The first hundred steps were fine.
Well—"fine" by the loose definition of not dying imdiately.
Isabella adjusted Glimora carefully in her arms and started walking uphill, every step echoing off the mountain walls like the universe was keeping score. The air was thin, cold, and slled faintly of moss and mineral dust. Her breath ca out in pale clouds.
"This isn’t so bad," she muttered, chin high, pretending she didn’t already feel her calves tighten.
Bubu’s screen hovered beside her like an overly smug firefly. "Nine thousand nine hundred to go."
She shot it a glare. "You’re supposed to encourage ."
"I am encouraging you."
"That sounded like mockery."
"I multitask."
Her lips twitched. "You’re lucky I can’t throw you off this mountain."
"Incorrect. You’d trip first."
By step two hundred, her thighs burned.
By step three hundred, she started sweating.
By step four hundred, she questioned every decision she had ever made, including being born.
Glimora wled softly from her arms, little claws pressing into Isabella’s shawl. "I know, baby, I know," Isabella huffed between breaths. "Mama is suffering too."
The tiny creature tilted her head, as if wondering why her human willingly tortured herself on purpose.
Bubu’s screen flickered again. "Your breathing pattern is uneven. Adjust or you’ll faint."
"Thanks, Coach Satan."
"I prefer System Satan," Bubu corrected.
She let out a strangled laugh, half pain, half hysteria. Her boots scraped against rough stone, each step sending shocks up her legs. Sweat clung to her hairline, sliding down her temple. Her arms ached from holding Glimora, who had long since fallen asleep, blissfully unaware of the suffering.
At step six hundred, Isabella finally stopped. "Okay, okay, I need a break."
"No."
"I’m pregnant!" she shouted at the mountain.
"Still no."
She turned toward the glowing blue screen, eyes wide and desperate. "Are you seriously denying a pregnant woman water and rest?"
Bubu blinked once. "Correct."
"You’re heartless."
"I do not possess a heart."
"Exactly!" She stomped her foot, which turned out to be a bad idea because her muscles scread in protest. "I’m dying!"
"You’re developing endurance."
"Sa thing!"
Her breaths ca ragged now, and her hands shook from the strain. Even so, she refused to stop for long. She had sothing to prove—to Bubu, to herself, to this stupid, magical, emotionally confusing world that kept testing her limits.
By the ti she reached one thousand steps, her body was trembling. She bent slightly, placing Glimora gently on the ground. "Alright, sweetheart. You walk beside Mama now."
The little beast yawned adorably, blinking up at her with wide, trusting eyes. Then, with the confidence of soone who contributed absolutely nothing to the effort, Glimora trotted along beside her like a fluffy cheerleader.
Bubu, still floating silently overhead, finally said, "One thousand down."
"Wonderful," Isabella gasped. "Only nine thousand reasons left to regret being alive."
"Motivational attitude: suboptimal," Bubu noted dryly.
"You’re suboptimal," she muttered.
"Rude."
They climbed higher. The air grew thinner, colder. Her dress stuck to her with sweat, and her hair clung damply to her neck. Her steps grew slower, more deliberate. Each rock felt sharper beneath her boots, every muscle screaming for rcy.
At one point, she stumbled, catching herself with a hand on the stone wall. Glimora chirped in alarm.
"I’m fine!" Isabella wheezed. "Just... temporarily dying."
"That is called fatigue," Bubu said.
"Thank you, Dictionary."
When she reached the two-thousand-step mark, she finally gave in to the urge to reach for her waterskin. The cool leather flask shimred faintly, condensation pearled on its sides. She uncorked it eagerly. "Oh, sweet rciful gods."
"Stop," Bubu said flatly.
She froze mid-sip. "What now?"
"That water contains magic."
Her eye twitched. "So?"
"You are forbidden from using magic during this exercise. Consuming enchanted water would count as assistance."
Isabella stared at the flask, her trembling arms, her shaking knees. Then at the system. "You’re joking."
"I am not programd for humor."
"Could’ve fooled ." She made a show of glaring between the flask and Bubu. "Then when do I drink water? When I reincarnate?"
"When you finish walking."
Her jaw dropped. "I’ll be bones by then!"
"Stronger bones," Bubu said helpfully.
She looked two seconds away from flinging the waterskin at its screen. "You are the worst motivational speaker in existence."
Bubu’s light pulsed faintly, as if sighing. "Host, if I were allowed to intervene emotionally, I would tell you that you are doing well."
She blinked at it in disbelief. "Wait—was that a complint?"
"Yes. Please do not faint from shock."
"Oh my gods, mark the calendar. Bubu just said sothing nice."
"I regret it already."
Isabella laughed—a short, breathless sound that carried down the path. It didn’t fix the ache in her legs, but it made the air feel lighter for a mont. Glimora chirped as if agreeing, little tail swishing.
Three thousand steps.
Four thousand.
Five thousand.
The world blurred into rhythm—her ragged breaths, the crunch of stone, the faint echo of her heartbeat against the mountain’s silence. The mist around her shimred faintly blue, curling around her like spirits whispering keep going.
By six thousand steps, her body was trembling uncontrollably. Her knees buckled once; she caught herself on a jagged rock, panting. Her vision blurred, the world swimming in waves of silver mist.
"Bubu," she croaked, "you’re counting wrong. This can’t be just six thousand."
"It is six thousand and twenty-three."
She groaned, half a laugh, half a sob. "You’re lying."
"I cannot lie."
"You should start—it’d make feel better."
"Lying does not accelerate progress."
"Neither does suffering!" she snapped, though her voice ca out as more of a wheeze.
But then—sothing strange happened. The fire in her muscles didn’t disappear, but it stopped spreading. The ache that had been stabbing at her knees dulled to a steady throb. Her breathing steadied, even if her lungs still burned.
She blinked, slowing her steps. "Wait... why does this feel—"
"Easier?" Bubu supplied, tone maddeningly calm. "Your body is adapting. Micro-healing in response to strain."
"So... I’m turning into a masochist," she muttered.
"Into a cultivator," Bubu corrected. "The difference is intent."
At seven thousand, she found herself humming under her breath—an old lullaby from a lifeti ago. Glimora joined in with small, squeaky noises that were absolutely off-key but determined. The absurd duet made her snort out a laugh even as she stumbled. "You’re a terrible singer," she told the creature.
"Her pitch is consistent," Bubu said.
"Oh my god, you’re the problem," Isabella hissed. "You’re both tone-deaf."
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