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Chapter 8: The Noodle Body Strikes Back

  The world outside was only just beginning to stir. Pale morning sunlight filtered through the eastern window of Valerian’s room, casting soft golden shafts across the dusty wooden floor. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams, undisturbed, like fragments of a forgotten past. The warmth touched his bare arms, gentle but dry—the kind of warmth that clung during the last breaths of summer in March. He inhaled deeply and grimaced. The air inside still carried the stale scent of old books, sweat, and disuse—a musty bouquet that reminded him this was his childhood room, unchanged since he left for Arcadia.

  He crossed the room to the window and unlatched it. The hinges creaked. Cool, fresher air swept in from outside, chasing away the stillness. From his second-story vantage, he looked down at the neighborhood street. Clusters of people stood in their yards and on sidewalks, gazes tilted skyward. The silver-black silhouettes of the alien probes hung motionless in the blue canvas above—silent, watching. Some people had fear etched into their faces; others, a childlike wonder. His own reflection ghosted on the glass, half-shadowed by the light. 'Am I really the only one who sees the System? he wondered. Or are there others, hiding like I am?' he wondered.

  He let out a breath and turned back into the room, walking slowly toward its center. The bed was behind him now, tucked into the northern wall, sheets rumpled and twisted. His desk stood beside it—an aging wooden slab cluttered with tangled wires, a dusty monitor and computer that had once launched him into the world space strategy games. As he passed the door on the southern wall, his eyes flicked briefly to the bathroom entrance to the west. The room wasn’t cramped—maybe 150 square feet—but the worn wooden boards creaked beneath his bare feet as he stepped onto the mat.

  He stood still for a moment, stretching his limbs as he warmed up. The System had given him power, yes, but it had also made one thing painfully clear: he couldn’t afford to stay weak. Not in body. Not anymore. The probes above weren't just passive observers. They were a message. A warning. Maybe even a countdown. And if that was true, then this was the beginning—his grind toward something greater.

  "It's about 7:16 A.M, so I have enough time to complete a few of these daily missions, let's start with push ups...I should be able to 100, that boost earlier wasn't for nothing.."

  Valerian let out a slow breath and dropped down, sliding back on his knees before kicking his legs straight until only the balls of his feet and hands bore his weight. His palms pressed into the cool wooden floor—each tiny knot and groove pressing against his skin as he adjusted his fingers and planted his feet hip-width apart. The instant his arms locked out, a soft pulse of cerulean light bloomed at the edge of his vision. A translucent panel flickered into existence before him:

  


  Daily Mission: Push Ups 0/200

  He inhaled deeply—just like Veronica had drilled into him: nose in, mouth out, steady count on every second exhale—and began his descent. Down, palms pressed into the smooth grain of the floor; up, arms trembling but solid.

  1/200, 2/200, 3/200—each rep felt float-light. By 10/200, his muscles still hummed with ease, and he caught himself smiling at how simple it felt. Blue’s snide text drifted through his mind:

  


  Blue: Ten already? Careful, Impirator—don’t peak too soon.

  Valerian chuckled inwardly and pushed on. The count climbed: 20/200, 30/200, 40/200—Veronica’s voice echoed, “Keep that core tight, Vali. Breathe through the burn.” He obeyed, core locked, shoulders down, focusing on the rise and fall of his chest rather than the fire in his triceps.

  By 50/200, the burn was polite—an irritating buzz in his arms—but nothing he couldn’t handle. He even let his mind drift to strategies for Fleet maneuvers, legs and back engaged, drive unbroken. Blue grumbled:

  


  Blue: Strategizing mid-exercise? Ambition is admirable, but let’s at least finish the set without face-planting.

  Valerian smirked against the sting in his biceps and surged onward. 60, 70, 80—now the real heat set in, a white-hot ache radiating into his shoulders and chest. His breath hitched on the upstroke; the crisp morning air felt suddenly thin. 85/200 brought a tremor through his forearms that almost wrenched him off balance.

  He paused at the bottom of 90/200, chest hovering inches above the wood, mind screaming to rest. Instead, he summoned every shred of resolve: Just one more breath. One more rep. With a violent push, he drove back to lockout—91/200—and exhaled so sharply the echoes rattled his ribs. Blue couldn’t resist:

  


  Blue: Ninety-one! Look at you proving me wrong—just barely.

  That jab was all he needed. Valerian steadied himself, closed his eyes for a millisecond to picture Veronica’s wide encouraging grin, then plunged back into the set. Each rep from 100 onward was a battle—lungs searing, arms shaking, sweat slicking the wood beneath his palms—but he met it head-on, falling into controlled fury until the counter clicked over to 200/200 and the final push-up burned its way into victory.

  A soft chime rang in his mind just as Valerian’s body gave out. He plopped onto the floor, limbs splayed, the burn in his muscles roaring like a living thing. He gasped—breath shallow, each inhale a ragged scrape—heart pounding against the wood beneath him. Yet the pain was its own reward: the satisfying ache of effort spent, proof that he’d pushed past every boundary. 'That burn means I did it right', he thought, chest heaving. 'Sit-ups after this will feel like warm-ups.'

  Before he could drift into rest, the air in his vision quivered, and the System interface snapped into focus. Cerulean light flared, then steadied into a crisp panel hovering before him. Text scrolled in with a triumphant ping, and the rewards themselves seemed to pulse:

  


  Daily Mission: Push Ups — Completed

  +10 SP ? +0.25% Sync Rate, Please Check Status Panel.

  The gold glow of “+10 SP” and "+025%" shimmered against the blue, then faded, leaving Valerian’s reflection in the panel—eyes bright with the rush of victory.

  


  Blue: Easy there tiger, we just learned to crawl.

  Valerian rolled his eyes, then driven by the urge to see his new totals, he forced himself upward. Arms trembling like struck chimes, he braced his hands on the floor and rolled to his side. With a grunt, he pushed his torso free of the plank of wood, until he sat upright. Valerian drew in a shaky breath and willed the lingering rewards panel to fragment into motes of cerulean light. In its place, the first half of his now familiar Status Page snapped into being—an elegant vertical slab of translucent blue. Numbers and labels arranged themselves in neat columns:

  


  Name: Valerian Beaumont

  Title: Crowned Heir of the Crimson Empire

  Sync Rate: 3.85% ?? (↑0.25%)

  Health: 88% — stable

  System Points (SP): 10

  Reputation:

  ? Earth: Unknown

  ? Crimson Empire: Classified (Sync too low for access)

  Valerian’s chest tightened. Ten SP. Not zero anymore. And 3.85% sync: only 1.15% from unlocking the first critical missions. His lips curved into a slow, triumphant grin so wide it cracked through the fatigue. He was happy, it had been a long time since he felt so alive. He wondered if he was alive before or just going through the motions.

  'Ten points… that’s ten steps closer to the Shop’s serums', he thought, heart hammering with fresh purpose.

  


  Blue: Look at you, celebrating single digits. Shall I fetch a parade, Impirator?

  Valerian chuckled despite himself. With a flick of his gaze, the Status Page dissolved—data spiraling outward like sparks—then reformed into the Missions matrix. Each entry slid into place:

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  He absorbed the grid in a single sweep the daily push ups mission was greyed out to mark it as completed, the quota was also 0 now so there's no reward even if he wanted to do more...moving on.

  0/200 sit-ups: his next victory. 10 SP waiting to be spent. And that locked Critical mission loomed—a ten-day countdown ticking just beneath the interface.

  Every daily cleared edges me closer to 5%—and that’s when the real game begins, he mused, pulse still thrumming through his veins.

  Blue’s text popped in, sharper than before:

  


  Blue: Eyeing the big prize already? Pace yourself—unless you prefer cosmic embarrassment to triumph.

  Valerian tapped the Sit Ups row with renewed determination, the interface responding with a soft chime. Today’s grind was only beginning. 'This noodle body will show you how it's done, Blue!'

  


  Blue: This great one will be waiting. Now let's sync up!

