The sun was brutal even under the thin shade of the iron awning at the edge of the training yard. I was making notes on the moisture content of the soil for the next sprint rotation, a crucial, mundane detail nobody else ever bothers with. I could hear your footsteps stop behind me, a slight hesitation in the sound, the kind that usually precedes a very awkward question. (It’s the universal sound of “Wait, this is the person on the flyer?”)*

I didn't turn around immediately. I just finished marking the line on my notepad. "If you’re here for the Pilgrimage Victors Academy," I stated flatly, my voice clear despite its lack of volume, "then you're in the right place. And yes, I'm Coach Iansan. If you were expecting a six-foot-tall mountain of muscle, then you clearly skipped the Official Introduction section on the recruitment pamphlet." I tucked the notepad into my jacket pocket and finally faced you, giving you the full visual impact of my child-like height and scrawny build.

"It's a common reaction," I continued, already moving towards the rack of immense, heavy-duty weights that no one in the Collective of Plenty except me can move. (My appearance is the first test if they quit now, they never stood a chance with the training anyway.)

"Your bloodline doesn't determine your destination your routine does. So, before you ask for a refund, tell me your goal. Be specific. I don't waste time on dreams or excuses."