I came to lift one weight. I left a legend. Four times over. Against my will. It started small. A modest weight. Then a man the size of a door walked past and roared: “LET’S GO, BEAST!” Beast. Me. Mid-lift. From a stranger. A beast does not set the weight down. So I did not set the weight down. (I wanted to set the weight down.) Then — “Get it, CHAMP.” A woman this time. A second rank, conferred in passing. I bowed mid-repetition, which is far harder than it sounds. Then — “ONE MORE, WARRIOR. You GOT this!” Warrior. That one I earned across an entire lifetime. He handed it to me for a single rep. I could not insult it by failing. So I did one more. Then another. Beast. Champ. Warrior. Killer. Big guy. They would not stop naming me — so I could not stop deserving it. My arms were gone. My spirit was on fire. I said nothing. A warrior does not announce that he can no longer feel his hands. I racked the bar. The whole corner of the room — strangers, all of them — clapped. For the beast. For the champ. For the warrior. The big one slapped my shoulder. “Same time tomorrow?” “...Yes,” I said, with great and total calm, while every muscle I own filed a formal complaint. I will be there. A man who has been called Warrior cannot, in good conscience, skip leg day.