After five years.

Yeah. Five whole years. That's 1,825 days of sweating, bleeding, and reconsidering career options.

The training of Racis and the others had finally ended.

They were all still in the basement and before anyone gets confused—yes, hi, I'm a new narrator. No, I didn't appear before this. No, I won't appear after this. I am only here because of the sudden time skip and the compulsory cool introduction of the MC.

Stronges Trum—yeah that name sounds like a steroid brand mixed with toothpaste used by Undertaker's exorcist father—stood in front of all her students. And damn, they were unrecognisable.

Well, except aliens. You can't miss them. Even god would look at them and say "nah, that's not my design." Cockroaches see them and go, "Bro… we deserved evolution, not these tangerine-looking jellyfish goats."

Anyway—Stronges had trained them like a bootleg Master Oogway running a military school and a yoga retreat at the same time.

She made them stretch. She made them do yoga. Then she made them punch basement walls like they were trying to escape student loans.

Her only goal?

To turn these emotionally unstable gremlins into that bulldog from Tom & Jerry. You know—the one who beats up Tom without breaking eye contact.

And they… accepted it.

No one complained. They would've done anything she said. She could've said, "Pair up and do 69 for flexibility," and they would've gone, "Yes, sensei."

Disgusting times. Proud moments.

But now—after 1,825 days of pain and no haircuts—the results stood before her.

They stood there, a perfectly coordinated display of broken childhoods and functional six-packs. It was a beautiful, terrifying sight.

Stronges smiled. The kind of proud smile moms give when their kid stands first… in divorce papers. She watched them with an almost maternal pride—the kind that comes after you've successfully house-trained three wolves

They all wore the same style of uniform as day one—the white karate robe. I should have known what that dress is called but I guess, there's no point to research anymore. No one reached this point to point out mistakes anyway.

However, today, the uniforms were shiny. Because Stronges actually washed their bummy asses and gave them brand new robes.

The old ones? Day-one white → brown → black → unholy. She didn't let them change because she said, "Wear your struggle."

Nah queen, they wore fungus.

But today—fresh robes. Fresh baths. New outfits.

And on their waists?

Black belts.

All of them.

Nobody refused because after five years of punching limestone, they earned it.

The narrator, me, has a theory: this entire five-year boot camp wasn't just about physical strength; it was about teaching them patience. Because honestly, anyone who can survive five years of no haircuts and still look this intimidating deserves a medal, or at least a really expensive razor.

But Stronges didn't stop there. Nope. She made changes.

Right now, she looked at the change and was satisfied like a mom seeing her kid finally close the fridge properly.

In front of her stood more than 800 people.

At the back—humans. The prisoners who escaped jail but now know yoga and trauma.

In front of them—thousands of aliens, smelling like expired mangoes dipped in sadness.

And at the very front?

Three beings.

One alien, two humans.

The alien—none other than Sexis Trum. Alien King. Pervert Supreme. The man who uses a dictionary to wank. Poets hate him. Deviant artists love him. He subtly adjusted his robe, probably thinking about which dictionary entry he'd use later. Filibuster, maybe? Or perhaps the beautifully obtuse sesquipedalian?

To his left—Erec Tile.

Yes, the same name that sounds like a Viagra side effect. And yes, if you giggled at "Erect," congratulations, you're immature and I love you.

Erect had changed.

He was taller, hair longer—because scissors were banned for five years—and his beard grew like it wanted main character privileges.

His chest? Big. His muscles? Illegal in 12 countries.

Any girl who'd see him would turn into a water park.

If I was a girl, I'd… anyway moving on. I'm a narrator. My pronouns are they/them/sometimes/it/and occasionally furniture.

But more than Erect, someone else had grown the most.

Someone who dripped main character energy like sweat in a gym.

Someone who could body-slam Brock Lesnar and make him say "Harder, daddy."

Racis. Motherfreaking. Tate.

Did I hype him? Yes. Do I get paid for this? No. Will I stop? Also no.

But facts are facts—Racis grew the most.

That's why he stood ahead of everyone, back facing them like a dramatic anime opening.

Erect stood to his right.

Sexis stood to Erect's right.

Yes—a holy trinity of trauma, testosterone, and horniness.

The three of them, Racis, Erect, and Sexis, were the walking, talking embodiment of Stronges' philosophy: 'Pain is temporary; bad fashion is forever, unless you get a new robe.' The collective aura they gave off was so intense it probably generated its own microclimate. A climate of epic potential, a high-pressure system of destiny, and a faint, lingering smell of desperation and old gym socks from the brown robes.

No jealousy. No ego. Just vibes and a mutual goal—kill Malthus before he turns this planet into a sad Minecraft world.

The sad Minecraft world comparison was, frankly, an insult to Minecraft. Malthus was going to turn it into a broken-texture-file-on-a-Windows-98-desktop world. A world where the music was just a constant dial-up tone. Unforgivable. And that's why these three, the King, the Side-Protagonist-Who-Looks-Like-The-Protagonist, and the Actual Main Character, were necessary. Their very existence was an argument against mediocre apocalypse.

Racis' golden hair now reached below his shoulders like he starred in shampoo commercials for gods.

His beard touched his chest like it was trying to convert him into Zeus.

His eyes were calm.

His aura? Peaceful.

Why? Because he meditated for five straight years instead of scrolling Instagram.

That's why I'm narrating. Because Homeboy is too spiritually taxed to talk.

He had control over his emotions now.

All except one—

Revenge.

The only thing left burning hotter than an Indian summer.

(TO BE CONTINUED… unless someone procrastinates again.)

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