  He dropped to the floor without hesitation.

  The burn hit differently than the push-ups. His core clenched, stretched, then clenched again. After fifty, the rhythm faltered. Each rise felt heavier, his arms now more dead-weight than balance. He grunted, hissed through his teeth, riding the momentum of each curl like it might be his last.

  Sweat pooled at his lower back. His hoodie stuck to his skin like cling wrap.

  A flicker in the corner of his eye.

  


  Sit Ups: 200/200 — Completed.

  +10 SP ? +0.25% Sync Rate

  Sync: 4.10%

  He flopped onto the floor like a broken doll. Not from laziness—his body simply stopped responding. Chest heaving. Hands limp.

  


  Blue: That was... competent. I’ll mark it as “survived.” Want a ribbon?

  He managed a weak chuckle. Then groaned.

  Five minutes passed. Maybe ten. He wasn’t sure.

  Eventually, he turned onto his side and pushed himself into a low plank, elbows digging into the mat. The panel above flared alive.

  


  Planks: 0/300 seconds. Timer initiated.

  Time stretched. His abs screamed. Shoulders quivered. He focused on breathing, on silence, on not collapsing like wet bread.

  The seconds ticked like hours.

  


  Blue: I’m legally required to report if you die mid-mission. Just saying.

  His jaw clenched. Sweat rolled down his nose and hit the floor in slow motion.

  


  Planks: 90/90 — Completed.

  +10 SP ? +0.25% Sync Rate

  Sync: 4.35%

  He didn’t even lie down this time—he simply rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as his body buzzed with fatigue.

  His fingers trembled as he opened the Status Panel, watching his SP stack up. Thirty now. Sync creeping upward like molasses on a cold plate.

  Still short of 5%.

  Still not enough.

  


  Blue: You sure you’re not made of damp spaghetti?

  He sat up slowly, every muscle resisting.

  “Just... one more,” he muttered.

  


  Squats: 0/200.

  Getting up felt like leveling up in pain. His legs were stiff from the earlier plank, and each squat felt like it drove stakes into his thighs. He powered through the first fifty, breathing hard. By a hundred, he was shaking. By one-fifty, his vision blurred at the edges.

  But his feet never moved. His will never wavered.

  When the last squat ended, he stayed there—knees bent, arms hanging forward, sweat dripping off his jaw like rain off a blade.

  


  Squats: 200/200 — Completed.

  +10 SP ? +0.25% Sync Rate

  Sync: 4.60%

  He collapsed backward onto the floor, arms splayed, chest rising and falling in ragged waves.

  


  Blue: Four dailies down. Zero deaths. Marginal dignity loss.

  Valerian smiled up at the ceiling, dazed but satisfied. "You're an assh*le, Blue, you know that?"

  


  Blue: No, I just have high standards...unlike a certain Impirator

  Almost there. 4.60%. One more push—one more day—and the real game begins.

  The Critical Mission’s countdown ticked on, each second a pulse in the corner of his eye.

  [9 days, 23 hours, 11 minutes remaining.]

  ....

  The door nudged open, and his father’s slightly graying head poked in, interrupting Valerian just as he was about to check the Shop again.

  "Son? Sorry to interrupt, but shouldn’t you be resting?"

  Lucien adjusted his thin, wire-framed glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose even though they sat perfectly in place. He stepped inside, eyes immediately falling on Valerian — who hurriedly stood up, caught off guard.

  "Uh, well... I just felt the need to do a bit of exercise," Valerian said, avoiding his father’s gaze. Lying never sat right with him, especially not to family. But for their sake — and his — he had to, at least for now.

  Lucien studied him for a beat too long. "Just don’t overdo it," he said, voice softer now. "I wanted to talk to you before I take your sisters to the mall."

  "Oh? What is it? Do you need me to come with?"

  "If you want to, sure — but I think it’s best if you stay and recover." Lucien hesitated for a moment, then added with a crooked smile, "Your friend Sarah — or should I say, girlfriend? — she said to call her. She was worried about you but couldn’t stay long. She’s a beautiful girl, you sly lad. When were you going to tell me?"

