It was at this moment that he heard a soft, rhythmic sound of someone clapping. John's head snapped up, his body tensing, and he saw a man standing at the edge of the training grounds. He was older, with a lean, wiry frame and a calm, knowing smile on his face. This was Master Torren.
John immediately adopted a respectful greeting stance, his posture betraying no hint of his pain or exhaustion. Master Torren nodded slowly.
"Well done, boy," he said, his voice carrying the authority of a high-ranking master. "You have managed to survive and overcome your unfair outcome. You should now be considered a full-fledged League assassin."
Torren's smile faded slightly. "But it would be a shameful look for the League if we were to send you out into the world now with no teaching of what it is to be an assassin. The you now is more like a martial master, not an assassin."
John, not one for unnecessary talk, simply nodded. Torren sighed, a brief flicker of exasperation crossing his face. "You have one month to rest and heal. How you spend it is entirely up to you."
He continued, his words now a precise set of instructions. "After that, your training will shift. You will be taught weapons like the sword and the hidden tools your mentor used, and even guns, due to the age we live in. We will teach you how to be an appropriate assassin."
Master Torren's words hung in the air, a final decree that marked the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. John simply nodded again, a flicker in his eyes as he took in the new pattern laid out before him. There was no joy, no relief, only acceptance of the next necessary step. With a final, silent nod from Torren, John turned and walked back to his room.
Today, it seemed like John was the only one who came back, or maybe he was simply the first. That was new, a break in the established pattern, and the thought settled in his mind as he walked back to his room.
He greeted his dog with a brief pat and grabbed new clothes before heading to the shower. The hot water stung like hell on the numerous cuts and bruises across his body, but the pain was a raw, visceral reminder of his triumph. Compared to the joy of surviving and emerging victorious, the physical agony was a small price to pay.
There was also the profound joy of a new word that had emerged from the League: "the outside world." For the five or six years since he'd been kidnapped, this was the first time he had ever heard of such a possibility. A world beyond these walls.
Remembering his final action, the swift and brutal end to his mentor's life, John's fist clenched. There was no remorse, only a cold, hard resolve. He would do whatever it took to survive and see that freedom. His first step in this new life was survival and freedom. With the possible promise of outside world, the path was now clearer than it had ever been.
But even that wasn't enough. The promise of freedom brought with it a gnawing dread. The "outside world" was a cesspool of chaos, a universe populated by aliens, gods, and forces he couldn't comprehend.
This earth, he realized, was no longer his home. It was a cosmic battlefield, a place he needed to get as far away from as possible. His ultimate goal, the final destination of his new life, was to escape not just his captors, but the planet itself. He would find a way off this world, to a place where he could finally be free from the chaos.
In this new reality, his mind could only cycle through the same feeling: a deep, uncontrollable fear. It was a fear that shows itself when he has a moment to himself. It was a fear born of a world where the news was a joke. How could a broadcast predict a pale man from space on a motorcycle, with a cigar in his mouth, when no one even knew he existed? How could a news anchor prepare him for a random bomb threat, a terrorist attack, or a rogue alien invasion?
For a man like John, who built his life on patterns and predictability, the DC Universe was a waking nightmare. He couldn't shake the deep-seated fear that came with living in a world where chaos was part of the rule.
In his old life, the news had been a comfort, a daily update on a world he could understand. It warned him about traffic jams and weather fronts, predictable patterns he could easily adjust to. But here, what good was a weather report when a scientist in a basement could be brewing an experiment that would mutate a whole city? How could a morning broadcast prepare you for a strange, otherworldly storm that would leave people with unwanted and uncontrollable powers?
John's mind reeled at the thought of it. His meticulously planned days, his need for order, were completely useless. A simple walk to the store could end in a battle between a flying man and a giant robot. A quiet night in could be interrupted by a madman's scheme to blow up a city block. There was no adapting to a world where the laws of physics were treated like mere suggestions and the villains were as common as the heroes who fought them.
The thought echoed in his mind, growing louder with each passing moment of terrified clarity: "He needs to get off this world."
The door to the bathroom was pushed open with a groan, interrupting his thoughts. A trainee stumbled inside, his body swaying, looking worse than John had ever imagined possible.
He was a mess of torn clothes and ragged flesh, his skin scored with what looked like deep, bleeding claw marks. The wounds were long, jagged lines that spoke of, vicious attack, clearly with a claw like weapon. His eyes, wide and unfocused, held a look of pure, unadulterated terror.
His arm reached out to John for help, a desperate, silent plea, before he fell unconscious due to the blood loss that hadn't stopped and was pooling under him.
John looked coldly at the boy, his own injuries forgotten for a brief, analytical moment. The League's tests were more savage than he had imagined. With a heavy sigh, he walked toward the boy. His hand became a blur as he tapped a few precise acupoints on the boy's body, using his knowledge of this points to halt the relentless flow of blood. It was the best he could do. The rest was up to the boy.
John stood up and walked away, leaving the groaning figure on the cold tile floor. He had things he himself needed to do, meditation to recover his drained Chi, and simply pass the time until the dining hall opened.
Time passed quickly, a silent blur of focused meditation until the bell for dinner rang. Walking into the dining hall like usual, John immediately noticed how empty it was. There were only seven people left, including him, scattered across the long, vacant tables.
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