Ajin in Dc

The more he thought about it, the more John felt a cold certainty: he did not feel confident in being able to show an impressionable result in the next month's assessment. His body was failing him. The healing process, agonizingly slow without the paste, was simply not keeping pace with the demands of his training. 

To truly re-learn his martial arts, to integrate his new understanding of self-preservation into "Broken Step," "Iron Flow Method," and "Dog Fang Grapple" to transform his "baby steps" into a masterful controlled power, he needed to be in peak physical condition. He needed to push his body, but his body was resisting, still recovering from the last ordeal.

John was trapped in a suffocating dilemma. The path to faster recovery was dangerous, and the path of slow, natural healing seemed too long, too risky, given the next month's looming assessment. In a desperate attempt to find an alternative, he even forced himself to brave the League's cold, imposing library, hoping to unearth some ancient text or forgotten lore that might offer a less perilous way to help his body heal faster. 

The League's library was a vast, cold space of old tomes and scrolls, but for John, it proved to be a dead end. Hours turned into what felt like days as he scoured dusty shelves, searching for any mention of accelerated healing, alchemical remedies, or even obscure internal arts that might aid recovery. He found nothing of the sort, only treatises on combat, strategy, and the League's own convoluted history.

Disappointed but not entirely deterred, a new idea sparked in his weary mind: talking with his fellow trainees. He didn't hold high hopes. The League's rigorous environment and the competitive nature it instilled didn't exactly foster open sharing of secrets. Yet, he couldn't help but entertain the thought that perhaps, just perhaps, one of them might have chosen a martial art with a secondary focus on healing, or at least recovery. It was a long shot, but he was desperate.

It took time, navigating the various rooms and common areas, engaging in hesitant, often strained conversations with the other bruised and battered trainees. His initial skepticism proved largely justified. The overwhelming majority of the children, driven by youthful ambition and a superficial understanding of power, had chosen martial arts for their flashy names and promised destructive capabilities. They spoke of "Dragon's Claw Strikes," "Shadow Serpent Evasions," and "Thunderbolt Fists"—styles focused purely on offense and defense, on inflicting damage and surviving it, with no thought given to the aftermath.

To John's profound disappointment, none had bothered to choose martial arts that primarily served the purpose of helping with healing. Their focus was entirely on the fight itself, not the recovery from it.

The only sliver of progress he made was with a quiet, gaunt boy named Elias, who practiced a lesser-known internal discipline called "Serene Coil." Elias explained, with a hesitant voice, that while it offered no miraculous cures, it was designed for relaxing the muscles and improving blood circulation after strenuous activity. It wouldn't mend broken bones, but it could, theoretically, help reduce soreness and stiffness, aiding in a marginally quicker return to mobility.

It was a far cry from the immediate recovery of the green paste, but it was something. A small, hard-won piece of knowledge in a sea of overwhelming despair. It wasn't the breakthrough he desperately needed to face next month's assessment with confidence, but at least it was a step, however small, towards regaining some control over his battered body.

John, recognizing the meager but genuine potential of Elias's "Serene Coil," pulled every trick he could think of to convince the quiet boy to teach him. He cajoled, he reasoned, he even offered the few scraps of food he'd managed to hoard. Elias, however, remained withdrawn, wary of sharing knowledge that might, in this cutthroat environment, put him at a disadvantage.

What finally got through to the boy was John's unwavering persistence and a crucial offer: he promised to be Elias's sparring partner. In a place where reliable training partners were scarce, and where even a minor injury could cripple a trainee for weeks, a steady, committed partner was an invaluable commodity. Elias, his gaunt face slowly brightening, finally agreed.

Learning "Serene Coil" was a stark departure from the explosive movements of "Broken Step" or the brutal efficiency of "Dog Fang Grapple." It was days of patient instruction, of John's restless energy being forced into stillness. There were no excessing movements, only the meticulous pursuit of specific, often uncomfortable positions, holding them for extended periods, and focusing on intricate breathing patterns. It was just like yoga, a discipline of internal control and gradual flexibility, a stark contrast to the external force of his other arts.

The effects were not immediate, as subtle as the art itself. It took a while for John to even feel the difference, to notice the minute release of tension in his perpetually tight muscles. But slowly, gradually, he began to feel a deeper sense of relaxation, a subtle improvement in his body's ability to recover from the lingering aches of past injuries.

Just like that, a week passed. The painful progress, measured in small degrees of flexibility and reduced soreness, felt agonizingly slow. Now, John and the other trainees had only three weeks left until the next assessment. The thought was a cold knot in his stomach.

It wasn't until the middle of the following week, two and a half weeks into the month, that the tranquility of "Serene Coil" was abruptly shattered. John was in the open space of his room, his body contorted into a particularly challenging position, his mind entirely focused on controlling his ragged breathing, when a sharp, insistent bell rang through the compound. The sudden, jarring sound echoed through the sterile halls, pulling him violently from his meditative state. It was a sound he knew meant immediate, unavoidable attention.

The sudden clang of the bell reverberated through the compound, a sound that ripped through the present and plunged the trainees back into their most primal fears. For these children, this wasn't just a bell; it was the unholy soundtrack to a year of terror, a nightmare they had lived through when first brought to the Island. It was the summons that preceded unimaginable hardship, the harbinger of pain.

John's body reacted before his mind fully processed it. He snapped to attention, abandoning his "Serene Coil" posture, standing ramrod straight before the cage-like entrance to his room. All along the corridor, other trainees, their faces pale and drawn, mirrored his action, their aching bodies moving with a speed that defied their injuries, a testament to the deeply ingrained fear the sound invoked.

Down the long corridor, a solitary figure stood, silhouetted against the dim lighting. It was a ninja, clad in dark, flowing garments, two swords crossed on his back. His voice, when it came, was flat and devoid of warmth: "Follow me."

Without another word, the ninja turned and began to walk away, his movements as silent and fluid as a shadow. The trainees exchanged anxious glances, a silent question passing between them, before they hesitantly fell in line, a procession of haunted children trailing after their silent guide.