He ran through the League's usual methods: leverage, fear, ambition, desire for power. None of it fit John. John didn't crave power beyond its utility for his own existence. He didn't seem to fear anything enough to be truly controlled. His ambition was singularly focused on self-preservation and growth, not on external validation or leadership.
The thought gnawed at him. His father had seen it, clearly, right in front of them. Was it something so obvious that Ra's had overlooked it in his complex strategic analyses?
He stopped pacing, his gaze falling upon the empty teacup. John's existence was a problem, yes, but also an opportunity. A puzzle. And Ra's al Ghul, the Demon's Head, prided himself on solving the most intricate of puzzles. He just had to find the right leverage, the right angle, the one thing that John couldn't or wouldn't sacrifice.
John, meanwhile, was rarely seen this week, emerging only for his meals. His days were consumed by the vast, quiet expanse of the League's libraries. He delved deep into anatomical texts and ancient medical scrolls, absorbing every detail about the human body. This knowledge, he'd found, was becoming utterly essential the more he gained control over his own physiological functions.
His grasp over his body was far from superhuman, but it was approaching the realm of what an elite, perfectly conditioned human could achieve through immense discipline. Like a master of self-control, John could now subtly slow his heartbeat to conserve energy, making himself appear almost unnervingly still. He could regulate his breathing to a shallow, almost undetectable rhythm, allowing him to hold his breath for extended periods or move silently through the darkest corridors.
He learned to consciously control his pain receptors, dulling the searing agony of an injury to maintain focus, though the damage itself remained. He could tighten or relax specific muscle groups with unparalleled precision, enabling incredibly efficient movement or sudden, explosive power without wasted motion. This level of internal command allowed him to manage minor injuries on the fly, and optimize his stamina better.
The day of the last assessment dawned, quiet and expectant. John woke as usual, slipping into his training gear. He indulged in a brief meditation session, not to cultivate Chi, but simply to center his mind, to find that core of peace amidst the swirling anticipation. All he needed was to survive this final assessment, to prove his worth and see what the League truly had planned for its successful "assets." Surviving this trial meant earning another day, another chance to pursue his own objectives.
Walking into the training ground, John immediately noticed a crucial difference: his mentor was nowhere to be found. This was highly unusual. His mentor was a creature of habit, always present before John, a silent, imposing figure awaiting the challenge. John, a deeply patterned person himself, found this deviation unsettling. He stood still, patiently waiting, but minutes stretched into what felt like an eternity, yet his mentor remained conspicuously absent.
It was then a small sound caught John's ear. It was so faint, barely a whisper of movement, that it seemed like an illusion, easily dismissed. But the subtlety of it, its almost-nothingness, immediately put John on edge. He tensed, every sense reaching out, straining to discern its source, but then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the sound was gone. Everything about today was off-routine, everything was going wrong, and John's finely tuned instincts screamed that this was no accident.
And with that unsettling realization, John momentarily boosted his adrenaline, his physical qualities sharpening instantly. His already heightened senses surged, and with that razor-sharp focus, he noticed something immediately: a subtle disruption in the canopy of a large, ancient tree at the edge of the training ground.
John did his best not to overtly direct his gaze, not to give away his awareness. Instead, his newly amplified hearing zeroed in on the faintest sound emanating from the branches above—a very long, slow, deliberate breath, almost imperceptible. Someone was up there, perfectly still, observing him.
Just as quickly, John ended the heightened state, letting his adrenaline levels return to normal. He consciously relaxed his muscles, easing the tension in his shoulders. Then, with a carefully cultivated expression of annoyance, as if simply tired of waiting, he began to walk casually towards the tree. Each step was as normal as it could seem, devoid of suspicion, until he was directly beneath its heavy boughs. Without looking up, John simply sat down, crossing his legs, and closed his eyes.
John's mentor, a silent shadow among the leaves, narrowed his eyes at John's unexpected action. Was it a coincidence, or had John deliberately chosen this tree, his place of concealment, to sit beneath? The thought, unsettling as it was, was quickly dismissed.
The mentor's eyes steeled with resolve. Coincidence or not, it changed nothing about his objective. His hand went to the hilt of the sword sheathed on his back. Keeping his movements as silent as ever, he moved along the tree branch, shifting to an adjacent tree, where he braced himself, his body tightly wrapped around the trunk, leaving his sword hand free.
John, who was now expertly faking his meditative state, suddenly sprung to his feet with explosive speed and rolled, the cold glint of a sword flashing through the space where his head had been moments before. He created distance, his eyes locking onto his mentor, who now stood where John had been sitting, the gleaming blade held ready.
"It wasn't a coincidence after all," his mentor stated, his voice flat, his gaze piercing. John didn't respond, his attention fixed not on his mentor's words, but on the weapon itself. It was a traditional katana, its polished surface reflecting the faint light, a deadly extension of the man who wielded it.
His mentor seemed to catch John's gaze, raising the sword and pointing its tip directly at him. "Today's assessment is life or death. Only one of us is leaving this compound alive, and I plan on being the one."
John's face became a mask of cold resolve as his mentor's words settled over him. "Life or death." No further explanation was needed, no pleas, no questions. In this place, with this League, such declarations were simply useless. It was do or die.
This time, his mentor made the first move. The katana, a blur of silver, arced in a downward diagonal slash, aiming to cleave John from shoulder to hip.
John reacted with a desperate surge of Chi, his body a fast blur. He twisted, not away, but into the attack, utilizing The Broken Step to disrupt the mentor's angle and narrowly slipping beneath the blade. The cold whisper of displaced air brushed his scalp. His counter was immediate and instinctual: a Dog Fang Grapple aimed at the mentor's sword arm, hoping to bind or disarm. But the mentor was too quick, his Chi-enhanced reflexes allowing him to pull back the blade, pivoting away from John's grasp.
The blade became a living extension of the mentor, dancing with lethal grace. It feinted, parried, and thrust with blinding speed.
John, now constantly channeling his own Chi, was forced into a desperate dance of evasion. His Iron Flow Method, so effective against blunt force, was useless against the razor edge of a katana. He couldn't block; he could only avoid.
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