Guldrin’s Gluttony: Family Bound by Speed & Food

Over the next few days, Guldrin had solidified his conviction. If his father had to be on the run for the foreseeable future, then he would take over as the man of the house. His mother and aunt, along with Shiro, would be his to protect. Now that the doctors had given Guldrin a full bill of health, he planned to begin his training along with creating a new source of income for the family.

If he were going to be receiving these weird memories, then he figured he could write them down and compile them into a book that he could sell. During these months, Shiro had introduced him to the world of anime and manga. So, using these as a basis, Guldrin sat cross-legged and allowed his memories to converge inside himself. Meditation eased his hunger, helped him compile his memories, and made him feel more centered all around.

Images of day and night of grueling training, harsh teaching, and many, many, many, broken bones flooded his mind. In all of them, a strict bleach-blonde-haired woman was most prominent. The 'Mother Of Special Forces' The Boss was the only names that he could remember. It seemed he also didn't have access to past memories before this time. It felt as if The Boss was his motherly figure, she taught him everything he knew. How to take apart and hold a gun, stances for martial arts, treating wounds, and much more. 

His days would begin early in the morning before the sun would rise, at the sound of an alarm, he would be awoken. She said it was conditioning, in the battlefield, one couldn't allow themselves to be surprised, or it could lead to death, or worse, the failure of a mission. So each day, before the crack of dawn, he would be awoken in a myriad of ways. Then, he would be thrown a pack filled with random supplies, weighing around 50 lbs, which would be increased each time he grew stronger; he would be forced to run for miles, conditioning himself for the harsh training. Then, breakfast; a simple meal of rations and whatever he could scavenge from the forest where he trained, paired with simple water, would be his daily meal.

As the memories trickled in, Guldrin felt the weight of each fragment settling into his mind. The early mornings were becoming familiar to him; he had begun to wake before the alarm, body instinctively rising as if he had always done so. In his mind, he could see himself through an intense training regimen led by the strict and mysterious figure he only knew as The Boss. She was relentless, her eyes a steely blue, her demeanor colder than any person he had ever known and yet, there was an odd sense of care in the way she pushed him.

Each memory filled him with raw sensations, as if he were reliving those trials: the chill of morning air cutting against his skin, the bruises lining his arms and legs, the dull ache in his muscles that seemed to never fully dissipate. The smell of soil and sweat, the sharpness of gun oil, and the feeling of cold metal in his hands as he practiced disassembling and reassembling a handgun with feverish precision. The Boss's voice echoed in his mind, stern and unwavering: "Every movement must be a decision. Every breath you take is for survival."

He could remember each grueling training session in fragmented details, running with heavy packs through dense forests, the rough bark of trees scratching at his skin as he practiced scaling them, crouching in damp mud as he learned the art of camouflage. He could almost hear her voice as she explained the importance of blending with his surroundings, of silencing his breath only leaving the faintest whisper, and of staying alert to every shift in the forest around him. To her, these were not just drills; they were the foundation of his survival. He was being trained as the legacy, the only memory of her existence.

In the evenings, just as his muscles could bear no more, she would teach him the art of self-reliance. He learned to dress his wounds, to scavenge for food, to fashion tools from the most unlikely of materials. His meals, he remembered with a hint of bitterness, were hardly the feasts he enjoyed now. In his mind's eye, he could see himself hunched over a small fire, gnawing on rough bread and jerky, sipping plain water from a tin canteen. The most prominent memory was eating instant Ramen noodles, and hunting for protein in the weirdest locations. "Luxury dulls the senses," she'd say. "When you're out there, you have only what you can carry and what you can find."

Guldrin's hand reflexively clenched as he returned from his thoughts, his fingers tight around the edge of the counter as if clutching a weapon. The familiar weight of his memories began to settle into the core of his being. They felt… oddly comforting. This training, as brutal as it was, didn't just seem like fragments of a story. It felt like something he had earned, a part of him that had somehow been hidden away and was now beginning to emerge.

Each day he started the same, wake up and record what he remembered, give it to Shiro, and she would take his chaotic scrawling and edit it to be something legible, something significant. Their goal is to take these memories and sell them as a book of forgotten times, of memoirs of a forgotten soldier. They had done research and either these figures didn't exist in this world or had been buried by the government, so they were confident they would be able to publish these without issues.

