The group finally reached their destination—a large dining hall. The sight of food should have been comforting, but after what had just happened, it felt like a cruel joke.
John exhaled slowly, forcing himself to breathe.
He had to survive. No matter what it took.
The dining hall was eerily quiet, save for the occasional clinking of utensils against plates. The usual sounds of children chattering, whispering, or laughing before meals were absent. The weight of what had just happened lingered in the air, pressing down on everyone. Some of the younger ones stared blankly at their food, hands trembling as they held their utensils. Others pushed their plates away entirely, their stomachs too twisted with fear to eat.
John, however, was not among them.
Neither were a handful of others.
Heads down, they ate in silence, shoveling food into their mouths, prioritizing sustenance over everything else. Fear would do them no good. Hesitation would only weaken them. In this place, survival depended on strength, and strength required fuel.
John's sharp eyes scanned the hall between bites. He took note of the ones who ate without hesitation—like him. These were the ones with survival instincts, those who understood the brutal reality of their situation. Potential allies. Potential threats.
Then, there were those who still couldn't bring themselves to eat. The ones who sat frozen, barely blinking, their faces pale and gaunt. The ones who flinched at every sound, still haunted by the echoes of dying screams.
They wouldn't last long.
John made a mental note of each face, categorizing them.
He didn't have time to dwell on it.
A familiar cold voice cut through the tense silence.
"Enough. Follow me."
Master Torren.
The room shifted immediately. Plates were abandoned, chairs scraped against the stone floor, and children scrambled to their feet. John was no different, except he grabbed hold of one of the larger steaks left on the table and tore into it with fierce determination.
Every bit of energy counted.
He followed the others as they moved, his teeth sinking into the meat.
Master Torren led them through the dimly lit corridors of the compound. The path was unfamiliar, winding deeper into the stronghold. John glanced around, memorizing the route as best as he could. They eventually emerged into a vast, open training hall. The walls were lined with weapons of all kinds—blades, staffs, bows—but none were handed out.
Master Torren stood before them, hands behind his back. His gaze swept over the group, lingering momentarily on those who looked pale and weak. Then, he spoke.
"In this world, weapons are tools. They are useful. They are deadly. But they can be lost, broken, taken from you." His voice was sharp, unwavering. "If you are to survive, you must become a weapon yourself. Your body. Your mind. Your fists."
He took a step forward.
"Today, we begin with the foundation—fist fighting. Many of you think of combat as swinging wildly, as strength overpowering all. That is the thinking of the weak."
His eyes locked onto one of the larger boys, a brute who had been among those eating without hesitation.
"Come."
The boy hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward, trying to look confident.
Master Torren barely moved.
One second, he was standing still. The next, his fist struck the boy's gut with a force that sent him crumbling to his knees, choking on his breath.
"Strength means nothing if you cannot apply it correctly," Torren said, watching as the boy gasped for air. "Precision. Control. Awareness of the Cold War. These are the elements of a true fighter. Not just brute force."
John narrowed his eyes. This didn't seem like a simple martial arts lesson. This was a culling. The weak would be broken down further. The strong would be sharpened like blades.
And he had to be one of the sharpest.
Master Torren let the boy wheeze on the floor for a few more seconds before addressing the rest of the group.
"If that is what one strike can do, imagine what a trained warrior can accomplish in a real battle. Strength is nothing without control. Power means nothing without technique. You will learn both."
With a flick of his wrist, he gestured toward the wooden training dummies lining the walls. A few older trainees stepped forward, grabbing some of the younger recruits and shoving them toward the dummies. John quickly moved to one of his own, his mind already working ahead.
"Recognize the pattern." He repeated the mantra to himself, tightening his fists.
He watched as the older trainee assigned to him said nothing but instead got into position and showed him how to throw a punch. John watched as the trainee threw quite a few punches at the dummy, before standing up and stood on the side like a statue.
John glanced around at the others. Some were already striking, throwing wild punches at the wooden figures. Others hesitated, looking to their neighbors for guidance. John's eyes flickered toward Master Torren, who watched them all with cold detachment.
John positioned himself before his dummy. He took a deep breath, steadying his stance, recalling every bit of knowledge he had about throwing punches and the routine just showed to him.
He threw his first punch.
The impact jolted up his arm. Pain flared in his knuckles. The wood was solid, unyielding. His body, despite feeling healthy from transmigration, was not conditioned for this yet.
Still, he gritted his teeth and struck again. And again.
A rhythm formed. Pain was acknowledged, then ignored. Breathing was controlled. He adjusted his stance, spreading his feet for balance, twisting his hips for more power. His strikes became sharper, more precise.
Around him, others groaned in pain, some already slowing, cradling their sore hands.
"Stop."
Master Torren's voice cut through the training hall like a blade.
Everyone froze.
Torren walked among them, observing. Some of the dummies had faint traces of blood on them from those who hit too recklessly. Others had barely been touched.
His gaze settled on a boy who had been throwing weak, uncertain punches. Without warning, Torren's fist lashed out.
A brutal crack rang out as the boy crumpled to the ground, gasping for air, clutching his ribs.
"Hesitation is death."
He turned to the rest of the group.
"You will train until your fists are weapons. Until your body moves without thought. Until hesitation is burned out of you, those who do not improve..." His gaze lingered on the boy writhing in pain. "Will not be here much longer."
"Continue" He said as he went back to his place.
John exhaled slowly as he looked down at his shaking hands and the slight torn flesh on it. He began to throw punches after punches only this time, the older trainees interfering, adjusting postures and making sure the right technique and force was used.
John didn't know how long he threw touches, maybe for an hour or maybe less but he zoned out until he heard Torren voice that said stop.
John stood drenched, his whole body shaking as he could barely stand or breath, his hand bloody and in a lot of pain.
John looked around, some children were on the floor puking, some tired but all they had in common was that everyone was tired.