"The more you quiet the mental chatter, the less energy is wasted on unnecessary thoughts and emotional turbulence. This conserved energy then becomes available for conscious direction. This is the first, crucial step towards genuinely understanding and, eventually, manipulating your chi."
"For now," the Sensei concluded, his voice softer, "simply breathe. Observe. And patiently, diligently, cultivate the stillness that will be the foundation of all your future power."
John settled onto the mat, crossing his legs as Sensei instructed, a flicker of images from his past – glimpses of monks and mystics in serene contemplation – affecting his posture. He closed his eyes, focusing on the Sensei's steady voice.
True to Sensei's words, the initial moments were deceptively simple. Following the guidance felt natural, a gentle rhythm of breath and awareness. But as time stretched, the quiet stillness began to fray. Random thoughts, like mischievous imps, started to pop into his mind. Did I leave the window open? What's for dinner? That fight earlier, I should've done this... He'd catch himself, sometimes minutes later, realizing he'd been lost in a mental tangent, entirely detached from his breath and body.
Each time he snapped back to awareness, a wave of frustration washed over him. He'd try harder, clenching his jaw, forcing his focus back to his breath. But the harder he tried, the more resistant his mind became. It was a vicious cycle: the more he struggled, the more thoughts surged forward, each one making him feel like a failure. What should have brought calm was, paradoxically, breeding stress. The very effort to achieve stillness was creating internal chaos.
Sensei observed the struggling youths with an impassive gaze. He didn't mind their visible frustration; in fact, he expected it. This training was crucial for future assassins, even if most would never achieve the deeper levels of chi manipulation. For the League, the primary goal of this initial meditation wasn't necessarily mystical power, but a far more fundamental skill: the ability to still the mind under pressure.
As assassins, their lives would depend on making critical decisions in chaotic situations. They needed to be able to tune out distractions, control their fear, and maintain absolute mental clarity when every second counted. Whether facing an armed adversary or navigating a complex infiltration, a mind plagued by doubt or panic was a lethal liability. This struggle, this wrestling with their own internal chaos, was the crucible in which that essential mental discipline would be forged.
An hour later, Sensei's voice cut through the strained silence. "That is enough for today. Be here early tomorrow to continue."
John and the other trainees slowly rose, looking utterly drained. You'd expect sitting still for so long to leave them energized, but it was the exact opposite. Their shoulders were slumped as they shuffled out of the hall, something they'd assumed would be easy proving far harder than punching through wood.
Yet, despite their exhaustion, their eyes held a different resolve. Years of brutal training had instilled in them an unbreakable will. This struggle, this maddening pursuit of stillness, was a new kind of challenge, but one they would meet head-on. They would try again, once they got back to their rooms. This, they knew, was the closest the League had ever come to offering them a path to true survival. Mastering this meant they might live to see another day, to glimpse a life beyond the cage the League currently held them in.
John was no different. The moment he stepped into his stark, familiar room, the intention to meditate again solidified. Due to his injuries, there was little else to do. He settled onto the floor, closing his eyes, and tried to recapture that initial, fleeting sense of calm. But for some reason, it was even harder. The frustration from the hall seemed to cling to him, the recent memory of his mental struggles making it almost impossible to fall back into the state he'd managed, however briefly, before. The more he pushed, the further the elusive calm retreated.
He opened his eyes, glancing at his dog, peacefully asleep on its side of the room. Why is it so hard now? What was different then? John's mind began to race through the sensory details of the hall. Was it the simple mat beneath him? The hushed, almost reverent atmosphere of the training space? He remembered the faint sound of waves crashing against the shore, a steady rhythm that had been strangely soothing. And then, a memory, subtle but distinct: a delicate, unfamiliar scent.
"Incense," John muttered to himself, the word resonating in his mind. That had to be it. The League wasn't above using unusual methods, like their "green paste." Incense, while seemingly mystical, wasn't far-fetched for an organization that blended ancient practices with ruthless efficiency. It made sense that they would use every tool at their disposal, even subtle atmospheric aids, to facilitate their trainees' progress.
John felt a cold wave of realization wash over him. He began to see a pattern, a chillingly calculated game. The League, it seemed, was exhibiting the behavior of a fisherman with bait. They would offer these seemingly small, helpful objects – a specialized mat, a calming atmosphere, the subtle scent of incense – things that made them appear almost benevolent, even graceful.
And he, along with the other trainees, not knowing any better, would bite. They'd take the bait, enjoy the fleeting ease and comfort it provided, only for the League to snatch it away. Leaving them parched and starved, struggling, confused. What type of control is this?
John didn't know enough about psychology to name the specific game the League was playing – was it operant conditioning? Designed dependency? – but he was profoundly thankful he'd picked up on this cue. From now on, he resolved, he would be exceedingly careful about accepting anything seemingly given away by the League. Every gesture of ease, every subtle aid, likely had a hidden cost, a deeper purpose in their grand design of control.
His maturity, perhaps a consequence of the harsh realities he'd already faced, allowed him to see this pattern. The other trainees, younger and less jaded, likely wouldn't have noticed. John could almost predict the rising frustration, the internal clamor of their minds, as each one struggled in their spartan rooms, unable to replicate the fleeting calm they'd found in the hall. They'd blame themselves, not the orchestrators of their discomfort.
But for John, locating the source of his problem, understanding the League's manipulative tactic, seemed to untangle some knot in his own mind. He closed his eyes once more, and this time, the tension in his shoulders eased. The breath felt deeper, more natural. The chaos of his thoughts, while still present, no longer felt like an insurmountable barrier. He hadn't mastered meditation, not by a long shot, but a crucial piece of the puzzle had clicked into place, and for the first time since leaving the hall, the elusive calm began to seep back in.
John maintained the fragile calm, his focus unwavering as he tried to sense the "hum" Sensei had spoken of. He waited, listened intently to his body. Nothing came, or rather, only the deceptive whispers of his own mind—phantom sensations, illusions where his brain seemed to conjure something out of nothing, only for it to dissipate when he probed.