Each night at 4:00 PM PST, the next day’s workouts will drop. They unlock at 12:00 AM PST on their assigned day.
Daily requirement (choose your path):
All = 2 workouts/day (~40 minutes).
Intensity: Low, Medium, or High—your choice, all workouts will be multi-intensity.
The Couch Creatures have gathered, stronger than ever, their whispers louder, their grip tighter. This is their last stand—the final push to drag you into the Land of Maybe Tomorrow. The Dojo trembles with the weight of their spell. But every ninja who rises today adds a spark, every completed workout a torch to drive the creatures back into the shadows where they belong. The air is thick, the outcome uncertain. Will the curse be broken, or will the whispers return again? The ending of this story rests in your hands… until the final tally reveals the victors.

Darkness creeps closer today. The Shadow of Snooze hovers above, crooning softly: “Sleep in. Skip it. You’ve done enough.” Its lullaby is tempting, lacing your body with lead and your mind with excuses. Many warriors have fallen here, lulled into slumber while their chance to rise slipped away. But ninjas stand when the shadows press hardest. With every jab, every stretch, every bead of sweat, you remind the darkness: you do not bow—you blaze.

The glow of the screen flickers. The Couch Creatures chant: “Just one more episode, one more season, one more hour.” The Commercial Break Curse is powerful—they lure you with stories that never end, cliffhangers that keep you seated. But your story unfolds differently. You are not the audience—you are the main character. And your episode is written in sweat. Rise, fight, flow, and prove that your finale is always stronger than their reruns.

It is warm. It is safe. It is heavy. The Weighted Blanket of Doom drapes across your body like a comforting trap, whispering: “Stay here. Rest longer. The world can wait.” Its pull is almost irresistible, pressing down until even lifting an arm feels impossible. But ninjas were not forged in ease—they were forged in fire. Every strike shakes loose a corner of its grip, every flow peels away another layer of false comfort. Break free, or be buried beneath its weight.

The kitchen lights flicker. The Snack Phantom has arrived, clattering chip bags and rattling candy wrappers with ghostly glee. “Take one more… and another,” it croons, drifting closer with every craving. But ninjas know fuel is not the same as fog. Each jab knocks a bag from its hand, each flow clears the haze from your mind. Today, your sweat becomes a shield. The Snack Phantom cannot feed where warriors feast on purpose.

Today, the Dojo wades into the swamp—the place where endless feeds bubble and churn, keeping travelers stuck in the mud of distraction. Every flick of the thumb, every “just one more post” drags you deeper. The Couch Creatures thrive here, wrapping their vines of memes and reels around your focus. But ninjas have sharper tools: a punch to slice through the weeds, a flow to leap over the muck. Escape the swamp before it swallows you whole.

The Couch Creatures stir as the clock strikes midnight, curling out of cushions and carpet fibers. Their voices are sly, soft, and oh-so convincing: “Why rush? Tomorrow is better. Tomorrow you’ll have more energy. Tomorrow you’ll start fresh.” But ninjas know their trick—tomorrow never comes. Each whisper is a chain pulling you deeper into their spell. The only way to snap it? Move now. Sweat now. Show the creatures that today is the weapon they cannot steal.