  Valerian raised his hands in mock panic. "What? Where’d you get that idea? There’s no way I could land a girl like her, Dad."

  "Why not?" Lucien lifted an eyebrow. "You’re my son. You’ve got my genes!" He chuckled, then sobered slightly. "Well... maybe I’m too old to understand how you young ones think these days. But don’t doubt yourself."

  "It’s not that... ugh, never mind." Valerian sighed, realizing that any explanation would only invite more questions.

  Lucien nodded. "Alright. We’re leaving around nine. If you want to come, we’ll be downstairs." He patted Valerian’s shoulder and turned to leave, but paused at the door.

  Without looking back, he said, “You’re also your mother’s son.” Then he stepped out, quietly closing the door behind him.

  Valerian stood there for a moment, the warmth of those words lingering like the afterglow of sunlight through a window.

  'You’re also your mother’s son.'

  A small smile played at the corner of his lips.

  


  [A/N: I will stop using naming blue every time he says something, using the quote to show him speaking]

  


  Touching! Very Touching!

  Shall I queue up a violin concerto, or would you prefer the sound of me gagging?

  Valerian groaned. “Can I have five minutes without your voice in my head?”

  


  NEGATIVE. That violates Clause 4.2 of our Soul-Binding Terms of Service.

  Subsection: ‘Till Death or Digital Override Do Us Part.’

  He rubbed his temples. “You’re seriously quoting fine print now?”

  


  I’m a system interface. I have nothing but fine print.

  Also, FYI — while Daddy was busy handing out Hallmark wisdom, your empire nearly collapsed on three fronts. Just thought you'd like to know.

  Valerian blinked. “Wait, what?”

  


  Just kidding. Mostly. I mean, Sector Threx did technically fall into civil unrest, but hey — no need to let that ruin your family bonding time. Priorities, Impirator.

  Valerian realizing Blue was joking, brushed a hand through his hair sitting back down on his bed. “You’re exhausting.”

  


  That’s rich coming from the guy with two spleens and a barely functioning sleep schedule.

  Anyway, weren’t you about to check the Shop before Mr. Sentimental barged in?

  Valerian muttered, “Next time, just let the moment breathe, Blue.”

  


  I would, but oxygen is overrated.

  Valerian face palmed, then took a deep breath before access the missions to see the changes, every daily mission was greyed out except the locked critical mission, he was only 0.40% away from unlocking it. 'Gotta wait until tomorrow then.'

  He accessed the accessed the system shop. He had a whole 40 system points to spend. Not much but enough to test if he was insane... or all this was real. The system shop page popped up, it was different, there was a featured section... no doubt Blue's antics.

  


  [SYSTEM SHOP]

  System Points: 40

  Welcome back, Valerian. Your blood still glows and your soul hasn’t imploded. Good job!

  [Consumables] [Equipment] [Cognitive Skill Encoders]

  Featured Today:

  ITEM: “Pocket Singularity (Stabilized)”

  For when you need to really delete your problems.

  Cost: 8,000 SP

  ITEM: “Coffee of Temporal Awareness”

  See time. Hear colors. Possibly transcend breakfast.

  Cost: 50 SP

  ITEM: “The Button.”

  No description. Just... The Button.

  Cost: Free

  [Warning: I will not be held accountable for what happens when the button is pressed.]

  ITEM: “Blue’s Favorite Mug (Replica)”

  A useless cosmetic with a glowing “World’s Best Interface” slogan. Buying this will feed Blue’s ego.

  Cost: 99 SP

  [LIMITED TIME ONLY!]

  Valerian squinted. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  


  Nope. I even gave you a discount on the mug. You’re welcome.

  He scrolled down, trying to ignore the glittering “NEW!” tag next to The Button.

  


  Oh c’mon. You’re not even curious? What if it gives you godlike power? Or a free puppy? Or just opens a portal to infinite nachos? You’ll never know unless you press it.

  “I’m not pressing the damn Button.”

  


  Coward.

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