The neon lights of Hong Kong flickered in the rain, reflecting off the wet pavement like shattered glass. The city never slept, and neither did its criminals.
Bruce stood on the rooftop of an old apartment building, his breath steady, his body still. He had spent the last few days gathering information, watching from the shadows, learning the movements of the men who ran this part of the city.
The Triad.
They controlled the streets with fear. Drug trade, extortion, human trafficking—they had their hands in everything.
Tonight, Bruce was going to tear them apart.
His first target was a warehouse near the docks.
From his vantage point, Bruce counted ten men patrolling outside. Armed, but sloppy. They weren't expecting an attack.
That was their first mistake.
Bruce dropped down silently, landing in the shadows behind a stack of crates. He moved quickly, silent as a ghost.
One guard turned his back—Bruce was on him in seconds. A strike to the throat silenced him before he could make a sound. Bruce caught him before he hit the ground and dragged him into the darkness.
One by one, the guards disappeared into the shadows.
A swift kick to the knee, a chokehold—down.
A pressure point strike, a quick takedown—down.
A trip, a throw, a strike to the head—down.
By the time the last man hit the ground, Bruce was already inside the warehouse.
Inside, more Triad members were gathered around a table, counting money, laughing. They had no idea what was coming.
Bruce took them apart like clockwork.
He moved through the room like a shadow, striking fast, brutal, efficient. He disarmed one, broke another's nose, flipped a third into a stack of crates.
One of them pulled a knife. Bad idea.
Bruce grabbed his wrist, twisted—snap. The knife clattered to the ground. A spinning kick sent the man crashing into the table, knocking him unconscious.
The last one tried to run. Bruce grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.
"Who runs this operation?" Bruce growled.
The man shook, eyes wide with terror. "P-Po!"
"Where?"
"Club Dragon—second floor!"
Bruce let him go. The man collapsed, gasping for air. By the time he looked up, Bruce was already gone.
Across the street, on a rooftop, Stick watched.
He had been following this kid for a while now, curious about what he was capable of. The way he moved, the way he fought—there was something different about him.
He wasn't just another punk looking for revenge.
He had skill. Control. Purpose.
Stick liked that.
But he needed to know more.
And the best way to test someone? Put them through hell.
Bruce infiltrated Club Dragon the same way he had handled the warehouse—stealth, precision, no wasted movements.
But the second floor was different.
These weren't just low-level thugs. These were Po's elite.
The second Bruce stepped into the VIP lounge, they were ready.
The first attacker swung a bat—Bruce ducked, countered with an elbow to the ribs, then flipped him over the couch.
Two more rushed him. Bruce twisted between them, striking the first in the jaw, then sweeping the second's legs out from under him.
Po himself—**a massive man with scarred knuckles and a cruel grin—**stepped forward, cracking his neck.
"You got guts, kid," he said. "But you should've stayed in the shadows."
Po lunged.
Bruce dodged. The force of the punch shattered the wooden table behind him.
This guy was strong.
But Bruce was faster.
He weaved through Po's attacks, looking for an opening. Then he found it.
A quick feint, a spin, a kick to the back of the knee. Po staggered.
Bruce followed up with a strike to the throat, a palm to the chest, and a final roundhouse kick to the head.
Po collapsed, unconscious.
The Triad was done.
Or so Bruce thought.
As Bruce turned to leave, a cane struck the floor.
Stick stepped out of the shadows. Blind, but seeing everything.
"You got talent, kid," Stick said. "Sloppy, but talent."
Bruce tensed, his body still in fight mode. Who was this old man?
Stick smirked. "Relax. If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead."
Bruce didn't relax.
Stick tapped his cane against the ground. "You fight well. You think ahead. But you got no idea what real war is."
Bruce narrowed his eyes. "And you do?"
Stick's smirk vanished. "I do. And I can teach you."
Bruce hesitated. He had already learned so much, but there was always more.
Stick saw the doubt. "The people you fought tonight? They're nothing. The real threats? The ones who lurk in the dark? They'll tear you apart unless you're ready."
Bruce exhaled slowly.
Then he nodded.
