Ajin in Dc

Amidst this personal struggle, John observed another significant shift, not just within himself, but among all the trainees. The weeks of shared pain, the unvarnished reality of their injuries, had forged an unexpected and profound bond between them. Where the League fostered a chilling environment of competition and detached efficiency, the trainees found solace in each other's presence.

But it was the pets that brought an even deeper, more surprising warmth to their wounded hearts. These animals, seemingly incongruous with the League's harsh training regimen, became beacons of unconditional affection. Even John, who had always strived for the League's stoic detachment, found his resolve wavering.

His own dog, a constant shadow, became a testament to this burgeoning connection. John witnessed the distress in his dog's eyes whenever he was in pain, the animal's small attempts to "help" – nudging a discarded water skin closer, whining softly when John winced. These simple gestures chipped away at John's carefully constructed emotional walls. He, who was becoming accustomed to the League's relentless, unfeeling patterns, found himself breaking those patterns for his dog. Sometimes, he simply couldn't resist the urge to pet it, finding a momentary escape from the relentless throbbing of his injuries.

Sharing his bed with the dog, its cute barks becoming the first sound to greet him after a night haunted by nightmares, slowly but surely eroded his emotional defenses. Despite the grim future he knew awaited both him and the dog in this unforgiving environment, John found himself powerlessly drawn into a deepening affection, a vital connection in a world that offered little comfort.

The isolation was even more profound for the other children. Accustomed to huddling together for comfort against the crushing loneliness of their situation, their severe injuries had made such simple camaraderie a thing of the past. Many could barely get out of bed, let alone engage in conversation. Their shared pastimes, once a lifeline, were now distant memories.

This stark reality pushed them further into the companionship of the pets given to them by the League. These animals became their sole source of comfort, their silent confidantes. One boy, in particular, had begun to talk to his crow as if it were human, pouring out his fears and frustrations. It didn't help that the crow was naturally intelligent, responding with knowing tilts of its head and soft caws, deepening their already unusual relationship.

The end of the month arrived with an unnerving swiftness, bringing with it the dreaded time for assessment. John was not fully healed; a dull ache still resided in his bones, a lingering testament to the past weeks of torment. Yet, he could move. His joints no longer protested, and he found himself capable of performing even some of the more extreme movements required of his martial art. He was ready, or as ready as he could be.

He made his way back to his usual side of the training ground, the familiar dust clinging to his boots. His mentor was already there, arms folded across his chest, a silent, imposing figure. The mentor said nothing, his expression unreadable, but his eyes flickered, just for a moment, to the slightly grown dog trailing faithfully behind John.

The dog, sensing the latent tension, let out a low growl, its hackles rising slightly as it regarded the mentor with clear suspicion. It instinctively recognized an antagonist. John, however, calmly laid a hand on its head. The dog quieted, its growl subsiding into a soft rumble. It found a spot to lie down, but its eyes, filled with an unwavering loyalty, remained fixed on the mentor, a silent promise to protect its companion.

"Get into your stance." The mentor's voice was a low, resonant rumble, cutting through the oppressive silence of the training ground. John, his muscles screaming a silent protest, forced his body into the familiar opening posture of the "Broken Step." His mind, however, was in turmoil, caught between the instinct to fight as he always had and the newly ingrained caution about injury.

The mentor moved first, not with a burst of speed, but with an unnerving, almost leisurely stride that nevertheless covered the distance between them in an instant. John reacted, attempting a classic "Broken Step" lateral shift, designed to disrupt the mentor's center of gravity and create an opening. But his movement was a fraction of a second too slow, too hesitant. Instead of smoothly flowing past, he merely stepped away, a defensive rather than offensive action.

The mentor's open hand, almost an afterthought, brushed past John's guard. It wasn't a strike, but a subtle deflection, throwing John's balance just enough to make his next defensive parry awkward. John, anticipating a follow-up, tried to shift his weight to absorb the blow using the principles of "Iron Flow Method," intending to let the impact ripple through his conditioned core and dissipate.

But the blow didn't come where he expected. Instead, the mentor's leg swept low, not for a knockout, but to tangle John's footwork. John stumbled, his "Broken Step" utterly compromised. His ingrained reaction, honed by countless exchanges with the paste as a safety net, was to take the hit and counter. Now, with the memory of weeks of lingering pain, he flinched, his body trying to pull away from the impact rather than meet it. This split-second hesitation was all the mentor needed.

A sharp, open-handed strike connected with John's ribs, not with concussive force, but with a precise, jarring impact that stole his breath and sent a white-hot spike of pain through his side. John gasped, doubling over, the discipline of the "Iron Flow Method" momentarily forgotten as his body instinctively recoiled.

He desperately tried to regain his footing, to initiate a "Dog Fang Grapple" and pull his opponent into a close-quarters struggle where his brute efficiency might stand a chance. He lunged forward, aiming for a wrist lock, a standard "Dog Fang" opening. But his movement was telegraphed, too wide, too predictable. The mentor simply rotated on the ball of his foot, a blur of motion that left John grasping at empty air.

As John overextended, the mentor's arm snaked out, not with a punch, but with a bone-chillingly precise grab. It wasn't an attempt to damage, but to control. John found his arm twisted, his shoulder locked, and suddenly he was being dragged and spun, not violently, but with an irresistible force that left him completely disoriented. Every attempt to leverage his "Iron Flow" internal strength against the hold felt like trying to push against a mountain.

He was like a puppet, manipulated by an unseen hand. The mentor didn't need to land a crushing blow; he merely needed to demonstrate absolute control. John's new, hesitant approach to avoiding injury made him predictable and vulnerable. He was no longer trading blows, no longer pushing through pain; he was avoiding it, and that avoidance had turned his once fluid and aggressive style into something tentative and unsure.

The assessment continued in this fashion, a masterclass in controlled dominance. John would attempt a maneuver, fueled by the memory of his past efficiency, only to falter when his subconscious urge to protect himself kicked in. He tried to apply "Broken Step" but moved too carefully, making his feints obvious.