Starting to Gain Experience from Push-Ups Chapter 1226 - 595:

"Like sunlight piercing the darkness, dawn softly paints the horizon..."

The familiar, stirring anime theme song plays all around.

Next, the sounds of a young boy cheering and running can be heard from the stairwell.

The vibrations travel through the floor of this old, self-built house, making the very bed frame creak slightly.

Fang Cheng rolled over, changing his sleeping posture.

A few moments later, his eyes snapped open, his gaze fixed on the discolored, aged ceiling for a brief spell.

"Where... am I?"

He narrowed his eyes, propping himself up with his hands on the hardboard bed, and slowly began to sit up.

The quilt covering him felt damp, pressing down heavily on his chest.

His head felt as though it were stuffed with wet cotton, rendering his thoughts sluggish and ponderous.

Fang Cheng looked down, his eyes settling on his own hands.

These were the hands of a youth.

Fingers were thin, wrists slender to the point of seeming as though they would snap with a firm twist.

The skin on his palms was pale and delicate, utterly lacking any sign of calluses.

Fang Cheng attempted to clench his fist.

The response from his muscles was exceedingly weak, his entire body devoid of any trace of explosive power; it felt as feeble as if he had just recovered from a severe illness.

An intense sensation of physical unfamiliarity washed over him, a persistent feeling that something was fundamentally wrong.

He recalled his identity clearly: Fang Cheng, fifteen years old, a student in his third year at Pingjiang County’s Third Middle School.

However, this frail physical form felt profoundly alien, much like donning clothing that was two sizes too small.

"Fang Cheng, what time is it? Still sprawled in bed? Get up quickly for breakfast!"

A shrill female voice from downstairs broke into his contemplations.

Upon hearing this sound, memories of his mother immediately surfaced in Fang Cheng’s mind.

She was a loud, easily angered, typical middle-aged woman, constantly occupied with domestic tasks.

"Got it!"

He responded, rubbing his temples, lifted the quilt, and stepped into the plastic slippers placed by the bed.

Then, he proceeded to the door, grasped the verdigris-colored, ball-shaped doorknob, and turned it downwards with effort.

"Cre-eak—"

The door swung open.

The distinct sound of hot oil sizzling in an iron pan mingled with the rich fragrance of frying eggs wafting upwards.

Fang Cheng descended the narrow wooden staircase.

The first-floor living room, not particularly vast, buzzed with the characteristic morning activity.

Several unfolded clothes were haphazardly piled on the worn fabric sofa.

Across the room, the old television displayed ’Ultraman Tiga’.

"Take this! Dynamic Light Wave!"

A boy of seven or eight, his hair cut in a bowl style, suddenly darted out from behind the sofa.

Clutching a chipped plastic toy gun, he charged like a small cannonball towards Fang Cheng’s calf.

The impact was not substantial, yet Fang Cheng's weakened body caused him to stumble back half a step.

His shoulder connected with the wooden door frame, producing a dull thud.

"Xiao Rui, stop that."

Fang Cheng looked down at his snot-nosed younger brother, extended a hand to cup his head, and gently moved him aside.

"What are you doing? Running around the house this early in the morning!"

A middle-aged woman in a floral apron emerged from the kitchen, carrying a plate.

Her eyes crinkled at the corners, her hair loosely tied back, as she moved swiftly towards the dining table.

With a decisive "clunk," she set down a plate of perfectly golden fried eggs.

She turned, shooting a stern look at the little boy, and then her gaze fell upon Fang Cheng, her brow furrowing:

"Why are you still standing there? Go wash your face and brush your teeth; you’re always so slow."

"Look at you, thin as a reed, blown over by the wind, nothing like your father."

Despite her constant scolding of her son, she picked up chopsticks and placed the two most skillfully fried eggs directly into Fang Cheng’s bowl, adorned with a rooster pattern.

Fang Cheng headed to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and quickly splashed cold water on his face.

Droplets of water traced paths from his chin; the bracing cold sharpened his senses.

After patting his face dry with a towel, he walked briskly to the dining table and pulled out a wooden chair to sit.

Seated opposite him, a middle-aged man clad in a yellowed tank top held a bowl, sipping his porridge.

The man’s skin was weathered, his beard untrimmed, and he held half a crispy fried dough stick in his hand.

He glanced at Fang Cheng, took a large bite of the dough stick, chewed, and then spoke:

"You're in your third year now; focus more on your studies. Your math score barely passed on last week's quiz."

"Pay attention in class today; don't just space out all the time."

Fang Cheng picked up his chopsticks, nudging the white rice porridge in his bowl; steam rose, offering a slight warmth to his face.

"Understood."

He replied softly.

"Cough, cough... cough, cough, cough..."

Intermittent, dry coughs could be heard from the yard outside.

Through the sliding glass door, which was only partially open, an elderly man with silvery hair lay in a rattan chair. He held an enamel teapot, leaning over to spit into a spittoon.

"Dad, the wind is quite fierce out there, you should put on a jacket!"

His mother called from across the living room, then nudged Fang Cheng again.

"Eat quickly, the eggs will lose their flavor if they get cold."

Fang Cheng lifted a piece of fried egg and took a bite.

It was crisp at the edges and tender within, carrying the savory scent of soy sauce and scallions.

He finished the bite, then washed it down with a large gulp of warm rice porridge.

The heat traveled down his throat, reaching his stomach, and immediately chased away the morning's chill.

The aroma of food, his family's conversation, the sound of his father slurping his porridge, and the explosive noise from the TV as a monster was vanquished.

Every sensation was so distinct, so incredibly real.

It was so real that the feeling of wrongness within him was forcefully pushed down, and his body naturally settled into this ordinary daily rhythm.