Erick descended the spiral staircase leading to the basement of Hargrove Manor, the cool, metallic air enveloping him like a familiar old coat. The subterranean space was a labyrinth of efficiency, with corridors illuminated by bluish LED strips that pulsed slightly to the rhythm of the humming servers in the background. He headed straight for the training room, a spacious annex that lately served more as a private arena for intense Artemis sessions—matte black padded walls to absorb impacts, non-slip rubber flooring that cushioned falls without echoing noise to the upper floors.
Weightlifting equipment dominated the center: Olympic barbells loaded with reinforced titanium plates, squat racks with integrated sensors, and a leg press machine that looked like it came straight out of a military lab. Sensors were scattered everywhere—infrared cameras in the corners, wireless electrodes on the floor, holographic monitors floating like ghosts—capturing every metric: heart rate, muscle tension, thermal dispersion. It wasn't your average gym; it was a temple of data, where the body became the equation.
He stopped in the middle of the room, hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants, his chest rising and falling in a calm rhythm. The meeting with Batman still echoed in his mind, those words grave as a verdict: "Be careful with the fire you carry, Erick. It burns whoever is closest first." He understood where it came from—the justified paranoia of the Dark Knight, shaped by years of watching allies cross lines that couldn't be undone.
In a past life, Erick had devoured enough comic books to know: Batman went mad when he saw heroes approaching the abyss, killing or torturing without remorse, turning justice into vengeance. But him? Erick chuckled softly, the sound echoing lonely off the padded walls. "All the madmen believe they're doing what's right," he murmured to himself, shaking his head. He wasn't impulsive; every act was calculated, a tool for protection. He wouldn't cross that line—not like the others. At least, that's what he told himself. For now, he set the reflection aside, like a page turned in an old book. He had work to do.
Five months had passed since the last complete physical analysis. Erick had deliberately preferred the long interval—he didn't want incremental metrics, but a visible leap, tangible proof that the fire elemental anchored in his soul was evolving along with him. The youthful fire now pulsed as a constant presence, no longer an unstable spark, but a controlled furnace that infused every cell with regeneration and power. He activated the system with a verbal gesture: "Doc, initiate physical evaluation protocol. Full mode. Include comparisons with benchmarks of elite athletes—data from Olympians, world record holders."
The doctor's voice echoed from the built-in speakers, analytical and precise, like a surgeon dissecting a body: "Protocol initiated, Erick. Sensors online. Let's start with weightlifting. Previous reference: 150 kg on the bench press, ten repetitions maximum. Body height unchanged at 1.68 m (5'6"). Body weight also stable—no significant gain or loss in these five months. Monitor your form; any deviation may invalidate the data. For comparison: high-performance weightlifters, especially light to middleweight categories and record holders in super heavyweight, to contextualize the absurdity."
Erick positioned himself on the bar, adjusting the plates to the old weight: 150 kg. His hands gripped the cold metal, fingers firm like claws. He took a deep breath, the elemental responding with a warm tingling in his veins, and lifted. The weight rose with ridiculous ease—as if he were lifting an empty bar. Ten repetitions flowed effortlessly, his chest barely feeling the resistance. "Too light," he grumbled, adding more plates. 200 kg. Still easy. 250 kg. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, but the movement was smooth. Finally, he stopped at 300 kg—exactly double the previous weight. Ten complete repetitions, each with perfect form: chest expanding, triceps burning slightly, but regenerating in the interval between sets. The sensors flashed, projecting holograms with graphs: peak muscle strength at 312% above the human average for his age, height, and weight.
He lowered the bar slowly, looking at the equipment as if it were challenging him to explain the impossible. "This doesn't make sense," he said aloud. "I'm short, lightweight—a guy who's 5'4" shouldn't be bench pressing 300 kg like it's nothing. Any human weightlifter in my weight class barely gets close to 200 kg in a maximum bench press. I'm breaking the rules of biomechanics. Force that only makes sense in much larger, heavier bodies."
"Exactly," Doc confirmed. "Brute strength has doubled in five months. Your muscles now operate at 92% efficiency, compared to 45-50% for a standard human. Benchmarks: Olympic weightlifters in lightweight categories (up to 73 kg) bench press around 180-200 kg; super heavyweights like Lasha Talakhadze reach 267 kg in the snatch, but with a body mass of 150+ kg. You, in a light and compact frame, surpass weight-adjusted records—pure superhuman. The elemental is rewriting myofibrillar density and joint torque, allowing a small body to generate heavyweight power. This is reflected in impacts: your punch now hits around 1,200 psi on the punching bag—equivalent to the power of a heavyweight boxer like Deontay Wilder or Tyson Fury at their peak, even coming from a light body. Strength isn't distributed by mass; it's concentrated in density and rate of thermal contraction.
Erick nodded, satisfied with the explanation. He knew that Batman, Superman, and others already operated at levels far above that—levels he hadn't yet reached. But these Olympic benchmarks were measurable, real, data he could quantify. It was the parameter that made sense to track his progress.
"Next: cardiovascular test on the treadmill."
