The day wore on with a quiet rhythm, the sounds of village life filtering through the thin walls of the cottage. Sander sat by the hearth, staring at the deflated basketball resting in his lap. The conversation with Elder Sofia had left him restless, her cryptic words circling endlessly in his mind.
"You're stronger than you think."
Sander scoffed, running his hand through his silver hair. Strong? He could barely walk to the village and back without his legs trembling. His frail body was a cage, a constant reminder of how far he had fallen.
His gaze dropped to his hands—small, pale, and uncalloused. As Darius, these hands had been tools for playing basketball that make him a legend, guiding his team to victory, commanding respect with every pass and shot. Now, they felt useless, too weak to hold onto the legacy of who he had once been.
A surge of frustration bubbled inside him. He couldn't wait for answers to come to him. He couldn't rely on others to pave his path. If he wanted to reclaim any part of himself—if he wanted to make sense of this world and his place in it—he had to start here.
With himself.
That evening, after helping Isolde with the household chores, Sander stepped outside into the fading light. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of damp earth from the morning dew that still lingered in the grass. The small clearing behind the cottage was quiet, shielded from the village by a row of trees.
He clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as he faced the open space. His body was weak—he could feel it in the tremble of his legs, the ache in his arms—but he couldn't let that stop him.
Dropping to the ground, he pushed himself into a plank position, his arms trembling under the strain. "One," he muttered through gritted teeth, lowering himself to the ground before pushing up again. "Two…"
By the time he reached five, his arms gave out, and he collapsed onto the grass, his breath coming in short gasps.
"Pathetic," he muttered, slamming his fist into the dirt.
But he didn't stop. After a few moments, he rolled onto his back, staring up at the darkening sky. The stars began to peek through the twilight, faint and distant, but constant.
"One more," he said aloud, his voice trembling but firm. "Just one more."
Over the next week, Sander's days began to take on a grueling rhythm.
He woke at dawn, helping Isolde with chores around the house—fetching water from the well, chopping wood for the hearth, and tending to the small garden behind the cottage. Each task, though mundane, became an opportunity to strengthen his body.
Carrying water buckets tested his endurance.
Swinging the axe forced his weak arms to build strength.
Pulling weeds and tilling the soil pushed his legs and back into action.
Though his muscles burned with every motion, he refused to stop, pushing himself harder each day.
After finishing the household chores, Sander turned to focused exercises in the clearing behind the house.
He starts doing pushups with just a few, his arms give out fast as he push around three ups, he slowly increased his count, forcing himself to hold his trembling arms steady.
After the push ups he does sit-ups each motion made his core ache, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through the discomfort.
And he runs around the clearing again and again in circled path, his legs screaming in protest, until his breaths came in ragged gasps.
As the sun set, Sander collapsed onto the grass, sweat soaking his thin shirt. His body ached in ways he hadn't thought possible, but he welcomed the pain—it was proof of progress, however small.
He would lie there for a time, staring at the stars, his mind churning with thoughts of the court, the game, and the world he now found himself in. Then, with what little strength he had left, he dragged himself back to the cottage, ready to start again the next day.
"It's not enough," he muttered one evening, his voice echoing in the clearing. He stared at the deflated ball in his hands, its weight a reminder of how far he still had to go.
I used to be so much more.
The thought burned in his chest, but it didn't consume him. Instead, it fueled his determination.
"You've been pushing yourself too hard," she said after he got back that evening, as he hauled water from the well, his face slick with sweat.
"I have to," Sander replied simply, setting the buckets down with a soft thud.
She studied him for a moment, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Your father will be back tomorrow," she said finally. "Maybe he'll have the answers you're looking for."
Sander nodded, his grip tightening on the bucket handles.
Isolde's expression softened, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
That night, as the stars glittered above him, Sander lay in the clearing, his chest heaving with exhaustion. His arms and legs ached, his body covered in bruises and scratches, but he felt alive in a way he hadn't since waking in this world.