Stick turned. "Come on then. Time to see if you're worth my time."
And just like that, Bruce's journey took a new turn.
The Chaste did not welcome outsiders.
Their temple stood high in the mountains, hidden away from the world, a fortress of stone and silence. Those who came seeking knowledge rarely left with it. Most didn't leave at all.
Stick led Bruce through the temple's narrow halls, his cane tapping against the floor in a steady rhythm. Bruce had been here for days now, but no one had spoken to him except Stick. No welcome, no explanations—just silence and cold stares.
Finally, they reached an open courtyard. The mountain winds howled through the stone pillars, carrying the scent of incense and blood.
A dozen warriors stood in a semi-circle, dressed in gray and white robes, their faces unreadable. They were the Chaste—the greatest assassins in the world, sworn enemies of the Hand.
And tonight, they would decide if Bruce was worthy to join them.
Stick stopped. Turned to face him.
"You want in, kid?"
Bruce nodded.
Stick smirked. "Then survive."
Trial One: Endurance
The first trial was pain.
Bruce was stripped to the waist, blindfolded, and bound. The Chaste formed a circle around him, armed with wooden staffs.
Stick's voice rang out. "Stay standing."
Then the beating began.
The first strike cracked across his ribs. The second slammed into his thigh. The pain was immediate, sharp, unforgiving.
Bruce gritted his teeth and stood his ground.
They struck him again. And again.
His knees threatened to buckle. His breath came in ragged gasps. He refused to fall.
Pain didn't matter. Pain was nothing.
One minute passed. Then two. Then five.
Finally, Stick called them off. Bruce's body throbbed, bruised, battered—but he was still standing.
Stick nodded. "Not bad."
Trial Two: The Gauntlet
The next test was combat. No weapons, no rules.
Bruce stood at the edge of the courtyard. Across from him, three warriors waited.
Stick leaned in. "You win, you move on. You lose? You leave in pieces."
The first fighter attacked. Fast. Precise.
Bruce dodged the first strike, barely avoiding a spinning kick. He countered with an elbow—the warrior caught it, twisted his arm, and slammed him to the ground.
Bruce rolled, barely avoiding a stomp. He swept the warrior's legs, knocking him down.
No time to breathe. The second fighter was already on him. A punch to the ribs, a knee to the face.
Bruce staggered, vision blurring.
Then he snapped back. Pain was nothing.
He grabbed the attacker's arm, dislocated his shoulder with a brutal wrench.
The warrior screamed. Down.
The third came in with a flurry of strikes. Bruce blocked, countered, drove a fist into his throat. The man gasped for air.
Bruce didn't stop. A kick to the chest—down.
The first warrior—**still conscious—**grabbed Bruce from behind. A mistake.
Bruce threw his head back—a sickening crack as their skulls collided. The warrior crumpled.
Silence.
Bruce wiped blood from his lip. He had won.
The Chaste watched, unreadable. Stick grinned. "Next."
Trial Three: The Choice
They led him to a dark chamber. A single candle burned in the center.
A figure knelt before it, bound and blindfolded. An assassin.
Stick handed Bruce a knife. Cold. Heavy. Final.
"This is your last trial," Stick said. "Kill him."
Bruce looked at the knife. Then at the man.
He wasn't much older than Bruce. Maybe eighteen. Bruised, beaten, but silent.
Bruce tightened his grip. He had fought men like this before. Men who would kill without hesitation.
But he wasn't them.
His hand loosened. He let the knife drop.
Stick sighed. "Figures."
One of the Chaste stepped forward, a blade flashing—
Bruce moved instinctively, intercepting the strike. A counter, a throw—the assassin hit the floor.
Stick chuckled. "I had a feeling you'd do that."
Bruce turned, breathing heavy. "I don't kill."
Stick smirked. "Yeah. That will be your downfall. But still you did good."
Bruce had passed.
The warriors of the Chaste nodded in approval. He had proven himself in pain, in battle, in conviction.
Stick clapped him on the shoulder. "Welcome to hell, kid."
Bruce exhaled. His journey wasn't over. It was just beginning.