Erick moved to the advanced treadmill, a machine with an endless conveyor belt and impact sensors that measured cadence, speed, and fatigue. This test hadn't been possible before—lack of suitable equipment in the makeshift basement at Crest Hill. "Set to high-intensity sprint," he ordered. The treadmill accelerated to 35 km/h—the peak of a 100-meter sprinter, like Usain Bolt in his prime. He ran, feet pounding like pistons, arms pumping in sync. The elemental warmed his lungs, oxygenating his blood with supernatural efficiency. Twenty seconds turned into forty. Fifty. A whole minute, and he still maintained the pace, sweat dripping, but his breathing controlled. Twice as long as an elite sprinter could sustain it. "Analysis, Doc?"
"Sustained maximum speed: 35 km/h for 62 seconds. Benchmarks: Bolt sustains peaks for 10-15 seconds in 100m; you last four times as long without collapsing. In parameters: elite sprinters face immediate lactic acidosis; your VO2 max of 85 ml/kg/min recycles lactate as thermal fuel, elevating you to levels of hybrid sprinters with middle-distance endurance. Minimal muscle fatigue: regeneration at 15% above baseline."
Erick slowed down to a jog, but Doc pushed him to the next stage: "Now, endurance. Simulate a marathon: 42 km at a constant 20 km/h." Another unprecedented test—no space or tech for long simulations beforehand. He obeyed, the treadmill adjusting to a cruising pace. The holographic watch showed 2 hours and 6 minutes to complete the virtual distance. An elite time for professional marathoners (like Eliud Kipchoge in sub-2 hours), but Erick finished without excessive breathlessness. Legs firm, heart beating at a steady 140 bpm, sweat evaporating with a slight orange sheen from his skin—the elemental dissipating heat. "I feel... normal," he said, stopping the machine. "Not even close to the limit."
Doc processed the data in real time, holograms spinning with performance curves: "Exceptional aerobic endurance. Optimized oxygen consumption at 98%; neuromuscular fatigue at only 12% after simulation. Benchmarks: Kipchoge completes marathons in ~2:01 with forced recovery; you simulate the same with minimal fatigue, extending potential to 100km ultras. The elemental acts as a super-oxidant, neutralizing free radicals and repairing micro-lesions in real time."
Satisfied, Erick proceeded to more varied tests. First, apnea: he sat in an ergonomic chair, inhaled deeply, and held his breath. This was new—no setup for precise measurements beforehand. He lasted 7 minutes and 42 seconds, the elemental recirculating residual oxygen. "Seven minutes," he murmured as he exhaled. "That's... insane."
"Correct," Doc confirmed. "Benchmarks: freedivers like Alexey Molchanov last 9-10 minutes in static apnea; you approach that without specific training. The internal fire suppresses CO2 urge, allowing for prolonged retention."
Next, reflexes: Doc activated a laser simulator—random beams firing from panels on the wall. Erick danced among them, his body flowing like burning water. Reaction time: 150 milliseconds—half that of the average human, comparable to MMA fighters or fighter pilots.
For swimming, Erick went up to the upper level of the mansion—the basement connected via a hydraulic lift to the adjacent Olympic-sized underground pool, a recent addition that made this test feasible for the first time. He dove in crawl-style, swimming intense laps. Average speed: 2 m/s—an Olympic swimmer level like Michael Phelps at peak speeds. He completed 5 km without pauses, emerging with steady breathing.
"Swimming speed: 2.1 m/s sustained for 45 minutes. Benchmarks: Phelps swims 1,500m in ~14:30; you can extend this to Ironman distances with minimal fatigue."
Erick dried himself with a towel, returning to the training room for the closing session. Other tests punctuated the day: flexibility (full range in yoga poses, 30% beyond normal, comparable to gymnasts like Simone Biles); balance (standing on one leg with eyes closed for 10 minutes, surpassing yogis or professional surfers); and impact—striking a punching bag with maximum force, registering 1,200 psi (equivalent to the power of heavyweight boxers, even coming from a light build).
Finally, Doc compiled the final technical analysis, projecting a comprehensive hologram: superimposed graphs, comparisons with elites, future projections. "Overall summary, Erick: progress in five months exceeds expectations by 28%. Strength: +112% (from 150 kg to 300 kg in the bench press), surpassing weight-adjusted Olympic weightlifters—superhuman given his compact stature and light weight. Speed: +95% in sustained sprints, doubling the duration of sprinters like Bolt. Endurance: +210% in aerobic/anaerobic endurance, rivaling marathon runners like Kipchoge. Reflexes: -48% in reaction time. Apnea: +157% beyond the average human. Swimming: +105% in speed and +180% in duration. Global parameters: VO2 max at 85 ml/kg/min; muscle density increased by 35% without visible mass gain—the elemental compacts fibers for maximum efficiency. Regeneration: superficial cuts heal in 45 seconds; total fatigue recovers in 5 minutes. Projections: in another five months, you It will reach Class B metahuman levels, comparable to heroes like Arsenal or Black Canary in sheer physical fitness. Risks: thermal overload if the elemental grows uncontrollably—monitor pulses above 200 bpm.
Erick nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm. "Good job, Doc. That confirms we're on the right track." The elemental pulsed in approval, a warm wave of satisfaction. But deep in his mind, Batman's words returned like a whisper: fire burns those closest to it first. He shook his head, dismissing the thought. For now, the focus was on progress—and the power that came with it. The forging continued.
Read the chapters in advance: patreon.com/cw/pararaio