Kaida led them on a silent, tense tour of their new "home." First, she showed them the barracks, a series of cramped rooms lined with metal bunks, no comforts to soften the cold, sterile atmosphere. "You will sleep here," she said. "Lights out at dusk, up before dawn. Anyone late to formation will face the consequences." Her tone left no room for questions.
Lying on the stiff mattress in his dimly lit bunk, John stared at the wooden ceiling, his mind restless despite the exhaustion gripping his body. The word Pattern echoed at the back of his mind, repeating over and over like a whisper he couldn't shake. It didn't matter to him, it was nothing new. It was esstential part of his life.
Survival. That was his first priority.
The League of Assassins was no joke, and he knew that if he wanted to make it out alive, he needed an edge.
"Do I have powers?"
It was the biggest question looming over him. Was he just an ordinary human who had somehow been lucky enough to heal through the process of transmigration? Or had something changed within him? He desperately hoped for the latter. If he had powers, it would give him a fighting chance. If not...
John clenched his fists. He would have to push himself through hell and back to survive. He would have to train, adapt, and endure whatever trials the League threw his way.
But before he could come up with a concrete plan, fatigue won the battle. His body gave in, dragging him into an uneasy sleep.
The next thing he knew, loud clanging and the sharp ringing of bells jolted him awake.
John's eyes snapped open, heart pounding in his chest. For a moment, disoriented, he thought he was back in his old world, waking up to an alarm clock. But the cold air, the unfamiliar scent of aged wood and metal, and the faint murmurs of voices around him reminded him where he was.
The League of Assassins.
His drowsiness evaporated instantly. He sat up, shaking off the last remnants of sleep, and instinctively scanned the room. His roommate, a boy around his age, was still snoring away. John barely spared him a glance before swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
The door was already open. On the floor, a neatly folded set of clothes and a pair of shoes lay waiting for him. It didn't take a genius to figure out they were meant for him. Without hesitation, he grabbed them, quickly slipping into the outfit—loose black training pants, a fitted long-sleeve tunic, and lightweight shoes that were comfortable yet sturdy.
As he adjusted his sleeves, he became painfully aware of the stale taste in his mouth. His breath wasn't exactly pleasant, and for a split second, he wondered if he had time to brush his teeth.
He peeked down the dimly lit hallway. A man dressed in full ninja attire stood at the end, motionless like a statue, watching over the scene as other recruits hurried to get ready. His mere presence exuded authority, a silent warning that no nonsense would be tolerated.
John gritted his teeth and quickly scanned the room. His eyes landed on a wardrobe in the corner.
Bingo.
He rushed over, pulling it open to reveal a sparse collection of basic hygiene supplies—soap, shampoo, a toothbrush, and a small tube of toothpaste. Grabbing a toothbrush, he dashed toward the bathroom, not knowing how much time he had before they were expected to assemble.
The moment he stepped inside, the cold, dimly lit space made it clear this wasn't a place for comfort. There were no mirrors, only a row of sinks with aged faucets. Wasting no time, he squeezed some toothpaste onto the brush and scrubbed furiously at his tongue. It wasn't perfect, but at least it got rid of the worst of the morning breath.
He spit, rinsed his mouth quickly, and wiped his face with cold water before heading out, heart pounding.
Day one, League of Assassins training. Let's see if I make it out alive.
As John stepped back into the hallway, he found that several children were already standing in line outside their rooms, their faces tense with exhaustion and uncertainty. Some looked barely awake, their movements sluggish, while others stood stiffly, their eyes darting around as if expecting danger at any moment.
John barely had time to process this when another ninja, dressed in the same dark attire as the first, appeared at the end of the hall. His voice was calm, almost emotionless.
"Follow me."
John instinctively glanced back at his still-sleeping roommate. The boy hadn't moved, his slow, steady breathing undisturbed by the morning commotion. He wasn't the only one. Other rooms still had kids either asleep or just waking up, rubbing the fatigue from their eyes.
No one said a word. No warnings were given. The ones who were awake followed the ninja, leaving the rest behind.
John turned forward and walked.
Behind them, the silent sentinel, the ninja who had stood motionless like a statue, finally moved. His steps were slow, deliberate, like a predator surveying its territory. He entered the nearest room, peering inside. Empty. He moved to the next. Empty. The third, however, was not.
Inside, a boy was still in the process of changing, fumbling with his tunic as sleep still clung to his limbs. He barely had time to turn before the ninja unsheathed the blade from his back.
A single, clean slash.
A scream.
Blood sprayed against the walls, a sickening splatter staining the wooden floor. The ninja walked out, the sword still dripping with crimson.
The sound of the child's dying wail was enough to alert the others left behind. Curious, terrified faces peeked from their rooms, only to be met with the sight of the bloodied ninja stepping into the hall. The realization of what was about to happen spread like wildfire. Fear distorted their expressions.
Then, the screams began.
Desperate. Panicked. Hopeless.
But no matter how much they screamed, it wouldn't save them.
John and the others in the procession heard the distant cries, their footsteps faltering for just a second. A shudder ran through him, cold and involuntary. But in the midst of the horror, the word returned, a whisper in the back of his mind.
"Recognize the pattern."
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palm.
This was inevitable. It didn't take a genius to predict it. Children kidnapped to be trained by assassins—there was a pattern to it. Ruthlessness was expected. Those who couldn't keep up, who hesitated, who showed weakness... they were culled.
He could have woken his roommate up. He could have warned the others.
But that would have been a mistake.
Adapt.
That was the first lesson. Survival required ruthlessness. Emotions had to be buried, locked away. If he broke down now, if he let fear dictate his actions, then he would be the one left bleeding on the floor tomorrow.
And in the end, those who survived would be the ones tasked with cleaning up the bodies.
"Recognize the pattern." John muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper.