John, however, felt something else. Not fear. Not exhaustion. Anticipation.
He had expected this. The logic was simple—if they had spent a month breaking their hands and hardening their fists, it only made sense that next, they would do the same to their legs.
Torren took a step forward, his presence alone enough to silence the smallest of movements.
"You will kick until your legs feel like they no longer belong to you. Until you no longer think before striking. Until you understand that your entire body is a weapon."
He turned to one of the older trainees, a young man who had been here much longer than the rest of them. Without warning, Torren snapped his leg forward—a brutal, direct kick to the trainee's stomach.
The impact was sickening. The trainee doubled over, coughing violently, but he did not fall. Instead, he straightened, clenched his jaw, and returned to his stance.
Torren nodded approvingly.
"By the end of this training, I expect all of you to take a kick and remain standing."
John felt the weight of those words settle over the group.
Torren turned away and made a simple gesture.
"Begin."
The older trainees moved first, stepping toward the younger ones. Just as they had done with the fists, they began correcting postures, demonstrating the proper technique, ensuring that every kick landed with the right amount of force and precision.
John adjusted his stance, planting his feet firmly into the dirt. His body protested, his muscles already aching, but he ignored it. There was no point in hesitating. No point in resisting.
He lifted his leg and struck.
Again.
And again.
At first, it felt strange. Unlike fists, which had become second nature, his legs felt heavier, less controlled. He wobbled on some kicks, overextended on others. But he adjusted, observed, refined his movements with each strike.
Around him, the sounds of training filled the air—thuds of impact, sharp exhales, the occasional grunt of pain. Some of the younger trainees stumbled, falling to the ground after mistimed kicks.
The older trainees were merciless. The moment someone fell, they were kicked—hard.
John saw one kid take a blow to the ribs and curl up instinctively. Another was kicked across the shin, collapsing with a pained yelp.
John clenched his jaw. He would not fall.
His kicks grew stronger, sharper. His balance improved. He focused on the rhythm, the mechanics, the efficiency of movement. He wasn't the best—not yet—but he wasn't the worst, either.
Time blurred. He didn't know how long they had been kicking, only that his legs were screaming in protest. His muscles felt like they were tearing apart. But he kept going.
And then—
"Stop."
Torren's voice cut through the training yard.
John let out a slow exhale, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His legs trembled beneath him. He could barely stand.
He glanced around. Some of the trainees had collapsed the moment the order was given, their bodies unable to endure another second. Others stood, barely keeping themselves upright.
Torren observed them, his expression unreadable.
And then, just as before, the women in traditional attire entered the yard. Plates of green paste in their hands.
John already knew what was coming.
The woman who approached him carried the same scent—strong, herbal, almost overwhelming. She gestured for him to lift his leg.
Gritting his teeth, John obeyed.
The moment the paste touched his skin, the pain surged through him like fire. He barely bit back a scream, his body jerking involuntarily from the sensation. The stinging, the burning, the itch—it was like every nerve in his leg was being torn apart and rebuilt at the same time.
John let out a slow breath through his nose, willing himself to endure.
The others weren't as controlled. Cries of pain filled the yard, some louder than others. A few of the younger trainees collapsed, unable to bear it.
Torren simply watched.
Once every wound had been treated, he spoke again.
"Two hours."
The same as before.
"Then we continue." John let out another slow breath, steadying himself.
And so the days bled into months, and the months bled into a full year. A year of nothing but kicking, with the occasional punch thrown in like an afterthought. A year where the same daily routine repeated itself with ruthless precision—wake, train, eat, study, train, sleep, repeat.
Many didn't last.
At first, it was the weakest who fell, their bodies unable to withstand the endless punishment. But after that, it wasn't the body that broke—it was the mind.
Some lost the will to continue, staring blankly at their meals, unresponsive even as others ate around them. Some simply refused to rise for training, too hollowed out by exhaustion and hopelessness to move. Those ones didn't last long. They were taken away, replaced by new recruits—fresh faces full of confusion and fear, only to be worn down like the rest of them.
John, however, endured.
He was not normal.
Something had settled within him early on, something that allowed him to adapt where others crumbled. He recognized a pattern, and once he understood it, he accepted it. This was life. This was his job, just as a worker wakes up every day to perform the same task, just as a farmer wakes with the sun to tend to his crops.
John trained. John ate. John studied. John slept.
And he did so with a quiet, unshaken mind.
But there was one thing that disrupted the pattern.
It started subtly at first—just a change in posture, the way some kids carried themselves. A creeping arrogance.
The stronger they became, the more they wanted to prove it. To feel it.
Kicking wooden dummies until their legs no longer ached. Slamming their fists into solid walls without breaking skin. Watching the younger recruits struggle with what they had already mastered.
It gave the illusion of superiority.
John had not been immune to this feeling. He had begun to believe, just like the others, that he was something different. That what he had endured had made him special.
That illusion shattered the first time he was punched.
It had been another boy—someone John had barely noticed before. The conflict wasn't anything special, just a brief scuffle over space, over respect. It didn't matter what started it. What mattered was how it ended.
John threw a punch, fast and hard, expecting to see hesitation, to feel dominance.
The boy didn't hesitate, he struck back.
John didn't even see the fist before it connected with his chin.
It wasn't an ordinary punch. It was the same kind of punch John himself had trained to throw, honed through months of breaking and hardening flesh.
Pain exploded across his jaw, and for the first time in a long while, John stumbled. His vision blurred, his ears rang.
And in that moment, he understood.
This strength was not his alone.
Every single person in that yard had trained the same way, had hardened the same way. Every fist was as tough as his. Every kick as sharp. There was no "special" among them—only those who endured and those who didn't.
The realization spread like wildfire.
Fights still happened, but they ended quicker. There was no longer a desire to test limits when those limits had already been reached by everyone. No one was eager to be struck by a weapon identical to their own.