Each movement John made whether clean or flawed was recorded and analyzed. His strength was noted, but more importantly, his weaknesses. The instinctive way he dropped his left shoulder during certain grapples. The subtle tension in his hamstring during a sidestep. His tendency to overcommit when initiating a hold. Everything was data.
Because soon, these assassins would descend not to kill—but to teach.
It happened subtly, almost as if by accident. One morning, while the mist still clung to the ground and the cold air stiffened his limbs, John began his routine as usual. His bare feet made faint scuffs against the training stone, his breath controlled, movements deliberate.
And then, he felt it.
A presence.
He turned his head slightly—and there he was. A man cloaked in dark, matte fabric, almost blending with the shadows of the trees. No sound. No motion. Just standing there, arms folded, watching him.
The ninja's expression was unreadable—if he even had one. His posture was casual, but John knew better. That was someone who didn't need to announce danger. Someone who was danger by default.
John froze for a moment, the instinct to tense up crawling along his spine like cold sweat. But then he turned back. And continued.
If this was a test, he wouldn't fail it by faltering now.
He began again, slowly cycling through the Iron Flow sequences—control of breath, tension and release, allowing the body to harden and soften like tempered steel. The ninja didn't move, didn't speak. Just observed. John could feel the scrutiny in every motion, like his soul was being dissected.
But slowly, he pushed the presence from his mind. Dog Fang Grapple. He transitioned fluidly, rolling his shoulders, bending low, practicing breakfalls and redirects. He imagined his opponent's weight, simulated the torque, visualized the snap of joints and the choke of breath leaving lungs.
Still, the ninja stood there. Watching.
An hour passed.
Then two.
John kept going, sweat pouring off his body, lips dry, lungs burning. But he didn't stop.
And then—without sound, without signal—the ninja vanished.
No flicker. No flash. Exactly... gone.
John kept training.
That night, he didn't say a word to the others. But around the compound, murmurs spread. Quiet glances were exchanged. Because John wasn't the only one who had been visited.
Each child had their own silent shadow.
Some had cracked under the pressure, faltering mid-form or trying to challenge the observer and being promptly knocked unconscious. Others had tried to run or ask questions, only to be ignored or subdued.
But those who kept training, who pushed past the fear, who endured—they were left alone.
Or rather, they were selected.
The next morning, John woke early, as usual, and slipped into his routine like muscle memory. Brush teeth. Wash face. Cold splash. Breath in. Breath out. Every motion a precise echo of the day before. The chill of the floor against his feet reminded him he was still here — still alive, still under watch, still not free.
He made his way to the training grounds, steps steady. The moment he entered the courtyard, he felt it — the slight shift in the air. His corner, the one patch of solitude he had claimed in this harsh place, was already occupied.
The figure from yesterday stood there.
The same masked observer who had silently tracked his movements for the past week now waited without hiding. Their presence was like a shadow that had decided to take shape. But what drew John's eyes wasn't the figure — it was what they held.
A cub.
Small. Barely weaned. Its fur was damp from morning dew or perhaps from being recently washed. It squirmed, letting out a soft, confused whine. Vulnerable. Alive.
John stopped in his tracks. His body froze, but not from fear — it was recognition. His mind clicked into place as if pulling a file from a drawer.
Of course.
The figure, now clearly a ninja and no longer just an observer, tossed the cub at John. Instinct took over — John caught it without flinching, his hands firm yet gentle.
Then the ninja began to circle him slowly, the way predators sometimes test prey.
"For the next six months," the figure said, voice smooth and deliberate, "I will be your assigned mentor. I will teach you everything there is to know about the martial arts manual you've chosen."
John didn't respond. His gaze didn't even lift. His eyes remained locked on the cub squirming in his arms, its tiny claws catching on the loose fabric of his shirt.
The ninja's footsteps were slow, deliberate, echoing off the stone floor like a ticking clock.
"He," the ninja continued, gesturing to the cub, "is your responsibility now. His progress, his bond with you — all will be watched. If it is not up to standard, the punishment will be severe."
The mentor leaned in slightly, voice dipping to a cold murmur.
"You could lose a finger. Maybe more."
John's jaw tensed. Still, he said nothing. His silence wasn't defiance — it was analysis. Calculation. That phrase had started to loop in his mind the moment he saw the cub:
"Recognize the pattern."
This wasn't just training. This was conditioning. Emotional leverage disguised as responsibility. He'd seen it before. Dozens of times. Stories, games, movies from his past life. An assassin organization giving a child a creature to nurture. Grow. Bond with.
Set the stage.
Pull the heartstrings.
Then cut them.
The cub would die — that much he was sure of. Either through failure, or as a lesson. The pattern was too clean, too predictable.
Recognize the pattern.
But what made his composure falter wasn't the idea of the cub dying. It was the manipulation — the way they were forcing him to care. To connect. To feel.
He hadn't asked for this. Didn't want this. And yet, here he stood, arms wrapped around a trembling life that had already been written into a tragedy.
John finally looked up at the ninja, his face unreadable.
In his hands, the cub settled against his chest, letting out a small yawn.
Inside his mind, the voice whispered once more.
"Recognize the pattern."
John had long made peace with the fact that emotions were a permanent part of the human condition — like breathing or bleeding. You could suppress them, drown them, deny them. But in the end, they were there. Always. Lingering just under the surface.
That was why he lived the way he did. Every habit, every calculated detachment, every sharp-edged decision — all designed with one goal: never let the feelings creep in.
And until now, it worked.
But today, they cornered him.
There was no negotiation. No exit. No neutral ground. The cub warm, helpless, alive was shoved into his arms like a weapon carved from vulnerability. And it struck deep. Not in the way the others would notice, no. On the outside, he looked calm, even bored. But on the inside?
His mind was chaos in stillness.
Because John knew he was going to like this animal. That it would follow him, nuzzle him, look at him with dumb, trusting eyes. And that affection, that manufactured bond, would be used against him like a blade.
That was the pattern. And that was why his earlier assessment still held:
The dog would die.