The faint glow of dawn crept through the thin curtains, casting a pale light across the cottage's modest interior. The soft rustling of leaves outside and the distant calls of birds signaled the start of another day. Sander stirred from his straw mattress, the stiffness in his limbs a familiar ache after days of grueling effort.
He pushed himself up slowly, his breath catching as his sore muscles protested the movement. The thin blanket slipped off his shoulders, revealing his pale, wiry frame—still frail, but now beginning to carry the faintest signs of hard work.
The air was cold against his skin, and he shivered as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat there for a moment, his head bowed, gathering the resolve to face the day.
His first task was always the same: water.
The well behind the cottage was old, its wooden frame weathered by years of use. Sander stepped outside, the grass damp beneath his bare feet, and approached the familiar sight. His breath curled in the crisp morning air as he grabbed the rope tied to the heavy wooden bucket.
The first pull was always the hardest. His shoulders burned as he hauled the bucket upward, the rope rough against his palms. He gritted his teeth, refusing to let the strain slow him down.
"Focus," he muttered to himself, the word becoming a mantra as he worked.
By the time the bucket reached the top, his arms trembled with effort, but he refused to stop. He grabbed the heavy load, his legs wobbling slightly as he carried it back to the house. Each step felt deliberate, his balance precarious, but he pressed forward.
Once inside, he set the bucket down near the small kitchen counter, exhaling a shaky breath as he straightened. His fingers throbbed, and his shoulders ached, but he forced himself to smile faintly.
One task done.
After a brief rest, Sander stepped back outside to tend to the garden behind the cottage. The small plot of land was modest, with rows of carrots, turnips, and a few struggling herbs. It wasn't much, but it was essential to their survival.
He knelt in the damp soil, his fingers working through the earth to pull weeds. The cool dirt clung to his skin, the repetitive motion of tugging and clearing the rows calming his restless mind.
Every so often, his thoughts drifted. To the court hidden in the woods. To the deflated basketball waiting for him by the hearth. To the questions he still couldn't answer.
With a sharp tug, he pulled a particularly stubborn weed from the soil, tossing it into a pile nearby. His hands were raw from days of this work, but he didn't mind. The ache in his fingers was a reminder that he was pushing forward, even in the smallest ways.
As he worked, he caught sight of his reflection in the small water trough nearby. His silver hair was tousled, his pale face streaked with dirt, but there was something new in his expression. Determination.
The final task of the morning was the one he dreaded most: chopping wood.
The small pile of logs near the side of the house seemed to mock him, their weight and size a challenge he wasn't sure he could meet. But Sander approached them anyway, grabbing the dull, worn axe leaning against the wall.
He hefted it awkwardly, the handle rough against his hands. The blade wasn't sharp, but it was enough to split the wood if he swung it correctly.
Positioning the first log on the chopping block, he took a deep breath and raised the axe. His arms wobbled slightly under the weight, and for a moment, he hesitated.
"Just swing," he told himself.
The axe came down with a dull thunk, the blade lodging into the log but failing to split it completely. Sander gritted his teeth, yanking the axe free and trying again.
The second swing was better, the log cracking slightly under the impact. By the third swing, it split cleanly in two, the pieces falling to either side of the block.
He stood there for a moment, panting, his hands trembling as he lowered the axe. His shoulders burned, his back ached, but there was a flicker of satisfaction in his chest.
I'm getting there, he thought.
One log after another, he worked through the pile, his movements slow and deliberate. By the time he finished, the sun had climbed higher, its warmth beginning to chase away the morning chill.
When he finally returned to the cottage, his body was slick with sweat, and his clothes clung uncomfortably to his skin. Isolde greeted him with a faint smile, her hands busy kneading dough for the day's bread.
"You've been busy," she remarked, glancing at the small pile of chopped wood he'd brought in earlier.
"Someone has to be," Sander replied, his tone light but firm.
Isolde chuckled softly. "You're working harder than I've ever seen. What's gotten into you?"
