As John joined the shuffling line, he caught a figure detaching from the others, making their way purposefully towards him. It was Elias. For some reason, the quiet boy had latched onto John, seemingly believing that their shared lessons in "Serene Coil" had forged a bond of friendship.
Elias tapped John lightly on the shoulder, his voice a nervous whisper. "What do you think we are about to do? I thought we were done with classes?"
John glanced at him, his face a mask of weary detachment, and said nothing. Elias, however, seemed oblivious to John's stoicism. "Come on," he pressed, a flicker of desperate hope in his eyes, "I know you might have some ideas."
Suddenly, Elias clapped a hand over his own mouth, his eyes widening in alarm. The ninja, walking several paces ahead, had somehow, impossibly, closed the distance between them. He stood just a few feet away, his head slightly turned, his gaze fixed directly upon them. Though no words were spoken, the message was clear, chilling.
John, with a cold, impassive look on his face that perfectly mimicked the League's own detached brutality, simply continued his walk leaving Elias alone to deal with the ninja. He understood the unspoken rules of this place far too well to risk attracting unwanted attention.
The ninja paused, standing silently beside Elias for a moment that stretched into an eternity. Though no words were exchanged, the ninja's very presence, his unmoving, dark form, was a potent rebuke. Then, with the same fluid grace, he turned and resumed his walk, leaving Elias trembling. The boy took a long, ragged breath, clutching his chest, before falling back into line. This time, he didn't try to speak to John; he merely glanced at him, a flicker of resentment in his eyes. John, oblivious or uncaring, continued forward, his expression fixed and distant.
The journey led John and the trainees to a whole new location, a sprawling compound they had never seen before. They were ushered inside a vast, cavernous hall. The air within was thick with the heavy, sweet scent of incense, which brought a peculiar and almost immediate sense of relaxation, a stark contrast to the fear that had gripped them just moments before. The hall was also filled with the gentle, rhythmic sound of flowing water, a soothing murmur that contributed to the strange tranquility.
At the front of the immense hall, standing with an air of quiet authority, was a figure John hadn't seen in a long while: Master Torren. And beside him stood another, even more imposing presence. He was an old, light-skinned man with an aura of ancient power. His white hair, long and flowing, extended to his shoulders, though the top of his head was completely bald. A magnificent white mustache cascaded down his cheeks and under his chin. A large, jagged scar bisected his chest, and a smaller, more recent scar ran from his forehead, just under his milky left eye.
John's mind reeled. He knew who this man was immediately. The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place, forming a terrifying picture of why they had been summoned. This was Sensei, one of the oldest and most legendary masters of the League. Rumors of his abilities bordered on the mythical. He remembered the old man being damn near superhuman with his martial arts, capable of feats that defied human comprehension. He was able to to walk on magma with no apparent damage, a living embodiment of the league power.
Despite the unsettling aura of Sensei and the lingering pain in his body, John couldn't help but feel a tremor of excitement. He had pieced it together. This wasn't just about combat prowess anymore. With Sensei's presence, the legendary feats, and the sheer antiquity of the man, John knew he was about to be introduced to the mystical part of the DC universe. He was on the cusp of a revelation, a deeper layer of existence that he had only ever glimpsed in fragmented tales.
Then, Master Torren spoke, his voice cutting through the incense-laden air. It was his usual gruff tone, but this time, it was laced with a startling, joking quality he had never displayed before. "You all look like shit," he declared, a hint of mirth in his eyes.
The trainees' expressions, a mixture of pain and apprehension, were impossible to maintain. They stood rigid, surprised that Master Torren was capable of having such a light tone. A ripple of incredulous whispers almost broke the solemn silence. It seemed Master Torren had anticipated their reaction, for a low chuckle rumbled in his chest, and he began to laugh, a deep, unexpected sound that filled the grand hall.
Sensei, ever in his serene state, offered a soft, dismissive scoff, a sound that nevertheless commanded immediate attention. Master Torren's mirth instantly vanished, his expression snapping back to one of unyielding seriousness.
"I know you all have been going through hell for the last past months or week," Master Torren's voice was now sharp, cutting through the last remnants of their surprise. "But being able to stand here today means you understand why the League took the paste away from you." He paused, his gaze sweeping over their battered forms, each lingering bruise a testament to their painful lesson.
"You stand here today as you will receive another lesson," he continued, his voice gaining a chilling edge, "which will determine if you can survive this last stretch or not." The words hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder that even after all they had endured, their ultimate survival was far from guaranteed.
With Master Torren's ominous declaration hanging in the air, he stepped aside, making way for Sensei. The old master glided forward, his movements so fluid they seemed to defy his age. His voice, when he spoke, was surprisingly soft, yet it carried an undeniable authority, a profound calm that settled over the anxious trainees. "You all can call me Sensei," he began, his milky eye sweeping over each of their faces. "For the next one week, we will be staying together."
His words then shifted, delving into a philosophical treatise on the nature of existence, delivered with a detached, almost melancholic tone. "Humans have limits," Sensei stated, a simple truth that resonated deeply with their bruised bodies. "We grow old, we get sick, easily bleed from something as weak as a paper, or suffer broken bones from not walking right or falling off a step."
He paused, letting the vulnerability of the human condition sink in. "Martial arts was created to combat this weakness when humans had nothing but hand and cold weapons as the only tool to fight. Through martial arts, one could potentially reach the limit of what a human is capable of." John heard a spark of pride from Sensei, a resonance with his own dedication to his arts.
"But that is where it ends," Sensei continued, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "One can still fall back into the normal weakness of human: old age, sickness, and death. Most embarrassing of all is a supposed martial arts master can be taken care of with a handful of men who comes with the right plan and equipment."