And so, conflict lessened.
They continued to train.
And the year stretched on.
And so another year passed—another year of relentless kicking, of battered shins and calloused feet, of bones hardened through repetition and resolve. The trainees' legs had become weapons, equal to their fists in strength, discipline, and destructive potential. There was no glamour in the process—no thrill, no reward—just the quiet, grinding monotony of transformation. But it had worked.
When they were finally summoned once again to the training compound, the atmosphere was... Different.
The air felt heavier. The ground beneath their feet seemed to anticipate something more. John felt it too—not in his body, but in his bones, in the rhythm of the morning. Something was about to change.
Then, Master Torren stepped forward.
He didn't say much, as always. His presence alone was usually enough. But today, he allowed a rare flicker of expression—something almost like satisfaction—as his eyes swept over the remaining trainees, those few who had made it through two years of hell.
"You all," he said, voice low and firm, "have trained your young bodies into fine blueprints. Blueprints that can be built upon as you grow."
There was a pause, letting that sink in. Some kids stood a little straighter. John didn't move.
"Now," Torren continued, "your next training begins: Martial Arts."
His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. The words alone were enough to ripple through the trainees.
"A tool to bring out the true potential of your hardened fists and feet. A way to deal damage in forms you can't yet imagine. Precision, technique, control—this is where strength becomes art."
He turned without waiting, the matter settled. "Follow me."
No one hesitated. The group moved as one, silent and focused, falling in line behind him like shadows stretching in the morning sun.
They walked for a long while. Through courtyards and down stone paths that seemed untouched by the chaos of training. Eventually, they arrived at a large, old structure—nothing flashy, but ancient in a way that carried weight. Its doors were tall, its walls thick with time.
Torren stood at the threshold, his back straight as ever.
"Behind me," he said, "is the League's treasure trove. A vault of martial knowledge collected over generations—passed down, fought for, preserved."
He glanced back, eyes sharp now.
"You have one hour," he said, "to choose three martial arts manuals."
One breath passed.
"These will be the foundation of the fighting style you build. Choose poorly, and your death will be your own fault. Choose wisely, and you might just live longer than the rest."
The door opened with a deep groan, revealing rows upon rows of ancient tomes, scrolls, and bound texts lining wooden shelves like sacred relics.
And for the first time, the training changed from discipline... to decision.
The trainees hesitated—only for a moment—before rushing in.
John stepped into the archive as he was entering a quiet warzone.
The air inside was heavy, filled with the scent of dust, old paper, and sweat. Shelves lined the room from wall to wall, packed with manuals, scrolls, and aged books. Each one bore titles that hinted at long histories—some bold, some subtle, some in languages John had never seen before.
The other trainees spread out quickly, their eyes wide with curiosity, pressure, or panic. Some sprinted for shelves like the books might vanish. Others stood frozen, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of choice. There were titles that screamed power: "Crimson Tiger Roar", "Storm God's Path", "Ten Thousand Fists of Flame". Naturally, kids reached for those first.
But John didn't move.
He stood still, eyes scanning—not the books, but the people. Watching where they went, what they grabbed, and how they reacted. He knew better than to follow the crowd. The past two years had taught him the value of understanding the system. And this was part of the test.
He eventually started walking—calm, deliberate steps—past the flashy covers and confident kids. He wasn't looking for fantasy. He was looking for foundation. Something real, something that would stick.
And in a less crowded corner of the room, he found them. Three books. Quiet, unassuming, but with names that made sense to someone who had already been through hell:
1. "The Broken Step" – A style focused on movement and footwork, disrupting an opponent's stance and maintaining control of positioning. Not flashy, but essential.
2. "Iron Flow Method" – A system for conditioning the body through breathing, posture, and consistent tension-release cycles. Designed to strengthen from within and reduce the strain of impact.
3. "Dog Fang Grapple" – A grappling and close-combat manual, based on sheer efficiency. Break, trap, drag—no flair, no wasted motion, just control and brutality.
John read their descriptions slowly, flipped through a few pages, scanned diagrams. No grand promises, no talk of mastery in ten days. Thes
e were written plainly, like someone who knew that pain was part of the learning.
He took them.
Back at the entrance, Master Torren stood with arms crossed, watching each kid return. Some came back proudly, holding oversized books they could barely carry. Others were less confident, still unsure about their choices. A few lingered, hoping for more time, but when the hour passed, the heavy doors closed. Those who didn't choose were simply left behind.
"You've made your decisions," Torren said. "Those books are now your responsibility—and the only thing that will matter in the next year."
And just like that, the next phase began.
It began with leaving them with the martial arts manual to themselves, so as to create their own understanding of it, no guidance like they had at the beggining but soon everyone realised that the steps in the manuals was what they had learned in the past two years only this time the steps in the manual was more coordinated and had more than one purpose.
For about three months the training yard changed. The routines shifted. Every trainee now had drills specific to their chosen styles. Some practiced in groups with overlapping disciplines, others alone. Each session was grueling, and still paired with long school hours, nutrition blocks, and conditioning.
The punching and kicking never stopped—but now they were refined. Controlled. The same kids who used to throw wild haymakers now took precise stances, shifted weight smoothly, and struck with calculated intent.
John dove into his manuals. He memorized techniques, analyzed transitions, shadow-boxed when others rested. The Broken Step made his movements unpredictable. Iron Flow taught him to breathe through pain, keep his muscles active without burning out. And Dog Fang Grapple... it made him dangerous up close. He learned to bite, claw, elbow, trap, and choke without mercy.
Or so he thought.
Unknown to the trainees, they were not alone in their struggle. High above their training grounds, tucked in the dense canopies and shaded cliffsides of the island, eyes watched. Silently. Constantly.
A second network operated alongside the training camp hidden, ruthless, and composed of highly trained assassins. These were not instructors. These were the standard. The real products of the League. Cold, efficient, unfeeling. They had been observing every punch thrown, every step mistimed, every breath taken. The moment the children began deciphering the martial arts manuals, the evaluation began.