Sander hesitated, then shrugged. "I can't stay weak forever."
Her expression softened, her hands stilling as she looked at him. "You're stronger than you think," she said quietly.
The words echoed Sofia's, and Sander felt a spark of determination reignite in his chest.
After finishing a quick meal of bread and water, Sander stepped outside again.
The clearing behind the cottage was waiting, bathed in the golden light of mid-morning. His body ached from the morning's work, but he couldn't stop now. This was only the beginning.
The days blurred together, each one beginning and ending with aching muscles and a burning determination that refused to fade. Sander's routine became relentless, his will unyielding as he pushed his body to its limits and beyond.
The morning light crept into the clearing, finding Sander already at work. His breaths came in harsh gasps as he ran circles around the small field, each lap a battle against the weakness in his legs.
His body screamed for rest, his chest tight and his throat dry, but he pushed harder, imagining the polished courts of his past life. The way his feet had once glided effortlessly, the speed that had left defenders scrambling. He had been a leader then—a commander on the court.
Now, each step felt like lifting a stone, his muscles trembling with the effort.
As the sun rose higher, the laps became slower, the space between his strides growing longer. His legs finally gave out beneath him, sending him sprawling into the dirt.
He lay there for a moment, gasping for air, his vision swimming. The memory of who he had been mocked him, but he clenched his fists and gritted his teeth.
"Not yet," he growled, dragging himself back to his feet.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and began again.
By the third day, the soreness in his body had settled into a constant ache, every movement a reminder of his relentless efforts.
Carrying water from the well became a test of his resolve, his fingers raw and his shoulders burning as he balanced the heavy buckets. He stumbled once, spilling half the water onto the dirt path.
"Again," he muttered to himself, returning to the well with trembling hands.
Chopping wood was no easier. Each swing of the axe sent sharp jolts of pain through his arms, his hands blistered from the rough handle. By the time he had finished splitting three logs, his breath was shallow, his body slumping against the chopping block.
Still, he forced himself to stand, the fire in his chest refusing to be extinguished.
Every swing makes me stronger, he thought, gripping the axe tighter.
On the fourth day, Sander began to see the faintest signs of progress.
His morning jogs were still grueling, his legs heavy and unsteady, but he managed an extra lap around the clearing before collapsing. When he hauled water, his steps were steadier, the weight of the buckets less overwhelming.
By midday, as he practiced his form with the deflated basketball, he noticed his arms trembling less with each motion. The arc of his imaginary shots grew smoother, his movements more deliberate.
The small victories brought a flicker of satisfaction.
The morning began like any other, with Sander waking before the first light of dawn. His body was exhausted, his limbs stiff as he stepped into the cool air, but his resolve burned brighter than ever.
The clearing greeted him with its usual stillness, the dew clinging to the grass glinting faintly in the dim light. Sander stretched his arms above his head, feeling the tension in his muscles loosen slightly, and began his run.
This time, he pushed harder.
His feet pounded against the uneven ground, his breath coming in sharp, rhythmic bursts. The ache in his legs grew unbearable, but he refused to slow down, his mind fixed on the image of the court in the woods—the broken lines, the rusted hoop, the faint echo of a game that had once defined him.
"Faster," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart.
By the time he completed the tenth lap, his body gave out, collapsing into the grass.
But this time, he smiled.
Over the next few days, Sander's training continued with unwavering intensity.
Every drop of sweat, every moment of pain was a step closer to reclaiming the strength he had lost.
By the end of the week, Sander stood in the clearing, the deflated basketball resting in his hands. His shirt clung to his skin, damp with sweat, and his arms and legs bore the faint bruises of his efforts.
But as he raised the ball above his head, mimicking the motion of a perfect shot, he felt something shift.
His body, though still far from its peak, responded with precision and control. The ball left his hands in a smooth arc, landing softly in the grass ahead of him.
The clearing was silent, the world around him still.