Over the next few days, he adjusted his routine, using these memories as his blueprint. Guldrin with his fresh bill of health, started with early morning slow runs, slipping out of the house before the sun rose, jogging in silence, Emily situated on his head, as he felt the chill of dawn seep into his skin, focusing on each breath. The heavy packs, too, he recreated as best as he could with weights Jesse had stashed in the garage from when Dom was around. Each run brought flashes of his past with it, a hill he had once conquered, a river he had learned to cross silently. And though his body was far younger now, he was determined to make his mind sharper, to embrace the endurance he once knew.

The family began to notice the subtle shifts. Mia, in particular, grew concerned about his early starts and his relentless focus, wondering if he was pushing himself too hard. Shiro watched him closely, sensing something deeper driving him, though she never pressed him for answers, she knew it was related to these memories. He told the rest of his family nothing about the memories, not wanting to burden them, but he couldn't entirely shake the faint feeling of loneliness that lingered after each memory. Letty thought it was his way of coping with Dom having to leave, she took it hard but knew she needed to be strong for her son. Shiro was the only one who was truly able to understand the depths of his memories since she read them, but seeing his actions, really put them into perspective.

At night, he sat down with the journal he'd begun keeping. In it, he wrote out everything he remembered, sketching rough images of the forest terrain, the outline of a knife that felt familiar, and the stern face of The Boss. Beneath it, he wrote her words, those stark lessons she'd drilled into him: Strength without discipline is weakness. Survival is not an option; it's a necessity.

As he finished writing, Guldrin realized this wasn't just some story or a creative project; it was a foundation he could use. These fragmented memories had a purpose, a weight he could carry as he stepped up to protect his family. And maybe, just maybe, one day he would find answers to the mysteries within his mind, the shadows of his past training, the reason he remembered a battlefield he had never fought on, and the faint sense of duty that lingered in his heart, a duty that stretched far beyond anything he understood. These memories had to have an origin, and Guldrin was determined to understand.

Guldrin leaned back in his room, the low hum of the streetlights filtering through his window. He picked up another notebook, fingers trailing over the worn cover, thinking back on everything he'd gained over the past months. He'd been recording these gifts in rough shorthand as they came, but now, glancing over them, he realized each one fit into his life like the pieces of some invisible puzzle, a silent companion guiding him forward, one sign-in at a time.

The hospital days were a fog of recovery, but he remembered the quiet gratitude he'd felt each time the system had sent him something useful. First, it was a first aid kit and pain relief patches, simple comforts for the time. Then came a deeper gift, something that he could carry with him for days to come, basic first aid knowledge. This was different. Like a memory surfacing from his bones, he knew how to handle cuts, sprains, and aches almost on instinct. 

Those days blurred together, but the knowledge stayed with him, settling like the roots of something steady, and he felt he could take on more physical wounds if he had to. With this reward and the knowledge he gained from his memories, he was confident to handle most wounds on his own.

The garage was where things started clicking. There, alongside Jesse and Dom, before he had to leave, he'd gathered tools like a wrench set and a diagnostic tool that felt like extensions of his hands after a while. But then came basic engine mechanics knowledge. That was the game-changer. He remembered the excitement, the way he suddenly understood the intricacies of each part, how to keep the engine's heartbeat steady and strong. 

He and Jesse would spend hours talking through mods and repairs, each project bonding them further. But putting that into practice would have to be in the future since he wasn't allowed to do anything till he had recovered, so he could only wait for that time. Though Guldrin was banned from working or doing anything strenuous, he was still allowed to watch, so he took advantage of this quite frequently.

Then there were those nights on the couch, sinking into the worn fabric, letting the day's noise fade away. The system's gifts here were quiet, almost comforting: a notebook for sketches, journals for his memories, and a stack of DVDs. But one day came a skill, Enhanced Observation. He hadn't thought much of it until he started noticing things others missed, like the way Dom's grip tightened ever so slightly when he talked about their future or the faint scuff of Letty's boots when she tried to sneak up on him. Every shift in sound, movement, and feeling painted a clearer picture, an awareness that grounded him.

