Michael's dreams carried him back to the orphanage. Old Man Moon sat surrounded by children, his weathered voice spinning the tale of "The Foolish Hero." The familiar story wrapped around Michael like a worn blanket—a final comfort from his old life.
A sharp pain jolted him awake. Opening his eyes, he found Jake standing over him, one foot planted firmly on Michael's mattress.
"Wake up, newbie. Time to start training," Jake announced, his voice echoing in the dim room.
Michael rubbed his cheek where Jake had struck him. "What time is it?"
"Follow me," Jake replied with a wry smile, ignoring the question.
Michael stumbled after him, still groggy, as they made their way through the silent compound. The training area was larger than Michael had expected—weight equipment fashioned from scrap metal occupied one section, while an open space clearly meant for combat training dominated the rest.
"Where is everyone?" Michael asked, glancing around the empty facility.
"They're asleep. Said they'd come at 4:00."
"Why? What time is it now?"
"It's 3:00 AM," Jake responded, his smile widening. "I wanted to train you before the others arrive."
Michael hesitated. "What kind of training?"
"Nothing complicated. Just 1,000 push-ups, 1,000 squats, 1,000 sit-ups, and 1,000 air punches—all before 4:00." Jake stretched his arms above his head casually. "I do it every morning. The others think it's excessive, but if you want to get stronger, you'll do it with me."
"I don't think I can," Michael admitted. "Even if I tried, I'd be exhausted for the real training."
"Don't worry," Jake clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over. "I'll do it with you, bro."
They began. Jake dropped effortlessly into perfect form, while Michael struggled through each movement. By 4:00, Michael had managed only 70 push-ups, 50 sit-ups, 60 squats, and 75 air punches—a fraction of Jake's completed regiment. Still, it was more than Michael had ever done in his life.
He collapsed onto the cold floor, muscles trembling, sweat soaking through his clothes. Jake tapped his head with surprising gentleness.
"Don't worry, you did well for your first time. We'll try again at noon, then once more at 10:00 before sleep." Jake stood, already recovered. "The others will be here soon for your real training. I'm heading outside for more work. Later, bro."
Michael barely managed to raise a hand in farewell before Jake disappeared.
Ten minutes later, Alphonse entered, looking unsurprised to find Michael sprawled on the floor.
"You're up early," he noted. "Now get up. Real training begins now."
***
The first lesson focused on reflexes.
Junk and Flowers positioned themselves on opposite sides of Michael. Alphonse stood watching, arms crossed.
"The rules are simple," Alphonse explained. "They throw knives. You dodge. Every knife that touches you teaches a lesson in pain."
Michael's eyes widened. "Real knives?"
Flowers twirled a blade between her fingers. "How else will you learn?"
For an hour, Michael danced desperately as knives whistled through the air around him. Despite his best efforts, his skin was soon crisscrossed with cuts—none life-threatening, but each one a painful reminder of his inadequacy. Blood stained his clothes and dripped onto the floor.
When Alphonse finally called a halt, Michael could barely stand. Wordlessly, the Black Feathers' leader approached with the now-familiar syringe. The blue liquid burned through Michael's veins as before, knitting his wounds closed but leaving him unconscious from the pain.
They revived him an hour later with water splashed on his face and a bowl of protein-rich gruel that tasted like wet cardboard but filled his empty stomach.
"Combat theory next," Alphonse announced as Michael finished eating.
This session proved more bearable—two hours studying combat manuals, memorizing pressure points, and learning the fundamentals of various fighting styles. Michael's quick mind absorbed the information readily, even as his body protested any movement.
Then came more reflex training. This time, Junk and Flowers hurled heavy metal balls at him, each one capable of leaving serious bruises.
"Strike them away," Alphonse instructed. "Use your fists and feet as weapons."
The first ball caught Michael in the chest, knocking the wind from him. The second glanced off his shoulder. By the third, he was trying to deflect rather than dodge—a small improvement, but not enough to prevent the constellation of bruises blooming across his skin.
After this session, they allowed him water and a short break before Jake returned to continue their morning routine. Michael performed even worse than before, his muscles already pushed beyond their limits.
"Sleep until 7:00 PM," Alphonse finally ordered. "Then we continue."
Michael didn't need to be told twice. He collapsed onto his mattress, asleep before his head hit the thin pillow.
