Ajin in Dc

He tried to engage "Iron Flow" to absorb impacts, but his body flinched, causing him to lose his stance. He lunged for a "Dog Fang" hold, but his caution made him too slow, too easy to evade.

Each time, the mentor would exploit the opening, not with savage intent, but with an almost pedagogical precision, landing a non-damaging but jarring strike, or locking him into an inescapable hold. It was a lesson delivered through pain and frustration: the battlefield was no place for a novice's caution. His new understanding, meant to improve him, was, in the crucible of this combat, making him seem like a new baby who had just learned to walk. 

The assessment continued. John, despite his struggles, persisted. He moved, albeit clumsily, attempting to integrate his new, injury-averse mindset. The mentor, for his part, seemed to accommodate John's tentative approach. He didn't press with his usual relentless aggression, allowing John space to try out his newfound caution. There was no explicit praise, no nod of approval, but in the subtle shift of the mentor's own movements, John felt an unspoken acknowledgment. The mentor was allowing him to experiment, to flail, to learn the hard way.

This period of "accommodation" lasted for what felt like an eternity, but was likely only minutes. John continued to stumble, to miss opportunities, to be outmaneuvered by the mentor's effortless precision. He was a child learning to walk, and his teacher was patiently, yet firmly, guiding his falls.

Then, without warning, the mentor's demeanor shifted. The subtle give-and-take vanished. The precision remained, but it was now laced with an unrelenting, heavy-handed force. The blows that had before been jarring but controlled now landed with a visceral impact that shook John to his core.

A sudden, blurring strike, perfectly placed, caught John across the face, sending a spray of blood from his nose. He reeled, trying to apply his "Iron Flow Method" to absorb the shock, but the force was too great, the impact too direct. Before he could recover his balance, another strike, a powerful kick to the midsection, doubled him over, expelling the air from his lungs in a ragged gasp.

He tasted blood, his vision swam, and the world tilted. The careful, measured movements of the mentor had given way to a storm of precise, pain-inducing blows. John tried to defend, to parry with the "Broken Step," but his limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. Each impact was a hammer blow, designed not just to disarm, but to inflict deep, undeniable pain.

He stumbled backward, the ground rushing up to meet him. His dog, still watching intently from its spot, let out a distressed whine, its earlier growl replaced by a sound of pure agony. John tried to push himself up, his "Iron Flow" conditioning screaming in protest. His body, battered and broken, refused to obey. He coughed, a wet, rattling sound, and then, with a final, desperate tremor, collapsed onto the ground, his vision darkening, the taste of blood a bitter farewell.

The mentor stood over John's broken form, a single knuckle on his right hand glistening crimson. His gaze was as cold and unyielding as ever. "Progress was unsatisfactory," he stated, his voice devoid of emotion, "but you get a pass because you grasped the key to the training. See you again next month."

With that chilling pronouncement, the mentor turned and began to walk away, his steps as silent as ever.

A sharp bark pierced the oppressive quiet, stopping the mentor in his tracks. He turned, his cold eyes fixing on John's dog, which was now on its feet, a low, guttural growl rumbling in its chest, challenging the departing figure. For a moment, the dog's defiance met the mentor's icy stare, and in that silent battle of wills, the canine's ferocity wavered under the sheer, unyielding power of the mentor's gaze. The growl subsided into a whimper.

Just then, John groaned, a pained, desperate sound that immediately drew the dog's attention. With another bark, it sprinted to him, nudging his face, then began licking him frantically. It licked his hands, his face, even the blood smeared across his skin. John tried weakly to push it away, but his body, battered and bruised, refused to obey.

Sighing, a ragged breath that hitched in his sore ribs, John surrendered. He let the dog continue its ministrations, its warm tongue a surprising comfort amidst the throbbing pain. The dog persisted for a long while, a tireless act of devotion, before finally settling down beside him, a warm, furry weight against his aching side. John didn't know when the darkness claimed him, but the next thing he knew, he had closed his eyes and fallen asleep on the cold training ground.

When John next opened his eyes, the sun had already set, painting the sky in hues of deep violet and bruised orange. His body still protested, but the sharpest edges of pain had dulled, replaced by a pervasive ache. He could finally stand, though his legs felt like jelly, threatening to give out with every step.

He stumbled his way back to his room, the training ground's silence more profound now, almost deafening. As he moved through the complex, he noticed an unsettling quietness, punctuated by the faint, muffled sounds of sobbing emanating from various rooms. A chill crept down his spine.

It wasn't hard for John to process that some of the other trainees, those who had suffered more severe injuries or perhaps simply failed to meet the unforgiving requirements, might not have made it. Either their bodies had given out from the trauma, or the League's harsh judgment had been exacted.

John shook his head, pushing the chilling possibilities aside as he finally reached his own room. The gravity of his situation weighed heavily on him. He had received a pass, a reprieve, but it was a conditional one. The next assessment, he knew with absolute certainty, could very well mean his own death. He needed to find a way to heal faster, a method to overcome the paste's absence. More importantly, he needed to relearn everything he knew, to internalize the brutal lesson of controlled aggression and self-preservation without resorting to recklessness. His life depended on it.

Lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, John took a slow, deliberate breath. He noticed, with a detached sort of awareness, that the pervasive smell of blood in the room had either lessened, or perhaps, more disturbingly, he had simply grown accustomed to it. The metallic tang, once overwhelming, was now just a faint background note.

His mind, restless even in exhaustion, immediately gravitated to the most pressing problem: how to accelerate his healing. The answer, obvious yet fraught with risk, surfaced quickly: the newer recruits. They would still be receiving the green paste, oblivious to its hidden dangers. 

Yet, a fundamental question immediately halted his planning: would the League truly let him do as he pleased? On the surface, their current method of "training" seemed to suggest a callous disregard for their lives, a willingness to accept casualties. 

But that didn't negate the fact that the trainees, even the current broken lot, were still a significant League investment. A tremendous amount of money and resources were poured into their conditioning. If he were to actively hinder that investment by disrupting the supply of paste, it might not "sit well with the League" at all. And displeasing the League had proven to have fatal consequences.