His serene state gave him perfect internal awareness, but it did nothing to teach him the external physics of a thrown knife or the proper counter-weight of a sword. He could feel his arm move with flawless control, but the sword in his hand still felt foreign. A thrown kunai was a blur that his body couldn't instinctively predict. His rapid learning had hit a wall, a frustrating and dangerous disconnect between his mind and the new tools of his trade. He had to learn like a normal person, through painful repetition and slow, incremental progress.
Of course, this bridge began easier to cross, the more his body downloaded the uscle memroy of using these weapons, his power became once again effective and so it only took him eight months to master. John at this time has turned sixteen.
It was then he was moved to the next training, which as a place for ranged training. The training hall for ranged combat was a vast, open space with high ceilings and a cool, steady breeze that carried the smell of fresh earth and cut wood. This was where John would learn to kill from a distance, to be a ghost that strikes without being seen. His new instructor was a man with a certain arrogance to him, his eyes were sharp as that of an arrow. He didn't speak much to John, preferring to let his actions do the talking.
John seeing his mentor felt like he should know him as he looked similar to one of the green arrow villian. John didn't think much into it as all he was focused on was learning.
The bow and arrow were his first tools in the ranged combact training. John was taught to use the bow as a silent extension of his will. The focus wasn't on hitting a stationary target, but on shooting quickly and accurately from a variety of positions, crouched behind a wall, hanging from a ledge, or even while in motion. He spent weeks practicing with a variety of bows, learning the subtle differences in their draw weight and the way a different fletching could alter a shot. He was also taught to craft and use specialized arrows, from grappling arrows that could help him scale a wall to hollowed-out shafts designed to deliver a potent poison to his target.
Next came the continuation of his throwing daggers and stars training. The instructor would throw a dozen knives at him at once, and John was expected to deflect or catch each one. He learned how to throw a series of daggers in a single, fluid motion, a terrifying, shimmering arc of steel. He also learned how to use them as a distraction, to pin a target's coat to a wall, or to disarm an opponent without having to get close. The training was a brutal exercise in speed, accuracy, and the ability to think on his feet, a constant reminder that in this world, every move counted.
Finally, came the blowgun. This was a lesson in pure silence and stealth. The blowgun was a tool for the ghost, a way to kill without making a sound. John learned to create and use a variety of poisons, from a paralyzing agent that would leave his target helpless to a lethal concoction that would be untraceable. He spent hours practicing his aim, learning to hit a target from a great distance with a tiny, poison-tipped dart.
It took John only about six weeks to quickly grasp this training part. He was no green arrow or ever could be but he became very good or rather too good with the arrow.
The last thing John remembered was the dull hum of the league's training room, the rhythmic thud of his own breathing, and the bone-deep exhaustion that finally pulled him under. He'd fallen asleep on his bed, dreaming of a hot meal. He woke to a silence that was unnatural and a stillness that pricked his skin.
He was no longer in the spartan, concrete room he'd been assigned on the island. This room was rich with dark wood, heavy drapes, and the soft glow of a low-burning fire. Across the room, an old man sat in a high-backed leather chair, a thick book open in his hands. He was thin, with skin like a parchment stretched taut over sharp bones, and his eyes, when they lifted happened to meet John's.
The old man stood and moved with a terrifying grace. His feet made no sound on the polished wooden floor. It was as if he glided, a phantom in his own home. He stopped a few feet from John, his voice a dry rasp that was barely a whisper. "Fighting is a last resort," he said, the words cutting through the heavy silence. "An assassin's greatest weapon is their absence. The target is dead before they even know you were there."
The words barely registered with John. His mind was still reeling from the impossible change of scenery. He pushed himself off the bed and stumbled toward the nearest window, yanking back the heavy drapes. Below him, a river of light flowed, the red and white of countless cars weaving through a canyon of towering skyscrapers. The air was thick with the faint but undeniable aroma of exhaust fumes and city rain. Neon signs pulsed with vibrant energy, casting a colorful glow on the wet streets.
He was no longer on the island. The thought hammered at him, a cold, hard fact that left him breathless. He looked out at the bustling night city, his mouth agape. He had been taken from the desolate, isolated training ground and dropped into the heart of an unknown city. The league's methods were far more insidious, and their reach far wider, than he had ever imagined.
The old man's with his raspy voice, has shown gotten close to John without him knowing. "The next part of your training isn't something that can be taught," he whispered. "It must be learned. And I am your target in this training."
John whipped his head around, but the space behind him was empty. The chill of the old man's presence was gone, replaced by an unnerving void. Then, a hand fell on his shoulder. John jolted, pushing himself away and spinning to face his attacker. But the hand was gone, and the old man was now several feet away, a subtle smirk playing on his lips.
"This room is your prison and your sanctuary," the man continued, raising a brow at John's reaction. "You will live here until you pass. You're forbidden from leaving or stepping outside during the day. All of your needs will be met, but you will not leave these four walls until the sun sets."
He began to walk, his movements still silent and fluid. "You are only allowed to leave at night, and when you do, you will begin to hunt me."
He passed a large pillar, and for a fleeting second, John lost sight of him. But when the figure re-emerged, it was no longer the frail old man. Instead, a middle-aged man with sharp features and wearing a sleek, modern suit stood in his place. His voice was no longer a rasp, but a clear, commanding baritone.
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