"learn the pattern and survive" John whispered to himself as he took a sneak peek at deathstroke.
Deathstroke's gaze fell on John a second longer, almost as if he'd heard the faint whisper. John could feel his pulse hammering in his chest as he held Deathstroke's eye, trying to keep his expression neutral. After what felt like an eternity, Deathstroke broke eye contact, moving on to inspect the other children with the same cold calculation.
Once the mercenary finished his assessment, he straightened and looked at the man from the League of Shadows. "Have your people prepare them," he said, his tone like steel.
The children were blindfolded and loaded onto a large transport truck, and soon they could feel the rumble beneath them as it sped off into the night. John, huddled against the metal wall of the truck, tried to calm himself, ignoring the muffled cries and whispered fears around him. The cold, bumpy journey went on for hours, leaving him with nothing to do but wonder what lay ahead.
After what felt like an eternity, the truck finally came to a halt. The children were pulled roughly out and shuffled onto a boat. Their blindfolds remained in place, the only clues to their surroundings being the smell of salt in the air and the sound of waves lapping against the hull. The fear hung heavy in the air, yet no one dared speak above a whisper.
The boat ride stretched on as morning turned to midday, and finally, they felt the boat's engine slow. The children were led off the boat onto solid ground, their blindfolds tugged off to reveal a remote island surrounded by jagged cliffs and dense forest. It was an eerie sight, with dark clouds gathering overhead, casting a shadow over the bleak landscape.
They were marched along a path lined with tall stone statues, each one depicting a robed figure whose face was obscured in shadow. John felt a chill run down his spine as he noticed the symbols carved into the statues—arcane marks of the League of Shadows. The path led them to a high, iron gate, which opened to reveal a massive fortress complex that loomed like a dark sentinel over the island.
Inside the courtyard, the children were ordered to stand in rows as a tall, imposing figure stepped out onto a raised platform. He wore dark robes and a mask carved with ancient symbols, and his piercing gaze swept over the crowd.
"I am Master Torren," he announced, his voice carrying effortlessly across the courtyard. "Here, you will be trained, honed, and forged into something greater than yourselves. This island is a sanctuary for the League, a place where only the strong survive. You are here because you have been chosen for something greater, even if you do not yet understand it."
John's eyes narrowed as he listened. Torren's voice was laced with both pride and menace, and his words struck a deep fear into the children around him. They were not merely captives here—they were raw materials, tools to be shaped and used.
Beside Master Torren, Deathstroke stood silently, watching with his single, unyielding eye. The children's gazes flicked between the two figures, each feeling the weight of the authority they carried.
Torren continued, "Over the coming weeks, you will become familiar with every inch of this island, every skill necessary to fulfill your purpose. You may have known other lives before, but those lives are over. Here, you belong to the League. Those who adapt will be rewarded; those who resist..." he let his words trail off, leaving the threat unspoken.
The children exchanged nervous glances, most too afraid to look up at either Torren or Deathstroke. John's mind was already racing, processing every detail and every word. He had only a vague understanding of what the League of Assassin was, but one thing was clear: this was a place where weakness wouldn't just be punished—it would be erased.
After the speech, they were divided into small groups and assigned to sleeping quarters in cold, stone rooms with little more than straw mats for beds. John's group was led to a small cell by a silent guard, who locked the door and left without a word. The silence felt oppressive, and it wasn't long before a girl beside John broke it with a shaky whisper.
"Do you... do you think we'll ever go home?"
John, though equally terrified, shook his head. "I don't think so," he replied, his voice barely audible. "Not unless we find a way for ourselves."
The children's faces fell, and they settled into uneasy silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts. John's mind was working faster than ever, analyzing everything he'd seen and heard so far. The League of Assasin, Deathstroke, the isolated island. "If it really was as master Torren states then John believe he has what it takes to survive"
John felt his eyes shut before he was drawn awake by the smell of a warm food, sitting up immediately. John took the warm plate not minding the heat as he got into it.
As John dug into the food, his mind sharpened with the first real warmth he'd felt since arriving. Hunger gnawed at him, but he stayed alert, watching the others around him as they ate in cautious silence. There was little to the meal beyond basic nourishment, but the League didn't seem interested in luxury only strength.
A sudden clang of metal echoed through the stone halls, and John stiffened, feeling a tension rise in the room. The heavy door creaked open, and Master Torren entered, his shadow stretching across the floor as he looked over the group with cold detachment.
"Eat quickly," he commanded. "You'll need your strength for today."
As the children were led deeper into the island's dense interior, the path wound through towering trees and thick underbrush, veiling the League's stronghold from view. The air grew cooler and heavier, thick with the scent of damp earth and an unspoken danger. Then, abruptly, the jungle parted to reveal a sprawling, fortress-like structure embedded in the mountainside. The base was a marvel of brutalist architecture, blending seamlessly with the dark rock. Vines and camouflage netting masked its edges, giving it an almost natural, predatory feel as if the jungle itself had conspired to hide this place from the outside world.
John felt his breath hitch as he took it all in, a mix of fear and awe tightening his chest. Every inch of the structure seemed honed with a singular purpose: to create lethal efficiency. There were no unnecessary ornaments or adornments, only reinforced stone, metal, and a network of paths connecting the outlying watchtowers and training areas. This was not just a base; it was a hive designed to produce and sharpen killers.
The children were quickly divided into smaller groups, and John found himself with a handful of others, all equally wary and quiet. A stern-looking figure emerged from the shadows a woman with a long scar tracing her cheek, her gaze like ice. She moved with a lethal grace, and as she approached, the children instinctively stiffened.
"I am Kaida," she said, her voice carrying an edge of finality. "You are mine now, and you will answer to me alone. Fail, and you will wish you hadn't." Her words were blunt, almost indifferent, as if she had seen countless recruits before them and had watched many of them break.