A few weeks sounds short.
But in the basement of Textile Factory No. 17, time is not measured by the rotation of the hour hand, but by the number of fractures, liters of blood shed, and the frequency of tachycardia.
Enough to shatter a person's soul and recast it with molten iron.
Wesley Gibson stood in the center of the venue.
The iconic cheap white shirt was long gone, and he was wearing a tight tactical vest.
The back that was once slightly hunched due to anxiety was now straight, and the arm muscles exposed under the vest were tense, which were the killing fibers that had grown wildly during the high-intensity fighting over the past few weeks.
The most terrifying change lay in his eyes.
Those eyes that were once full of confusion, fear, and fawning were now like stagnant water.
That was a kind of indifferent calmness toward life itself, whether it was someone else's or his own, after experiencing countless near-death experiences.
Five meters opposite him stood the melee instructor of The Fraternity, codenamed The Butcher.
This was a strong man who seemed to be built from granite, holding two special half-meter-long meat cleavers in his hands, with meat scraps from the previous training session still hanging on the blades.
"Come again, accountant boy, your move just now was like a sissy." The Butcher grinned, waving the meat cleavers in his hands.
Wesley didn't speak.
His breathing became extremely slow and heavy, like a hydraulic press warming up.
Thump—thump—
A familiar sound exploded deep in his eardrums.
Adrenaline, like rushing magma, was instantly pumped into his heart and then delivered to his limbs under high pressure.
The World twisted strangely in his field of vision.
All noises around him faded away, the light became blinding and sharp, and the dust floating in the air seemed to freeze in mid-air.
Time, slowed down.
"Die!"
The moment The Butcher roared and rushed up, to an ordinary person, it was an afterimage that couldn't be seen clearly, but in Wesley's eyes, The Butcher's movements were as slow as a frame-by-frame slideshow.
He clearly saw the contraction trajectory of The Butcher's right arm muscles, saw the tiny ripples caused by the meat cleaver breaking the air, and even saw the bloodthirsty excitement in The Butcher's eyes.
And, that exposed fatal opening.
The instinct engraved in his bones after thousands of lashings made Wesley's body tilt slightly to the left, the amplitude precise to the millimeter level, and the heavy meat cleaver carrying a whistling wind brushed past his nose, the sharp sword energy cutting off a few messy hairs on his forehead.
Then, the tactical dagger held in his right hand stabbed precisely into the gap of the flexor carpi ulnaris of The Butcher's wrist holding the knife, and as his wrist exerted force, he flicked it upwards violently.
Blood splashed like a fountain, presenting a bewitching bright red under the dim lights.
"Ah!"
The Butcher's scream had just rushed out of his throat.
Wesley had already slid behind The Butcher like a ghost, his hands instantly locking onto The Butcher's thick neck, and his right knee, like a battering ram, slammed into the opponent's third vertebra.
Crack.
The crisp sound of bone dislocation overwhelmed the roar of the exhaust fan.
The Butcher's huge body fell to his knees like a collapsed mountain of meat, the arm with the severed tendon hanging limply, and the other hand frantically slapped the ground to surrender.
Wesley let go, looked down at the instructor twitching on the ground, took a handkerchief out of his pocket, and expressionlessly wiped away the warm liquid splashed on his cheek.
"This gun is finally loaded."
Sloan, standing behind the railing on the second-floor platform, held a glass of red wine, the corners of his mouth curling into a satisfied arc.
...
Deep in the shadows of the ventilation duct, a pair of eyes were coldly watching all of this.
Alice was like a weightless spider, through the gaps in the grille, she took in everything happening below.
[Target: Wesley Gibson]
[Status: Awakening Complete / Emotional Isolation Mechanism Established]
[Combat Power Assessment: B (Adrenaline burst mode mastered, possesses top-tier killer instinct)]
[Psychological Profile: The former Wesley is dead; what stands there now is a weapon carefully carved by Sloan. He craves recognition, craves catharsis, and killing has become the only outlet.]
"What a cruel growth."
Alice sighed silently in her heart.
She looked at Wesley's face, which was slightly twisted due to pain and excitement, and felt no pity, but rather a kind of emotion for the inertia of the plot.
Sloan is a genius-like Master of training.
He first destroyed Wesley's self-esteem, deprived him of his sense of security, and then gave him power, telling him you are a wolf and belong here.
This kind of typical cult-style brainwashing, combined with drugs and cruel training, is enough to reshape a personality in a short time.
"However, Sloan miscalculated one point."
Alice's mouth curled into a playful smile.
"Wolves, once tamed, will bite their Master. Especially when this wolf discovers that the so-called destiny is just a lie fabricated by the Master for personal gain."
The training below ended, the medical team rushed into the field to carry away the wailing Butcher, and Wesley was taken away like a marionette for medicinal bath repair.
Looking at the pool of white wax emitting a strange fragrance, a look of certainty flashed in Alice's eyes.
"This is the real treasure; it would be a pity if it were ruined."
"It's about time."
The prey is mature, and the hunter is about to enter the field.
But before that, she needs to go meet a ghost who has been hovering on the edge of the hunting ground.
...
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