Chapter 89: The Midnight Imperium (Flashback Pt 5)

Years ago, back in Henry’s previous world.

Scar stood in the center of a dimly lit room, his small frame trembling with exhaustion. His clothes were torn, his face bruised, his knuckles raw and bleeding. He was just twelve years old, but his eyes held the weight of someone who had lived a hundred lifetimes.

After the mysterious man had pulled him from that alley, his life had changed forever.

Apparently, the man belonged to the Midnight Imperium; an elite shadow organization of assassins operating across nations. They took contracts from people powerful enough to remain unnamed and dangerous enough to make ordinary killers fear.

But the imperium did not recruit assassins.

They make their own.

Children who had been abandoned, sold, forgotten, or deemed entirely worthless by society were taken into their care and given a new purpose. Their names and former lives were stripped away. They were trained in multilingualism, surveillance, infiltration, firearms, ballistics, blades, deception, and hand-to-hand combat.

The organization taught them to adapt, think, observe, and turn anything around them into an advantage.

Scar was twelve years old when the man brought him there. And for the next few months, that man became his sole teacher, his handler, and his architect.

Scar’s training was always brutal and unforgiving. Not because the man hated him, but rather because he was sharpening him into a lethal weapon.

The room was dead silent. It was a wide, empty training chamber surrounded by dark walls and rubber flooring.

Scar stood barefoot in the center of the room. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Sweat stung his eyes. A fresh bruise was already blooming across his left cheekbone. His small hands were wrapped tightly around the hilt of a small dagger.

Across from him stood his handler. The man who took him in. He wasn’t holding a weapon... he didn’t need one. His hands hung loosely at his sides, and he stared at Scar with an indifferent expression. "We are not done here, Scar." he said calmly. "Not until you understand what I am trying to teach you. Now, come at me again. And don’t hold back."

Scar’s eyes narrowed. He advanced with a silent movement, crossing the room in three quick steps. He didn’t scream or telegraph his attack. He pushed the dagger forward, aiming a lethal thrust directly toward the man’s chest.

The man didn’t move. He waited until Roy was almost upon him, then sidestepped effortlessly. Scar missed, and the blade cut through empty air. But he immediately used the momentum to change direction, pivoting on his heel and swinging the blade in a horizontal arc toward the man’s ribs.

The man’s hand shot out, catching Scar’s wrist like a hydraulic vice. He twisted, and the dagger clattered to the ground. Then he drove his elbow into Scar’s ribs, sending the boy crashing to the concrete floor.

Scar gasped, the air knocked from his lungs. He gritted his teeth, suppressing a groan as the pain flared in his stomach.

"Get up," the man ordered, his expression unreadable.

Scar pushed himself off the floor. His breathing was heavier now, his muscles trembling slightly from exhaustion, but his eyes burned with a wild, unadulterated rage.

"You are relying too much on the weapon," the man said. His voice remained perfectly calm. "The dagger is an extension of your arm, not your arm itself. The moment you believe the steel is what makes you dangerous, you have already lost the fight. And when you lose it on the battlefield, you will die." He explained.

Scar glared at him, his fists clenching. His eyes burned with a cold, unyielding rage.

"You are furious. That’s good," the man noted, a flicker of approval crossing his face. "That anger is your greatest strength. But if you let it guide your attacks, you will be predictable. You will be sloppy. And you will be killed. You must learn to channel your rage. Compress it. Make it controlled and precise. Let it fuel you, not blind you."

Scar let out a ragged breath. The man’s words struck him hard, more than the blows had. He had expected the man to call his rage a weakness. Everyone else had. Anger was what made him careless, what made him lose control, what made him vulnerable.

But the man saw something else in all that fury; an opportunity no one else saw. And he was going to make sure Scar learnt how to use it efficiently.

Scar walked over, picked up the dagger, and dropped back into a low stance.

"Again." The man said.

Scar took a deep breath and charged. But this time, he moved with a different kind of precision.

He sprinted forward, feinting a thrust aimed directly at the man’s sternum. The man saw the attack coming and quickly moved his hands to intercept the strike. But at the last second, Scar suddenly dropped the blade—a deliberate, calculated move that left the man surprised and confused. Then, using that slight moment of distraction, Scar stepped inside the man’s guard and drove his shoulder into the man’s torso. He followed with a strike to the ribs, but the man blocked with his elbow and caught Scar’s wrist.

But Scar wasn’t finished. Using his small stature as an advantage, he dropped low, slipping beneath the man’s legs. His grip broke as Scar passed underneath him. He tried to turn around and catch Scar, but Scar didn’t give the chance to do so. He swept his leg in an helicopter blade motion, striking the man’s ankle and causing him to stumble backward. Then, he grabbed his fallen dagger and spun behind the man’s legs, raising the dagger in a reverse grip, aiming a lethal, upward strike directly toward the man’s carotid artery.

The whole thing was a flawless, brilliant piece of tactical misdirection.

But just as the blade was about to make contact with the man’s neck, Scar paused, not wanting to harm his mentor. And that cost him everything.

The man took advantage of Scar’s hesitation. His hand snapped forward and caught Scar’s wrist, twisting it violently and causing the dagger to slip from Scar’s hand. He caught the dagger mid-air with his other hand, then pulled Scar close and drove his knee into the boy’s gut.

Scar let out a sharp gasp as his body folded between the man’s knee. Then, the man grabbed him by the collar, raised him off the ground, and slammed him onto the concrete floor. And without giving him time to recover, he knelt over Scar, pinning his chest, and pressed the edge of the boy’s own dagger directly against his throat. A thin, warm line of blood welled up against the blade.

"You hesitated," the man said, his voice cold. "You had the opening, and you hesitated."

Scar stared up at him, his eyes burning with defiance. "If I hadn’t hesitated, you’d be dead," he shot back.

The man chuckled. "But I am not. Because you hesitated. In a real fight, your opponent will not afford you the same luxury. They will not pause to see if you surrender. They will take the opening and kill you." He slowly stood up, pulling the blade away and tossing it aside. "Always fight with the intent to kill," he said, looking down at Scar. "The moment you have the opening, you take it. Do not hesitate. And do not show mercy."

Scar pushed himself to his feet, wiping off the blood that ran down his throat. Then, he brought his hand up and stared at the blood for a moment before shifting his attention back to the man. His eyes were dead, cold, and empty.

"Understood," he said. "I won’t hesitate anymore."

The man smiled, shifting back into his stance. "Good. Let’s go again."