The bedroom entries focused on strength, thanks to the new equipment he had received, he changed the layout completely. What was once a simple side room had finally changed and became truly his, posters, weight sets, an exercise bike, and his modeled cars filled the room. 

Through the months, he received weighted blankets, hand grips for improving dexterity, and a breath-control mask for breath resistance training all found their way to him, subtly shaping his routine. But the day he received basic conditioning techniques was a turning point. Every push-up, every squat, every timed sprint came with a purpose, a rhythm. He wasn't just building strength; he was building control, a way to channel energy without spilling over. By this point, he was finally allowed to at least do basic exercises, so he felt the change immediately.

And the kitchen, that was survival, plain and simple. A portable cooking set, a filter bottle for water, and, eventually, basic nutrition knowledge. He didn't just know what to eat; he understood it. Suddenly, the food he ate had a purpose, a fuel that kept him sharp, and ready. He'd started taking over more meals, curious to test his knowledge, and found that with each bite, he was reinforcing himself for whatever lay ahead. It seemed the system was influenced by his mindset, daily needs, and desires. So he noted this down for future exploration and consideration.

Finally, in the sixth month, he was given a clean bill of health and was allowed to begin his training. The training outside was centered around endurance. A hydration pack, endurance gear for long runs, then one rare sign-in, basic endurance techniques. He'd pushed himself harder with this one, taking his body to places it hadn't been before, challenging his own limits. Every morning, every sweat-filled second, he found himself growing tougher, ready for more.

Flipping to the last page, Guldrin let out a breath. Six months of the system's quiet guidance had woven into his life seamlessly. It was strange, a rhythm, almost as if it were all meant to be part of him. He put the notebook aside, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. Of course, he received more over these 180-something days, but these rewards equated to food, random goods, and nothing of note, so he didn't list them.

The next few days were different; Guldrin found himself drawn to the handgun Dom kept locked up in the garage after Guldrin had used it to shoot down Lance, since then it had been untouched. With Dom on the run, it fell to him to shoulder any responsibility that came with protecting the family. His training memories echoed with the feel of handling a weapon, so he decided to test himself, to let instinct guide his hands as he disassembled the pistol and practiced the delicate ritual of cleaning and reassembling it.

The first time he signed in while handling the gun, a faint thrill ran through him as he received a cleaning kit perfectly sized for pistol maintenance, every tool polished and ready. He took his time, each piece fitting into his hand as if custom-made, and as he cleaned and restored the firearm, he could feel himself growing familiar with every small detail of its mechanics.

The next day, he received something unexpected, Basic Firearm Handling Knowledge. It was different from the usual gear. As he began practicing, his mind was supplied with details about safety, stances, control, and the importance of a steady breath. He knew he had to respect the weapon in his hands and master its rhythm as if it were an extension of his own body. With each sign-in, he could feel his understanding deepening, instincts sharpening. It felt as if the blanks left in his past life's memories were slowly being filled in.

On the third day, his sign-in rewarded him with Laser Cartridge Practice Rounds, all in perfect condition. With these, he could safely test his stance and aim, training his focus on centering each shot and pulling the trigger without worrying about firing a shot, a simple laser pointer would be aimed in the supposed trajectory simulating a fired bullet. He practiced in an empty lot nearby, imagining the resistance of recoil, how the weight would pull at him, grounding him. His form grew steadier, his breath steadier.

Then came the rarest sign-in of the week: Basic Aiming Techniques. Suddenly, everything he'd practiced clicked into place, his memories and his current training combing seamlessly into one. He could feel the alignment of his stance, the precision in his movements, the clarity of his focus, all blending together like it was second nature. Every time he raised the gun, he felt a sense of calm settling over him, his body instinctively adjusting to improve his aim.

By the week's end, the gun wasn't just a tool anymore. It was part of his training, a test of control, discipline, and respect. He felt more prepared, not just to wield a weapon, but to be the protector he knew he needed to be, his memories and his new skills layering seamlessly together.

(Give me your POWER, Please, and Thank You! Leave reviews and comments, they motivate me to continue.)