The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism novel Chapter 472

Chapter 472: 472 | A Body Not Responding at Factory Specifications

Percy’s running commentary continued through mile two, a steady stream of comparative analytics that I should have found annoying but instead found grounding because Percy’s data arrived without judgment or agenda, just numbers and observations delivered in the flat register of someone who could not stop his brain from generating them and had learned to verbalize them as a coping mechanism rather than letting them accumulate into something that hurt.

"Ortega finished the first mile fourteen seconds ahead of her Monday split. She is angry about something."

"She’s angry about a lot of things, Percy."

"The data does not distinguish between anger categories. It only measures output."

We hit mile three and Steele stood at the turn with her tablet and coffee, exactly as promised, watching faces. My face must have been telling a comprehensive story because her pink eyes tracked me for three full strides before she returned to her general observation pattern. The fog had thinned enough that I could see the leading pack, where Camille maintained her usual dominance with Theo a comfortable second and Lyra gliding in third with the patient efficiency of someone who ran like water finding the path of least resistance.

Felicity had dropped back to run near my position at some point during the second lap, and her presence at my left shoulder felt intentional in the way all of Felicity’s proximity felt intentional. She wasn’t performing concern. She was simply here, matching my diminished pace without comment, her blonde ponytail swinging in rhythm with her stride and her breathing more labored than mine despite the debuff because her physical stats lived in a different galaxy than my own.

We finished at thirty-three minutes and twelve seconds. Seventh and eighth. My worst showing since the first week.

Steele noted the time without expression. That was worse than a reaction.

The morning dissolved into the blur of conditioning circuits that followed the run, partner carries and box jumps and plank holds that normally registered as mild inconvenience but today registered as genuine effort. My arms burned during the third set of push-ups. Actual burn. The sensation was so unfamiliar that I almost laughed.

Caden caught my eye during a water break and raised one blonde eyebrow in the specific configuration that meant he had noticed something and was cataloging it without needing to announce the cataloging to the room.

I drank my water and said nothing and waited for the morning to end.

Room 214 had the quiet energy of a packed elevator, twenty teenagers sitting in compressed rows with the particular stillness of people who sensed an announcement coming and had already decided they were not going to like it. The tiered seating descended toward the podium where Steele would appear in approximately forty seconds based on her documented arrival patterns, and the overhead lights cast geometric shadows across notebooks and tablets and the specific quality of nervous energy that permeated combat operations students whenever the word Crucible had been uttered within the previous twelve hours.

I settled into my third-row seat with the care of someone managing a body that was not responding at factory specifications. My legs ached from conditioning in a way that Demigod recovery should have handled during the walk from the field to Building C, and my fingers felt thick and imprecise on my tablet, the eight percent cognitive reduction making the act of opening the student portal feel like navigating through invisible syrup.

Percy materialized beside me with his notebook already open and his pen moving. Caden dropped into the seat behind me with none of his usual theatrical energy, his feet conspicuously absent from the back of my chair. Even Caden could read the frequency of the room.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify