant friction. Sweat cascaded down his body, as if he had been caught in a downpour, and his eyes, dulled by sheer fatigue, struggled to stay focused.

Wriothesley was crossing a dangerous line. Even though his pride insisted he was fine, the truth was undeniable. No one in their right mind would be in a dimly lit garage at two in the morning, punishing their body like this. He needed to stop. He needed to rest.

"It's okay... I can do it..." he panted between labored breaths, his voice trembling as much as his hands. He told himself the pain was all in his head, a trick of the mind. But one glance at his battered form revealed the truth—this was no illusion. His body was breaking, even if his spirit refused to yield.