Two weeks passed under a relentless rhythm.
Every day, Tomas trained until his body felt hollowed out—then worked as a doctor for Atlas Core Industry as if nothing inside him was breaking apart. By now, everyone in the compound knew his hands: steady, precise, unshaking even when blood soaked through bandages. His medical skill earned respect. His silence earned rumors.
They said he never smiled.
They said he slept little.
They said he trained more than anyone else.
And quietly, behind closed doors, they whispered something else.
That the doctor might also be from special forces and used to be a killer.
Tomas didn't care.
The training hall was barely lit, long shadows stretching across the concrete floor like dark water. Tomas moved through them in silence, his breathing controlled, every step measured. The rhythm of the place had become familiar to him—the faint hum of ventilation, the distant echo of metal, the subtle shift of air when someone moved too fast.
Mateo stepped into the hall and called out, "Tomas. Come here."
There was no answer.
Before Mateo could turn, Tomas emerged from the darkness behind him, so close that Mateo felt the chill of his presence before he saw him. Mateo allowed himself a brief smile.
"It's time," Mateo said calmly. "Time to show what you've learned—against real people."
Five men entered the hall. Security guards. Tomas recognized them instantly; he had treated their injuries before—broken knuckles, deep cuts, bruised ribs. They nodded to him, some with confidence, one with uncertainty.
One of them spoke, trying to sound relaxed.
"Doctor, you patched us up more than once. You're good at what you do. But this—" he gestured around the hall, "—this is our territory."
Mateo's voice cut through the moment.
"Give everything you have. No hesitation. If this were real battlefield, you'd already be dead for letting guards down."
Training weapons were distributed—wooden knives, rubber-bullet rifles. No lethal danger, but no room for mistakes.
Tomas said nothing.
He stood still, shoulders relaxed, eyes cold and focused. When the guards met his gaze, something shifted. Jaws tightened. Smiles vanished. One of them swallowed hard.
"Begin when ready," Mateo said.
Tomas took a single step backward.
The shadow from the wall swallowed him.
He was gone.
For half a second, none of them moved.
"Do not spread out," one guard whispered urgently.
They instinctively backed into each other, forming a rough circle, backs nearly touching. Weapons raised. Eyes scanning every dark corner.
The air felt colder.
A faint sound—something hitting the floor—echoed from the far end of the hall.
Two guards turned their heads toward it.
That was the mistake.
Tomas appeared beside the nearest guard like a distortion in the air itself. The man barely had time to register movement before a wooden blade brushed his neck—precise, controlled, fatal if real. In the same motion, Tomas drove his shoulder into the second guard's chest, a sharp strike that stole the air from his lungs.
Then Tomas was gone again.
Both men froze, realization hitting them at once. If this hadn't been training, they would already be dead.
"We're out," one of them said hoarsely, raising his hands. They stepped aside without protest.
The remaining three stood rigid. They were experienced fighters—but experience meant nothing when you couldn't see your enemy.
A wooden knife flew from the shadows.
One guard deflected it just in time. Another raised his training rifle and fired rubber rounds toward where the knife had come from.
Empty darkness.
Tomas was already behind him.
A sharp stab to the side—controlled, exact. A second touch at the neck. The guard collapsed to one knee, breath gone, eyes wide with shock.
The fourth guard reacted fast, blocking Tomas's next strike. He grabbed Tomas's knife hand, locking their arms. For a brief moment, they struggled—muscle against precision.
Tomas released the knife.
It dropped.
In the same instant, his left hand caught it mid-air. Three rapid strikes to the chest—tap, tap, tap—each one placed where organs would fail if this were real. Tomas stepped back and vanished again.
Only one guard remained.
Panic crept into the man's movements. He snatched up a dropped rifle and fired wildly into the shadows, breath ragged, finger shaking on the trigger.
Too slow.
Tomas appeared directly in front of him.
This time, Tomas chose restraint.
A slicing strike across the Achilles tendon. The guard collapsed. Tomas followed with precise cuts across the arm nerves, rendering the weapon useless. Finally, a controlled touch at the neck—close enough that the guard could see Tomas's eyes.
