John, however, was no longer listening to his mentor's departing words. The moment the faint sound of footsteps faded, he bypassed any thought of meditation. He knew, instinctively, that his battered body and fractured focus wouldn't allow for such stillness. He needed immediate action. With a surge of desperate will, he induced the serene state on himself.
The transformation was instantaneous. The searing agony that had overwhelmed his senses abruptly receded, replaced by the familiar, welcome cold serenity. His face, contorted moments ago by excruciating pain and the grim reality of blood loss, became utterly plain, devoid of expression. Though his body still lay broken and bleeding on the cold ground, his mind was now a calm, calculating engine, ready to work.
Within the profound stillness of the serene state, John's mind became a surgical instrument. The overwhelming agony of his injuries, though still present, was now merely data, a series of precise coordinates on a mental map of his own anatomy. He ignored the blood pooling beneath him, focusing instead on the warmth that was his Chi, a calm, controlled current.
He directed the Chi first to the most critical areas: his head, where the ringing impact had blurred his vision, and then to his diaphragm, coaxing air back into his screaming lungs. With meticulous precision, he channeled threads of Chi to his shattered forearm. He could feel the jagged edges of bone, the torn muscle, the ruptured capillaries. He wasn't simply pushing Chi into the area; he was guiding it, using the profound awareness of his serene state to knit torn tissues, staunch the bleeding vessels, and, most critically, to realign the broken bone fragments. It was painstaking work, each subtle shift of Chi a testament to his accelerated learning.
Then, his focus shifted to his ribs. He felt the sharp, sickening angles of the cracks, the internal bruising. He began the slower, more tedious process of sealing internal ruptures and promoting cellular repair, directing Chi to rebuild, to solidify. The cuts on his face, the less severe contusions across his body, were addressed with practiced efficiency, sealing wounds and preventing further blood loss.
The process was still draining, consuming his physical energy at an alarming rate, but the precision gained from the serene state made it incredibly effective. He was no longer hoping; he was commanding his body to heal, piece by agonizing piece. He knew the extent of his injuries meant full recovery wouldn't be instantaneous, but within minutes, the heavy bleeding had ceased, the broken bone in his forearm felt more like a severe sprain, and the crushing agony in his chest had subsided to a deep, manageable ache. He was no longer actively dying.
He was no longer dying, but his body was screaming for energy. The "small" operation he'd just performed, combined with sustaining the serene state under such duress, had utterly drained him. Every cell demanded replenishment.
"One more assessment left," John thought, pushing himself up, his muscles screaming in protest. He looked down at the dark, wet stains on the ground—his blood. He couldn't help but notice this was his first time bleeding this much. The sheer volume was a stark reminder of how close he'd come.
He began making his way back to his living quarters, his clothes sticky and heavy with drying blood. As he got closer to the building, a low murmur of voices, a subtle hum of activity, reached his ears. It was more chatter, more sound, than he'd heard from the living quarters since the assessment began.
John halted, taking in his current state. His bloodied, battered appearance was hardly a picture of invincibility. Given the fragile prestige he'd built with the other trainees, presenting himself in such a vulnerable state might not be ideal. But after a moment, John shook his head. "When has he ever been one to care about others' thoughts?" he mused, a cold clarity settling over him. Their perceptions were secondary to his survival. He continued his walk, leaving a faint, grim trail behind him.
Just as John had expected, his bloodied footsteps didn't go unnoticed. Figures appeared in the windows of the living quarters, faces pressed against the glass. The surviving trainees, their own bodies likely aching, their minds still reeling from the assessment, watched him with wide eyes. Their gazes were filled with a raw mix of fright and horror. They knew how far John was above them in skill; the question etched on their faces was palpable: "What happened that he was in such a state?" The very image of his disheveled, bleeding form shattered any illusion of untouchability they might have held.
John cared not for their silent shock, not until he reached the door to his own room. He paused, his hand hovering over the cold metal, a rare hesitation gripping him. How would his dog react to seeing him like this? It wasn't the first time he'd bled, not by a long shot, but it was the first time he'd bled this much, painting his clothes and skin in grim hues.
He took a slow, deep breath, ignoring the persistent ache in his ribs, and pushed the door open. The immediate, joyous bark from within was almost deafening. His dog, a blur of eager fur, bounded forward, tail wagging furiously. It nudged its head against his bloodied leg, then looked up, dark eyes wide. There was a moment of stillness, a slight tilt of its head as if sensing something amiss, but then, with an excited whine, it simply began licking the blood from his clothes and skin, its warm tongue strangely comforting amidst the cold reality.
John knelt, wincing as his sore muscles protested. He ran a hand through the dog's fur, a faint smile touching his lips. It was a fleeting moment of uncomplicated affection, a rare warmth in the sterile, brutal world of the League. The dog didn't care about his injuries, or his prestige, or the silent judgments of the other trainees. It simply cared that he was back.
After a moment, John pushed himself up, the brief respite over. "Come on, boy," he murmured, heading for the small, communal washroom down the hall. He stripped off his bloodied clothes, the faint scent of copper filling the cramped space, and began the slow, painful process of cleaning his wounds and his body. The cold water stung, but it also helped to clear the lingering haze of fatigue and pain.
He wouldn't waste time on regret or self-pity. The assessment was over, and he had gained invaluable data. His mentor had pushed him to the edge, but in doing so, had forced him to accelerate his own Chi integration. He now had definitive proof that the path to true mastery, the kind that might actually allow him to escape this place, was to fully bridge the gap between his serene state and his active combat. And he knew, with chilling certainty, that the next assessment would be even more brutal.
John spent the rest of the hours with his dog, the quiet companionship a fleeting comfort, before it was time for the dining hall to open. As he made his way there, he immediately noticed the stark reduction in numbers. The hall felt emptier, the usual low hum of chatter replaced by a more subdued atmosphere.
patreon.com/Emmaony