Shepherd remained on the middle mat.
The ground under his feet was solid, yet his heart was beating louder than anything. His hands were bound. His arms were covered with sweat. The shirt was stuck to his back. The morning had been a drilling time, and now the actual test had arrived.
His teacher turned to him.
Tall. Masked. Calm. The man made every movement sharp and clean. As a knife that had been whetted by years of silent war.
Think not, said the man. His voice was like steel. "Trust your instincts"
Shepherd nodded.
He drew a breath.
Then another.
He needed to pass this training. The Syndicate had assured him power. Control.Zoya's wellbeing and Revenge.And that was his new purpose.
The initial attack was quick.
Too fast.
A hand was swung at his face and cut through the air. The elbow of his instructor came next, to his jaw. Most would have blinked too slow to notice it. However, Shepherd was no longer like most people.
He foresaw it before it actually occurred.
Not only the punch.
He caught the line of the shoulder.
He noticed the change of weight in the legs of the man.
He could read the twist of tension in the spine.
His body stirred.
He ducked sideways and the blow went through the air. He bent his knees, lowered his weight and turned in close. One arm was around the wrist of the instructor. The other fell in a close elbow lock. A clean move. Smooth. Precise.
The teacher grunted.
A gentle noise.
Then he smiled under the mask.
"Good. But too slow, he said. You are still responding. You have to be able to hit before the thought is made."
Shepherd was breathing hard.
His breast heaved.
The sweat on his face stung his eyes, but he didn't wipe it. His arms were already burning, his muscles heavy. But his mind was alive.
He nodded
System buzzed( training session continued)
His sight had changed long ago, but he was still learning how to use it.
It was not just sharper vision. It was something deeper. A way of seeing movement before it happened. A way of reading the shape of intent. The twitch of a finger. The pull of a breath. The glance of an eye.
He could see it all.
But seeing was not enough.
His body still needed to keep up.
There was always a bit of delay.
A second too long. One movement too wide.
The instructor stood tall again.
He raised his hand, gave a signal.
"Again," he said.
This time, Shepherd moved first.
He ran forward. His foot slid across the mat. He threw a sharp jab at the instructor's ribs. A quick feint. It was blocked, but that was what he wanted.
The real strike came next.
He spun, using the blocked arm as anchor, and swept low. His leg cut across the mat, hooking behind the instructor's knee. He pulled.
The instructor fell.
The impact echoed across the room.
The masked man coughed once, then looked up at him.
"Better," he said. "But you're still thinking too much."
Shepherd stared down at him, sweat dripping from his jaw.
He wanted to scream. Not in pain. Not in fear. In frustration.
He could feel the control. The edge. But it was still just out of reach.
The instructor pushed himself up slowly.
He spoke without looking.
"Cognitive sight is a gift. But also a chain. Use it. Do not become its slave."
The words sank deep.
Shepherd clenched his fists.
He nodded.
---
That night, his body ached from head to toe.
His room was silent. The floor was cold beneath his bare feet. The air smelled like metal and wires. His training clothes were soaked. His hands were red and raw.
He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at them.
His fingers were lined with new calluses. His arms had become thicker. His shoulders,more solid. His back no longer bent with weakness.
He was changing.
Not just his body.
In everything.
He was no longer that broken foster child.
He was no longer the wretched man trying to seduce an heiress.
He was no longer blind.
He was no longer helpless.
But the truth hurt more than the pain in his muscles.
There was no turning back.
Not now.
Not ever.
The quiet buzz of the room was broken by a sharp beep.
Then a voice.
"Shepherd Nexon. Report to the central operations room immediately."