Eventually, John and the other newcomers were dismissed, guided back to the dining hall. Unlike earlier, no one hesitated to eat this time. Hunger had stripped them of pride and decorum. Some, whose hands were too weak to grasp utensils, abandoned all pretense of manners. They bent over their plates like starving animals, using their mouths and tongues to scrape up every last grain of rice, every sliver of meat.
John himself couldn't hold onto a spoon or chopsticks. His fingers trembled too much, refusing to close properly. So, he did the only thing he could—he lifted the bowl with both hands and drank the meal like it was a bowl of soup, letting the mixture of rice and meat slide down his throat without care for appearances.
His eyes, however, weren't just on his food.
Across the table, his attention was drawn to a small but significant power struggle. A young trainee had been assigned the task of stopping others from feeding. A brutal exercise in dominance and obedience. John could see the hesitation in the kid's eyes, the silent war waging inside his mind. The boy knew what he was supposed to do, but some part of him resisted.
For a brief moment, it seemed as though he would let it slide.
But in the end, instinct—or fear—won out.
With a sudden movement, he shoved another trainee off the bench, sending him sprawling onto the floor. A sharp gasp ran through the room, but no one moved to help. The fallen boy barely had time to react before a foot came crashing into his ribs, knocking him further away from the table. The aggressor wasted no time, taking the vacated seat for himself and digging into the stolen meal.
John expected it to end there.
It didn't.
The kid who had been thrown aside was no pushover. With what little strength he had left, he scrambled back to his feet, his body trembling from exhaustion but his eyes burning with defiance. Without warning, he lunged at his attacker, tackling him off the bench and sending both of them crashing to the ground.
The other trainees barely spared them a glance.
Nobody had the energy to intervene.
None of the watching ninjas made a move to stop them.
This was just another part of their training. Another lesson in survival.
John kept eating, watching the fight unfold with dull, tired eyes. Then, as if on cue, another ninja entered the room. His presence alone was enough to bring the fight to an immediate halt.
"Follow me."
Neither boy protested. They simply got to their feet, breathing heavily, and fell in line with the rest of them.
This time, John and the other recruits were not led to the training grounds. Instead, they were taken somewhere new.
A classroom.
John's exhaustion dulled his surprise, but the contrast between the brutal training and the sight before him was jarring.
The room was simple but refined, with rows of wooden desks, a chalkboard at the front, and a few scrolls mounted on the walls, their faded ink speaking of history and discipline. The air smelled of aged paper and ink, a stark contrast to the sweat and blood-stained training grounds.
John took his seat without question, his instincts already telling him that this was just as important as their physical training.
And so the days bled into weeks, and weeks into a month, months into a year.
The cycle was brutal in its simplicity—strike, heal, strike again, eat, study, sleep. Nothing else. No weapons, no techniques beyond fists, no mercy.
John's knuckles had hardened beyond what he thought possible. The first few days, he could barely close his fists from the pain. By the second week, his skin no longer split with every punch. By the end of the fifth month, his strikes felt like they could crack bone.
But the real test had not been the training. It had been the nights.
John had suspected it from the start. The moment they were led to their dormitories after the first day of training, the truth had been laid bare before them.
Blood. Corpses.
Their roommates, their fellow recruits—those who had not made it through the day. Some had failed the training. Some had collapsed and never gotten back up. Others had simply been too slow to recognize the pattern.
And now, it was the survivors' job to clean up the mess.
There had been no guidance, no instructions. Just a simple, unspoken rule—if your room was filled with corpses, you had to clean it up before you could rest.
John had done so without hesitation. Others, however, hesitated. Some were too shocked to move. Some refused to accept it. And those were the ones who lost their beds that night.
John and many others recognized the opportunity. They immediately targeted the rooms that had remained untouched—the rooms of those who had hesitated, those too afraid to step over the bodies of the fallen.
It was a simple rule: if you didn't fight for it, you didn't deserve it.
John himself had barely been able to move his arms, his hands swollen and useless after a full day of training. When another kid tried to take his new bed, John hadn't used his fists.
He had used his teeth.
He latched onto the boy's throat and bit down hard. Hard enough to break the skin, hard enough to taste blood.
He didn't let go until the kid choked on his own screams.
By the time John released him, the message was clear.
No one else tried to take his bed that night.
No words were spoken. No complaints were made.
John laid down on his new bed, closed his eyes, and let sleep take him.
Tomorrow, the cycle will begin again.
One year had passed. A year of relentless, grueling training, of bloodied knuckles and sleepless nights. The weak had been culled, the hesitant eliminated. Those who remained had become harder—physically, mentally, in ways that couldn't be measured but were undeniable.
John's hands no longer split open with every punch. His skin had toughened, his bones had hardened. He could punch for hours without flinching. He had learned how to endure, how to ignore pain, how to survive.
And now, they were gathered again in the training yard.
The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of sweat and dried blood. The trainees stood in formation, their bodies sore, their minds sharpened by routine. But today was different. There was no immediate order to begin striking. No command to raise their fists.
Master Torren stood before them, his cold eyes scanning the group. He observed them with the quiet scrutiny of a man inspecting weapons rather than people.
A minute of silence stretched into two. No one dared speak.
Then, finally, his voice cut through the air like steel.
"One year. That is how long it took for you to become competent with your fists. For your bodies to learn pain, for hesitation to be burned out of you. But fists alone will not make you weapons."
His gaze swept across them, lingering on the bruises, the scars, the hardened expressions.
"Now, you will learn to kick."
A murmur ran through the younger trainees—some subtle shifting of feet, a few exchanged glances. They were not foolish enough to speak, but John could see the tension in their bodies. They were already tired. Already worn. And they knew what was coming.