Parallel (A Virtual Gamer's Story) [Vol.1 - Vol.4 Complete]

Chapter 114: Crazy Heads

Training Hall 3,

10th June, 2043.

Klack! Kataka... Clack-la-clack-clack!

Heavy quick sounds like the striking of drumsticks against stone escaped the training room, its rhythmic burst echoing the tight control exerted by its cause. At the center of the hall was a 20mx20m raised platform upon which were placed several wooden training poles roughly thirty centimeters in diameter.

Each pole sported about four to six 'arms' protruding out of them.

These wooden poles were rotating and moving around the platform with reckless, random abandon, eliciting screeches from the wind they shredded in their path. Amid this raging storm danced a young man dressed in a tight-fitted training vest and shorts, his body weaving between the wooden shoots with chilling precision. When one came too close for comfort, he would lash out, slapping and redirecting it from his path.

This training required an enormous amount of spatial awareness and perception, as well as tremendous agility, flexibility, and reaction speed. Without even one of these attributes, any person undergoing this training would only find themselves in a world of pain.

This training room was one of the greatest inventions of Genaco Fitness. Since the Nesla coils powered it, many institutions and even governments bought them to train their soldiers to counter several attackers at one go when retreating was not an option.

The platform had levels of difficulty ranging from 1 – 10. Usually, a trained soldier could handle around rank 3—5, while specialists like the American Navy Seals could go up to level 7 before being forced to stop.

Shockingly, however, the number 8 was displayed on a waist-high station that manipulated the platform's level. The young man weaving his way through the storm was performing at a level above the highest trained individuals!

Of course, this was more an issue of suitability as opposed to skill. Specialists in armies were usually trained for power, speed, and precision, aiming to swiftly take out targets with the least amount of open combat possible. As such, although they lacked the flexibility and speed of the young man, their robust and powerful bodies could tank stray hits from the wooden dummies while they smashed their way through, allowing them to reach all the way to level 7.

The young man, however, although not weak by any definition of the word, could not contest in terms of raw strength. If he were to be hit numerous times, he would be forced to quit early as even though he could fight through pain, his body was not biologically capable of sustaining prolonged punishment.

As such, Suzuki's method of advancement was to dance around, continually dodging and redirecting the dummies for as long as possible until they reached their 'red zone.'

Since the dummies were meant to mimic being attacked by a mob, they slowed down after about thirty minutes, allowing him to start his counterattack.

Hair matted to his forehead from obtuse sweating, Suzuki gritted his teeth as he repeatedly ducked, weaved, and redirected the blows from the inconsiderate dummies. His eyes darted left and right, quickly taking in the dummies around him and predicting their path patterns before moving to the few 'safe' spots.

The higher the level, the fewer these spots would be; at this point, there were barely three-four constantly shifting zones every second. Suzuki could not dare to imagine what it would be like at level nine or ten.

Without an idea on how much time had passed, Suzuki could only wince as his muscles screamed in protest, clearly none too pleased with the abusive exercise. But he gritted his teeth and held on, just waiting for a sign.