***
The evening brought blindfolded reflex training—the cruelest variation yet. Unable to see the projectiles coming, Michael had to rely on sound and instinct. He failed miserably, ending the session with fresh bruises layered over the old ones.
At 10:00 PM, Jake returned for their final workout of the day. Michael went through the motions like a zombie, his mind disconnected from his suffering body.
The first week passed in this brutal fashion. Michael often passed out during training, only to be revived and pushed further. The healing injections became routine, their agony a price he accepted for the accelerated recovery they provided.
The second week was marginally better. Michael could complete 200 of each exercise with Jake. He occasionally managed to dodge a knife or deflect a metal ball. His body, constantly damaged and healed, began to adapt.
By the end of the first month, Michael no longer flinched when blades flew toward him. His reflexes sharpened, his muscles developed definition, and his mind grew accustomed to operating under constant stress.
The fourth month marked a turning point. Michael completed 800 repetitions of each exercise alongside Jake. He could deflect most projectiles while blindfolded, anticipating their trajectory from the subtlest sounds. Combat theory translated into muscle memory, his body moving through complex sequences without conscious thought.
His progress shocked even Alphonse. Michael had risen to third rank in the Black Feathers' hierarchy—behind only Alphonse himself and Jake—surpassing both Flowers and Junk in overall capability.
To mark this achievement, Alphonse presented him with a pair of matching daggers—elegant weapons with blackened blades and handles wrapped in dark leather.
"I think you might be ready for missions now," Alphonse declared one evening after training.
Michael looked up from where he sat, carefully cleaning his new daggers. The weapons already felt like extensions of his hands.
"We've been given a mission by a wealthy client," Alphonse continued. "I want you and Flowers to handle it. He's paying us 2,000 Alphas to eliminate a gang of eight. If you succeed, you get 40%. Flowers gets 40%. I get 20% because, well... I'm the boss."
Michael remained quiet, absorbing the implications. His first mission. His first kill.
"Go, eliminate them, and return with proof it's done," Alphonse instructed, handing Michael a black cloak and mask—the uniform of the Black Feathers on assignment.
Michael accepted them solemnly, feeling the weight of the fabric—and what it represented. Donning the cloak felt like shedding his old identity. The mask completed the transformation, hiding away the last vestiges of the boy from the orphanage.
***
The mission was supposed to be simple. Locate the gang's hideout. Wait for the right moment. Eliminate the targets. Return home.
It wasn't.
Michael had his dagger pressed against a man's throat, the blade dimpling the skin, ready to slice through with minimal pressure. But he froze. Despite months of training, despite everything he'd endured, he couldn't bring himself to take a life.
His hands trembled. His breathing grew ragged. His stomach twisted.
In that moment of hesitation, the target reacted.
"WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!" the man bellowed, ducking away from Michael's blade.
The hideout erupted into chaos. Gang members rushed toward them from all directions. Flowers cursed, barely dodging a knife aimed at her throat.
Michael had no time to think. Instinct and training took over.
A man lunged at him with a rusty pipe. Michael sidestepped easily, slamming his knee into the attacker's stomach. Another grabbed his wrist—he twisted free, driving his dagger deep into the man's shoulder.
Blood sprayed across Michael's mask.
A scream ripped through the air—his opponent's or his own, he couldn't tell. He kicked another attacker into a pile of jagged scrap metal, the force impaling the man's body. He smashed a bottle over someone's skull, the glass shattering on impact.
He fought like an animal—trained, yes, but with the reckless desperation of someone who has discovered violence for the first time. His heart pounded in his ears. His breath came in ragged gasps.
When the immediate threats were neutralized, Flowers methodically executed the survivors with clean shots to the head. The sound of her gun punctuated the sudden silence—final periods at the end of eight lives.
Michael stared at the corpses surrounding him. The metallic smell of blood filled his nostrils, seeping through his mask. His stomach rebelled.
He tore off his mask and vomited violently, expelling everything in his stomach. His hands wouldn't stop trembling. His body felt cold despite the exertion.
Flowers looked down at him, her expression unreadable behind her own mask.
"Welcome to the Undercity," she said simply.
Michael didn't respond. He couldn't. Because deep down, he knew—he was no longer the same person who had awakened this morning. That boy was gone, lost among the corpses littering the floor around him.
In his place stood a Black Feather, baptized in blood.