John maintained his own heightened state, observing her closely. He noted the exact moment her breathing became shallow and rapid, the involuntary clenching of her fists. This was the raw data he needed.
"Breathe, Anya," John commanded, his voice calm but firm, cutting through her mounting panic. "Focus on my voice. You are safe. This is a test. Your body is reacting, just as it should." He continued to hold his own amplified, menacing presence, but he subtly eased the direct external push on her adrenaline. He wanted to see if the internal cascade he'd initiated in her would continue on its own, or if it would subside once his active influence lessened.
Anya's breathing slowly, shakily, began to normalize. The clenching in her fists eased, though a deep tremor still ran through her. Her eyes, still wide, now held confusion rather than pure terror. The threat, her primal self screamed, was still there, but John's calm voice contradicted it. Her brain struggled to reconcile the contradictory signals.
John observed this internal battle. The fear was powerful, but it could be overridden. This gave him crucial insight into the time limit of his direct influence and the potential for subjects to regain agency. It also showed him that a rapid shift from threat to reassurance could cause significant cognitive dissonance, making them more pliable. The fight-or-flight response had a significant half-life, especially after his direct nudge. He also felt the familiar mental drain from pushing her, a dull throb behind his eyes.
"That's enough for tonight," John stated, allowing his own heightened adrenaline state to recede, settling back into his usual calm. "Remember what I told you. This deep training, it pushes your body. It demands fuel."
Anya, still slightly disoriented, nodded, her thought now filled with the gnawing hunger that was returning with renewed vigor.
John, though mentally fatigued, found he could handle it this time. He walked out of the training room and made it back to his quarters, immediately falling into meditation to recover.
While in meditation, his mind wasn't entirely at rest. He replayed his test with Anya, analyzing the results and already planning for future subjects. His next target, he decided, should be a male. Would their fight-or-flight instinct be different from that of women?
With this thought simmering, he continued his earlier morning training, shifting his focus to self-healing. He directed his Qi to mend the lingering aches, pushing his mental endurance. After a while, as the fatigue mounted, he would shift back to meditation to recover the spent mental energy.
He maintained this rigorous cycle throughout the night, pushing his limits further than before. But halfway through, a heavy headache slammed into him, overwhelming his senses. It felt as though his very body simply shut down, forcing him back onto his bed. A clear, undeniable truth became apparent: there was a limit to this self-imposed grind. Mental recovery through meditation, no matter how intense, could not entirely replace the fundamental need for actual sleep.
John awoke with a residual ache behind his eyes, a stark reminder of the limits of his ambition. The memory of his body shutting down in protest still lingered. Meditation might aid recovery, but it was no substitute for the deep, restorative sleep his demanding biology required.
Today was the first of the two crucial remaining days with Sensei, and he couldn't afford to be operating at anything less than peak mental capacity. He forced himself out of bed, the League's relentless schedule a cold, unyielding master.
As he walked out of his quarters, he immediately noticed a shift in the atmosphere. The usual morning chatter was replaced by tense murmurs. People were pointing, their gazes darting towards him, then away, their expressions a mix of fear and morbid fascination. John felt a jolt of unease. He wanted to grab someone, demand to know what was happening, but found he didn't need to.
Once he descended a step, he saw more people gathered, their hushed whispers growing louder. He hesitated for a brief moment, a prickle of caution, but then pushed forward. As he approached, the crowd shifted nervously, parting like a disturbed flock of birds, making a wide path for him. John maintained a cold, impassive look on his face, walking through the suddenly silent corridor until he came face to face with an open room. Lying on the ground, still and unmoving, was the cold, dead body of Anya.
John's head went blank. He moved mechanically forward, his mind refusing to accept what his eyes were showing him. As he got closer, the terrible truth solidified: it was indeed Anya's dead body, stark and cold on the floor.
He grabbed the arm of someone nearby, his grip tight enough to elicit a sharp hiss of pain. "What happened here?" he demanded, his voice a low growl.
The trainee, initially about to retort rudely, saw the chilling, vacant look in John's eyes and immediately quieted. With a slightly gentler tone, they replied, "We have no idea. We just woke up today to find her like this."
A voice cut in then, sharper, accusatory. "John, wasn't Anya with you last night?"
John looked around, his eyes locking onto Elias, the trainee he'd sparred with in martial arts. Elias's tone was sharp, laced with an accusation that clearly aimed to stir trouble and paint John in a damning light. John paid him no mind, his attention snapping back to Anya's still form.
He squatted beside her, opening her mouth slightly, and took a deep, deliberate breath. The smell was unsettling, but more crucially, there was no scent of a recent meal. This immediately raised a chilling question: Was this his fault? Did she die of hunger? Everything pointed to the possibility that she hadn't made it all the way to her room to eat, somehow collapsing at her doorstep before she could get to her meal.
Wanting to confirm, he brought her fingertips to his nose, hoping for the lingering scent of food. Nothing. He took a quick glance around the bland, identical room. There was no extra food visible, which was impossible. John distinctly remembered Anya ordering extra takeout the previous night, a separate stash for after their session. So where was it? How did she die?
John remained crouched by Anya's body, the gnawing questions about the missing food and her sudden death spiraling in his mind. He was so lost in thought that he barely registered the murmur of the crowd parting further. A figure, clad in the dark, silent garb of a League assassin, moved with practiced efficiency into the room. This wasn't an unusual sight for the trainees, or for John; bodies from unfortunate training accidents or punitive measures were regularly collected.
The assassin knelt beside Anya, a cold, almost detached professional. He performed a quick, practiced examination, then rose. For a moment, he surveyed the hushed trainees, his gaze lingering on John.
"This one was efficient," the assassin's voice was a low rasp, cutting through the tense silence. His words were not directed at anyone in particular, yet they resonated with chilling clarity. "Clean. No alarms, no struggle. No excessive force. It appears she simply... ceased."
He paused, then added, his voice carrying just enough for everyone to hear, "The League does not pursue quiet terminations. It fits our way, but you are still the league access careful not to overextend "
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