The cold of steel never left his bones.

Shackles had been removed. The cell cleaned. The Jailer—gone. But Vale sat in the blood-stained corner, arms limp at his sides, bones heavy with memory.

His eyes stared into the concrete floor like it held a goddamn truth.

"I lost."

Not just a fight. A war of power.

No manipulation. No schemes. His words had cracked like glass against Marlow's iron fists. The guards laughed at him. The prisoners looked away like he was disease.

And yet—he'd lived.

"Because someone else fought for me."

A muscle in Vale's cheek twitched. A flicker of shame, of something... deeper.

Enter Vince.

He sat cross-legged, arms folded, shirt off, bruised like a fallen titan. Watching Vale silently. No lectures. Just presence.

Vale finally raised his head.

"I want to fight."

Vince arched an eyebrow. "You're already fighting, genius."

Vale stood. Legs trembling, stitched ribs shifting under sweat-drenched skin.

"No. I want to win."

He stepped forward, eyes burning .His voice was hollow, but loud enough to shake air.

"Train me. Break me. Reforge me."

"I want to become a weapon that thinks."

OKAY SAID VINCE

[Day 1: Broken]

The gym was a pit—rusty bars, leaking pipes, sweat-stained mats.

Craw stepped forward again. Vale's first opponent.

Built like a grizzly, jaw tattooed with a snake biting its tail.

"Didn't I already fold you once, little rat?"

Vale didn't speak.

He charged.

Wrong move.

Craw slipped a punch, caught Vale's jaw, and slammed a knee into his ribs so hard blood splattered from Vale's mouth like a popped melon.

Vale collapsed. Vision doubled.

"Finish him," someone muttered.

Craw lifted Vale—about to break his spine over his knee like Bane—

But Vince raised a hand.

"Enough. He gets to suffer. Not die.

VINCE gives a training regiment to vail

Mornings:

300 push-ups. If Vale collapsed before finishing, Vince would kick him in the gut to get him moving again.

Squats with metal plates chained to his back.

Neck bridges to strengthen the spine.

Bare-knuckle sparring against concrete walls — until his hands stopped bleeding.

Afternoons:

Shin conditioning: Kicking sandbags filled with pebbles, then ice water immersion.

Reaction drills: Blindfolded, surrounded by fighters who struck at random. If Vale flinched — he'd be shocked with a stun baton.

Weapon training: Broken mop handles, steel pipe duels, hidden blade counters.

Nights:

Iron bar pull-ups until his arms failed.

Then—psychological warfare games.

Vince would scream lies at him, insults, threats. Force him to talk back, calmly, while doing wall sits with 100 pounds on his thighs.

"If your mind collapses, your body follows. Learn to split them."

That night, Vale sat alone. Blood dried on his face. Bones bruised.

But he was still smiling.

Inside his head, Dante spoke.

"You see it now, don't you? The truth?"

Vale replied aloud.

"The mind is the general. But the body… is the executioner."

[Final Test: Triple Threat]

Three fighters. All ex-military. Armed with makeshift blades.

Vale entered the ring shirtless, scars gleaming under the overhead light.

They charged.

First one lunged. Vale caught his arm, snapped the elbow backward, used the broken body as a shield.

Second swung low. Vale kicked his kneecap inward. Sickening crunch.

Third came with a blade — Vale grabbed the wrist, pulled it close, and bit his ear clean off, then slammed the man's head into a pipe.

Blood everywhere. Screams.

When it ended, Vale stood in the center—dripping.

Not trembling.

Smiling.

"More," he whispered.