John stood there when some women dressed in asian cultural attire made an appearance, each holding what seems to be a plate filled with green paste.
One of the women came close to him and the first thing John noticed was the strong smell of plants, like grass coming from the plate and the woman.
The woman made a gesture for John to raise his hand which he managed to grit his teeth and do, the woman put a hand on the green paste, taking a small chunk of it and applying it to his bloody hands and knuckle.
John sucked in sharp, ragged breaths as he clenched his jaw against the searing pain. It felt as if the paste was not just treating the wounds but actively burning away weakness. His hands throbbed, his nerves screamed, but he forced himself to stay upright.
The woman applying the paste remained impassive, her expression unreadable. She finished with one hand before moving to the other, each touch sending fresh waves of agony through his arms.
John stole a glance at the other trainees. Some were outright sobbing, their faces twisted in pain. Others gritted their teeth like him, trying to suppress their suffering. A few, the older ones, barely flinched—whether because they were used to it or simply knew how to hide their pain, John couldn't tell.
"Recognize the pattern."
This wasn't just medicine. This was another test.
Every step of this training was designed to break them down, to force out weakness, to leave behind only the strong. If they couldn't handle this pain, they would never last.
Torren's voice rang out again.
"Rest. In two hours, you will get back to it."
John exhaled, letting his arms drop to his sides, but even that small motion made his muscles ache.
The women in their traditional attire moved among the trainees, collecting the plates now empty of the green paste. Their job was done, and they disappeared just as silently as they had come.
The moment they were gone, John felt his knees give out, and he sank to the floor, his breath still uneven.
Two hours.
Two hours to recover.
Some kids simply collapsed where they stood. Others crawled to the edges of the training hall, pressing themselves against the cold stone walls, trying to find comfort in their exhaustion.
John forced himself to think. Food. Water.
His body had been pushed hard, and he needed to replenish himself. The League wouldn't provide luxury, but there had to be something. His eyes flicked around the room, searching for the older trainees. If anyone knew how to maximize survival in this hell, it was them.
He saw one of them—a tall, lean boy, probably around fourteen—pull out a small pouch from his belt. He sprinkled something into his mouth, barely a pinch, before tucking the pouch away.
John's mind clicked. Dried herbs? Some kind of stimulant?
He wasn't sure, but he was sure of one thing—if the older ones were doing it, it was worth looking into.
He had two hours. Two hours to recover, to observe, and to prepare for whatever hell awaited them next.
John wiped the sweat from his forehead, pushing himself to his feet despite the throbbing in his arms. He needed to move, to keep his mind sharp.
Even though his body was screaming at him to rest, he knew better.
He took slow steps toward the older trainees, the ones who had shown little reaction to the training and the green paste. They were huddled in a small group, their posture relaxed but their eyes ever-watchful.
John didn't approach directly—that would be too obvious. Instead, he drifted nearby, sinking onto the floor just within earshot, acting like he was simply another exhausted trainee trying to rest.
He focused on their conversation, keeping his head low while his ears stayed sharp.
"—Torren's pushing harder than before." One of them muttered.
"Of course. Too many weaklings this time," another responded.
"They'll be gone soon. You saw what happened this morning. If they can't keep up, they'll be dealt with."
John kept his face blank, though his mind was already racing. So this was routine for them. The weak were discarded, culled like defective products in a factory.
One of the older boys, the same one John had seen using the dried herbs earlier, reached into his pouch again, taking another pinch and slipping it into his mouth.
John made his move.
"What is that?" he asked, keeping his voice level.
The boy turned his gaze toward him, dark eyes narrowing slightly. He was older, maybe fourteen or fifteen, his frame lean but built from years of training.
"You new?"
John nodded.
The boy scoffed. "Figures." He held up the pouch briefly before tucking it away. "Keeps you awake. Numbs the pain a little. If you survive long enough, you'll figure out where to get it."
John didn't press further. He just nodded again, as if he understood, as if he had no intention of asking for any. But in his mind, he made another note.
Survival means adapting. If the older ones use something, there's a reason.
A sudden commotion broke his thoughts.
A younger trainee had stumbled toward the group, desperation in his eyes. "Please... please, I need some of that... whatever you're taking."
The boy with the pouch sneered. "You think I'm giving it to you for free?"
"I-I'll do anything! Please!" The younger one looked barely ten, his body still trembling from the brutal training session.
The older trainee stared for a moment before smirking. "Alright, then. Prove it."
John watched closely as the older boy pointed toward one of the exhausted trainees lying against the wall. "Take his food next meal. If you do that, I'll think about it."
The younger boy hesitated, his eyes darting between the unconscious trainee and the older one offering him a lifeline.
John clenched his jaw.
"Recognize the pattern."
The supernatural nature of the DC universe was already making itself known to John. After enduring a few agonizing minutes, he noticed something strange—the pain in his knuckles had dulled. He lifted his hand, turning it under the sunlight, and saw that the bleeding had stopped entirely.
John kept his gaze fixed on his hand, watching with quiet fascination as the torn flesh slowly knitted itself back together. It wasn't instantaneous, but it was undeniable—his wounds were healing at a pace far beyond natural. That meant one thing: under the two-hour window they'd been given, his hands would be good as new. And once that happened, there would be no excuse. They'd be punching again.
Sure enough, John's prediction came true. Two hours later, Torren returned. Without a word, the trainees resumed their drills, fists hammering into the training posts with renewed intensity.
Thankfully, they were let off easier this time. The herbal paste had done its job in closing their wounds, but it did little to relieve their muscle fatigue. Soon, even raising their arms became a struggle, let alone throw a proper punch. The younger trainees, John included, reached their limits quickly. Their arms felt like dead weights, refusing to obey even the simplest commands. But the older trainees more seasoned, more disciplined did not stop. They pushed through the exhaustion.