Shaping An Assassin

The training ground fell silent except for the swift movements of a young boy. At nine or ten years old, standing barely four feet tall, he moved with unnatural grace. His handsome face, marked by sharp eyes and a defined jawline, glistened with sweat as he executed each move with increasing speed. There was no hesitation in his form – only deadly precision.

The master appeared, gathering all the children before him. They stood at attention, backs straight as steel rods, resembling miniature commandos. After a satisfactory nod, the master's voice cut through the air. "Tomorrow, your real training begins. What you've experienced so far merely elevates you above ordinary people. But what truly separates an assassin is their unwavering resolve to kill, their capacity to endure any torture. Some of you won't survive what's coming, but those who rise to the top will secure a brilliant future. Steel yourselves, both mind and body. That is all."

'The real deal begins now,' Ye Feng thought.

These children, hardened by three years of training, had matured beyond their years. Yet they hadn't taken a life. The mere mention of killing and torture sent ripples of fear through their young hearts, but determination quickly replaced it.

The following evening, they were led to a warehouse filled with caged chickens awaiting slaughter. Their master's instructions were clear: "You will kill these birds with one clean strike to the neck. Line up and wait your turn."

Ye Feng stepped forward first. Without hesitation, he grabbed a chicken and executed a perfect strike, severing head from body. The blood didn't faze him. The same couldn't be said for six girls in the group who recoiled at the sight, though none dared step back. Their master nodded approvingly as each child followed suit.

This routine continued for three months until blood became commonplace. The next phase introduced larger animals – goats, then dogs. Six months passed in this grim education.

Then came the true nightmare. They were separated for torture resistance training.

Ye Feng found himself in a dark room lit only by a sinister red bulb. Chained and sleepless for three days, fatigue etched deep in his face. Each time his eyes threatened to close, a masked man appeared to douse him with water.

After a day's rest, they brought him back, stripped to his underwear. The masked man carried a lash. Ye Feng braced himself as the first strike painted a crimson line across his pale back. He clenched his teeth, refusing to cry out. For thirty minutes, only muffled groans escaped him.

This brutal regime of sleepless torture and beatings lasted two months before evolving. Electric shocks while strapped to a chair. Knife cuts treated with salt and chili powder. Nearly a hundred scars decorated his back, stomach, and thighs. They tied him to a pole in the scorching sun for three days without food or water, yet he never begged.

A year later, when they returned to training, they were different creatures. Gone were the children – in their place stood cold-eyed killers, every movement precise and lethal.

By 2016, Ye Feng had turned eleven. His body bore the marks of his training everywhere except his hands, lower legs, and face. His sharp features had only grown more refined – he could have passed for a privileged child from a wealthy family, though luxury had never touched his life.

Only fifteen children remained from their group – twelve boys and three girls. Five had perished during torture. Across all groups, just 180 survived from the initial 250.

Their master, absent for a year, showed no surprise at the reduced numbers. He knew only ten might survive what was still to come.

"Congratulations on completing your training," he said to expressionless faces. These children were too changed to mourn their fallen comrades.

"You have three months to perfect yourselves. After that, you face life-and-death duels." He dismissed them with a simple, "We begin tomorrow."

The next three months passed in relentless training.

The final gathering brought 800 children to the training area, all eyes fixed on the platform where a masked man sat on a throne-like chair. His white skin and muscular build commanded attention, but it was the mark he bore – a red circle with a blue thunderbolt – that identified him as Zero's leader.

He rose to address them. "You've grown strong. Everyone here, aged ten to fourteen, stands at nearly equal skill regardless of training duration. This is your final trial to become assassins." He paused. "You'll enter the forest wearing trackers. Stay within the designated area – your digital maps will warn you. Death awaits those who disobey."

The children absorbed his words, their multilingual training ensuring perfect understanding.

"Once we give the green light, the battle begins. Fight until only 200 remain. Don't think hiding will save you – anyone with fewer than two kills faces elimination. More kills early means better survival chances."

"The top thirty performers will receive special rewards. When we reach 200 survivors, you'll receive a message. The competition ends three minutes later – any kills after that forfeit your life. No rules restrict how you kill – sleeping, eating, vulnerable moments – all fair game. But no teams."

"Remember: assassins work alone. You may communicate during rest, but trust no one. Survival depends solely on you."

"Hunt and eat what you find in the forest. Fewer people means more food."

"That is all. Best of luck." He returned to his seat.

As evening approached, the children were equipped and scattered throughout the forest at random locations. Night would soon fall, bringing death with it. They had killed before, but this was different – yet somehow the same. Killing was killing, whether animal or human. There was just one final line to cross.