Inside the private training room at Mines Fitness Club, Peter Parker continued swinging the steel rod.
Again.
And again.
At first he had targeted Noah's back.
Then his arms.
Then his thighs.
Eventually, the strikes spread across Noah's entire torso—his chest, ribs, and stomach.
Every impact followed the same brutal progression.
Red marks.
Then bruises.
Then the skin split open.
After thirty minutes, blood flowed freely from dozens of wounds across Noah's body. His clothes were soaked crimson, clinging to him like a second skin.
He looked less like a person and more like a walking bloodstain.
Yet the first one to collapse wasn't Noah.
It was Peter.
With a groan, Peter dropped the steel rod and sat heavily on the floor.
His arms trembled from exhaustion.
Noah glanced down at him.
"Why'd you stop?"
Peter stared at him like he was looking at a monster.
"Because I've already hit you more than ten thousand times," Peter said, massaging his sore arms. "My muscles are completely shot."
He shook his head.
"If anyone else took that kind of beating, they'd be pulp by now. And you're just… standing there."
Noah didn't even look tired. He remained planted in his stance, feet rooted to the floor.
"You kids these days," Noah said with mild disappointment. "No stamina."
Peter rolled his eyes.
"I've been swinging a metal rod at superhuman speed for half an hour."
Still, Noah knew Peter had reached his limit for now.
Peter's physical condition was impressive, but Noah's system tracked more than just raw durability. Stamina, recovery speed, and physical efficiency all played a role.
Peter might possess exceptional defensive strength, but his endurance and conditioning hadn't caught up yet.
"Fine," Noah said. "Take a break."
He shifted the massive iron block in his hands and resumed punching forward with slow, controlled strikes.
"We'll continue in thirty minutes."
As he spoke, the bleeding across Noah's body had already begun to stop.
Within a short time, the wounds would close completely.
Peter leaned against the wall, watching the blood-covered figure continue training like nothing had happened.
"Hey… how long am I working tonight?"
Noah answered without turning.
"I could keep going all day."
"That's not what I meant," Peter said dryly. "When do I get off work?"
Noah glanced at the clock.
"It's six now. You can leave at ten."
Then he added casually, "And come straight here after school tomorrow."
Peter sighed.
"Got it."
What choice did he have?
He'd already accepted twenty thousand dollars.
It felt like there was a wall of money standing between him and the ability to refuse.
Ten minutes later, Peter's strength returned.
He picked up the steel rod again.
For the next several hours, the routine repeated.
Thirty minutes of striking.
Ten minutes of rest.
Over and over.
Something interesting happened during the process.
Peter began noticing subtle changes in his body.
As his exertion increased, his strength and endurance slowly improved.
It felt like dormant potential inside him was waking up—muscles adapting faster than they normally should.
The discovery made him more focused.
Instead of reluctantly helping Noah train, Peter started committing to the process.
His strikes grew faster.
Stronger.
More precise.
By the time ten o'clock arrived, Peter almost didn't want to stop.
Eventually, though, exhaustion won.
Around eleven, Peter finally dragged himself out of the gym and headed home.
The moment he left, the training room fell quiet.
Without Peter there to attack him, Noah ended his exercise as well.
The results of the evening were excellent.
His physical condition had improved significantly. By tomorrow, he was certain his durability would increase another step.
Spider-Man really is the perfect training partner, Noah thought.
After cleaning the blood from his hands, he walked to a desk in the corner and pulled out paper and a pen.
He began writing.
Tomorrow he planned to start teaching Coach Smith the Purple Dawn Technique.
Thanks to his heightened mental clarity, Noah's memory had become exceptionally sharp. Every line of the technique was stored perfectly in his mind.
His hands moved rapidly across the paper.
Fast enough that the pen almost blurred.
Within two hours, he had reproduced the entire manual—including detailed notes explaining the method.
Satisfied, Noah set the finished pages aside.
His wounds had not completely healed yet, so he sat cross-legged on the cold marble floor and focused on breathing.
The quiet training room felt almost meditative.
After about an hour, a small amount of energy gathered inside his body.
By the time he opened his eyes again, the injuries covering his skin had already sealed.
Noah grabbed some food to refill his energy, then stood up.
Instead of resting, he lifted the iron block again.
Training resumed.
Lately he'd noticed something strange.
Sleep was becoming less necessary.
The strain caused by staying awake all night was now lower than the rate at which his body repaired itself.
Which meant the damage of sleep deprivation simply… didn't accumulate anymore.
Noah exhaled slowly.
I'm starting to feel less and less human.
Still, he continued training.
Deep into the night, most of New York City had gone to sleep.
Only a handful of people were still moving through the darkness—chasing their own battles.
In an apartment building in Brooklyn, a young woman lay collapsed outside her door.
Her body looked shriveled.
Dry.
Almost like a corpse that had been drained of life.
A tall man stood over her.
He was nearly six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, with slicked-back black hair and cold blue eyes.
He wore a long trench coat.
On the chest of his T-shirt was a stark white skull emblem.
The man crouched down and gently tilted the woman's head to the side.
Two puncture marks were visible on her neck.
He sighed.
"Too late again."
The man stood up, irritation flashing across his face.
"Damn vampire parasites."
He stepped into the shadows and pulled out his phone.
After a moment, the call connected.
"Matt," he said. "How's your condition? Are you able to work yet?"
Inside a hospital room, Matt Murdock shifted slightly in his bed.
"Victor… I probably need another two weeks before I can walk normally again," Matt said. "Why? Something going on?"
"The vampires."
Victor's voice hardened.
"They've always been active in the city, but they usually hunt in patterns. Certain locations. Predictable behavior."
He paused.
"This month alone, I've found seven drained bodies."
Matt's expression grew serious.
"You think they're planning something."
"Exactly."
"What about Blade?" Matt asked. "Isn't vampire hunting usually his territory?"
"I tried contacting him."
Victor's tone darkened.
"He disappeared yesterday."
Silence lingered on the line.
Then Matt spoke again.
"…I might have someone to recommend."
Victor raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"That student who appeared on the news a few days ago," Matt said. "I think he has potential. Maybe you could train him."
Victor chuckled faintly.
"You know I'm not a fan of mentoring rookies."
He slipped his phone back into his pocket.
"But I'll keep an eye on him."
Then he added quietly,
"Honestly though… I'm more interested in that killer everyone's talking about."
Matt frowned.
"What killer?"
"The guy who wiped out three gangs in the last two days," Victor replied.
There was a hint of admiration in his voice.
"I like the way he works."
Then the call ended.