"Master, Jack sent a telegram," Butler Wayne said, his voice steady yet tinged with urgency. "He reported that President Lincoln was attacked by a Southern spy disguised as an actor while attending a performance. However, Jack arrived just in time, fired his weapon, and managed to save the President."
James, who had been sitting in the stone room, let out a relieved sigh. He had feared that he had missed the critical moment.
"There's another message from Mr. President," Butler Wayne continued, stepping closer. "He expressed his gratitude for your timely intervention and shared his concern for your well-being. He hopes to meet with you soon."
James nodded slowly, a deep sense of responsibility weighing on him. "Send a telegram to Jack," he instructed. "Tell him to remain in Washington for a while longer and ensure President Lincoln's safety. As for the President, let him know that I cannot meet with him just yet. Ask him to take care of himself, but I'll see him soon."
Butler Wayne hesitated for a moment before asking, "Master, is there something else you require?"
James paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "Yes. Find me a secluded beach. I need a place where I can build a small house, a retreat of sorts. And gather the necessary supplies for me."
Wayne's brow furrowed. "Master, may I ask why? Is something troubling you?"
James's gaze softened. "Don't worry, Uncle Wayne. It's something I need to do for myself. It's important."
---
Northern Coast of Vancouver Island, Two Weeks Later
The storm season on Vancouver Island had stretched longer than usual, forcing the few residents of the northern coast to remain indoors. Most passed the time drinking, spending time with their families, or finding distractions in simple pleasures. It was during these unpredictable months that James sought solitude.
He had come to this remote part of the island years ago, seeking isolation from the world that continued to spiral into chaos. The stone hut he had built, perched on a rugged cliff overlooking the churning sea, had become both his sanctuary and his battleground. Though it appeared humble from a distance, it had the sturdy elegance of something crafted for endurance—its three floors resembled an ancient fortress, weathered by time but standing proud against the elements.
This place, isolated from civilization, was where James could immerse himself in training, far away from the distractions of war and politics. The roar of the sea and the crash of waves against the cliffs below became his only companions as he honed his physical and mental strength.
Stepping outside in the early morning, James stood barefoot on the edge of the cliff, the salty air invigorating him as he took in the sweeping view of the darkening sky. Black clouds loomed in the distance, heralding an approaching storm. His body, honed through years of training, was strong and agile, despite the turmoil of the outside world. His hair, longer now than it had been, billowed in the wind, and his eyes scanned the horizon.
With a deep breath, he stretched his arms above his head and then sprinted toward the edge of the cliff. Without hesitation, he leaped into the dark waters below, plunging deep into the ocean. He dove, his body cutting through the water with the precision of a seasoned swimmer, moving swiftly toward his destination—one of the deepest parts of the sea where he had spent countless hours training.
The depth was his challenge, the pressure of the water pushing against him, compressing his body, but also strengthening him in ways that nothing else could. James had discovered long ago that the relentless pressure of the deep sea was the perfect place to push his limits. No land-based training could replicate the intense demands of underwater combat, and over the years, it had become his proving ground.
He reached a depth of 800 meters, the pressure around him growing almost unbearable. Yet, with each dive, his body had adapted. The bones and muscles of his frame, already formidable, continued to adjust, reshaping themselves under the tremendous strain.
In the darkness of the deep ocean, James practiced his boxing techniques, each strike becoming more fluid, more instinctual. The bone claws that had once felt like an awkward appendage now complemented his movements, forming a seamless, deadly weapon. His muscles burned with exertion, but he welcomed the discomfort. It was a sign of progress, a testament to his resilience.
For hours, he submerged himself in the crushing depths, pushing through fatigue, refining his skills. The sea, relentless and unforgiving, became both his teacher and his adversary.
---
Later That Day
As the hours passed and the sea slowly released its hold on James, he began to ascend toward the surface. His body was coated in blood, a mixture of his own and the sea's remnants. His muscles felt like molten fire, but there was a satisfaction that came with the pain. He had finally reached a new threshold in his training.
Breaking the surface of the water, James gasped for air, his body heavy with the aftermath of his intense session. The sky above him had cleared, the storm now behind him. He lay on his back, letting the gentle waves carry him toward the shore, his body floating on the cool water as the sun began to dip below the horizon.
For a long time, he simply lay there, staring at the sky, feeling as though he were both reborn and exhausted all at once. His thoughts drifted to the world beyond this isolated place—Washington, the President, the war. But in that moment, there was peace. A temporary escape from the turmoil.
His bones ached, his body demanded rest, but his spirit felt alive, renewed. The sea had given him what he needed: clarity and focus. And now, he was ready. Ready to return to the world, to whatever came next.
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