Cold. Green. Empty of hesitation.
The guard understood instantly.
He raised his hands.
"I'm done."
"Enough," Mateo said.
Silence returned to the hall.
Mateo looked at the guards.
"You had numbers. Training. Experience. And not one clean hit. You should be ashamed. Ten kilometers. Now. Think about every mistake you made."
The guards didn't argue. None of them even looked at Tomas as they left.
Tomas stepped out of the shadows and walked toward Mateo, his breathing steady, expression unchanged.
"So," Mateo asked, "how did it feel?"
Tomas considered for a moment.
"When they stayed together, it became harder. I need better ways to break formation—distractions, fear. They hesitated when they were afraid."
Mateo nodded slowly.
"That's the truth of close combat. Speed and precision aren't enough. Fear is a weapon. Learn to use it."
The word fear stayed with Tomas, turning over in his mind.
Then his phone rang.
Ben.
"Ready to try that weapon?" Ben asked. "Then you'll have to come help."
"I'm on my way," Tomas said immediately.
He turned to Mateo.
"Thank you. I'll be gone about a week."
Mateo watched him carefully.
"Don't forget what I told you."
Tomas didn't respond. He didn't need to.
He informed Viktor. Packed quickly. Showered. Changed to clear clothes.
Then left.
Tomas arrived at Ben's workshop before dusk. Even from a distance, the heavy rhythm of hammering metal filled the air—deep, repetitive, almost like a heartbeat. The closer he got, the more he felt it, not just in his ears but through his body. This wasn't an ordinary workshop. This was a place where objects were born for a purpose beyond beauty.
He opened the door, and a wave of heat struck his face. The air inside was thick with the smell of burned metal, oil, and sweat. Sparks burst from the machine Ben was working on, his movements fast and precise, as if he were no longer separate from the tools in his hands.
"Hey, Ben," Tomas called out, raising his voice over the noise.
Ben stopped. He shut the machine down and slowly turned toward Tomas, studying him in silence for a few seconds. Then he walked over quickly, scanning him from head to toe.
"You've changed," Ben said. "Not your face… your face is the same. Cold. Empty. But your body—yeah. I can see it. You've been training."
"Yes," Tomas replied calmly. "Knife combat."
Ben nodded, then suddenly held out his hand.
"Show me your palms. Both of them."
Tomas extended his hands. His palms were rough, scarred with fresh and old calluses, some split nearly to the point of bleeding from countless hours gripping a training knife.
Ben examined them carefully, even measuring the length of Tomas's palm and fingers, noting pressure points.
"Good," he said finally. "Now I know exactly what kind of handle you need. No compromises. Built for your hand alone."
He pointed toward a table.
"Take the keys. There's a small room upstairs with a bed—you can sleep there. But listen carefully: when I call you, you come immediately. I don't care what time it is or what you're doing. Understood?"
"Understood," Tomas replied without hesitation.
He took the keys and went upstairs. The room was simple—just a bed, a table, a dim light. Nothing else was needed. Tomas had barely laid down and closed his eyes when his phone vibrated.
Ben.
"Come down," Ben said—and hung up.
Tomas was on his feet instantly, running back to the workshop.
Ben handed him a knife.
"Prototype. I want you to test everything—strength, balance, precision, comfort."
Tomas took it. His movements were calm but sharp. A few controlled strikes into a prepared block—clean, efficient. Then a faster, harder motion.
The blade snapped.
Neither of them reacted.
"Good," Ben said flatly, already writing notes. "Too soft. We'll change the alloy. Reinforce the core."
He was back at work before Tomas even set the broken blade down.
This became the routine.
Tomas barely managed to fall asleep before Ben called him again. A new prototype. Another test. Another failure. Sometimes the blade couldn't handle force. Sometimes it failed under speed. Sometimes the shape was perfect, but the grip didn't feel alive in the hand.
Tomas never complained. He only tested. Without emotion. Without showing fatigue.
And Ben forged, melted, adjusted, reinforced.
Slowly, the weapon began to take shape.
Not just a knife—
but a tool designed for one man alone.
Tomas could feel it.
And he knew that once this work was finished, there would be no turning back.