Chapter 5: The Devil Trains

vale healed fast. Too fast, some said.

The scabs on his palms from the crucifixion peeled clean in under a week. The guards called it unnatural. Vale called it a symptom of purpose. Pain was his new catechism. He rose every day at 4AM—ritualistic, monastic, devoted.

He trained with rusted bedsprings, used waterlogged books as makeshift weights, tied and untied knots in shredded bedsheets to build his grip strength. When there was no equipment, he made his body the machine.

Dante called it the Convict Conditioning method. Progressive calisthenics from hell.

"First, break the body," Dante murmured, echoing in the vault of Vale's skull, "then reforge it."

He did pushups on broken glass hidden under his palms. Not for muscle—

—for mental pain tolerance.

He learned wall sits until his legs spasmed, then held for another minute longer.

He practiced silent screams while dipping his fists into buckets of powdered bleach water, to cauterize wounds without ever wincing.

This wasn't training. It was transformation.

At night, Dante tested him:

"Guard #17 smokes what brand? How many seconds from siren to security breach in D-Wing? What time does Warden Grayson limp?"

Vale answered with military precision. Sometimes before the question ended.

He memorized patrol routes by faking night terrors, triggering guards to pace in patterned loops. He recorded their rhythm in the shine of a mirror shard hidden in his boot sole.

He eavesdropped on guards through echoes in the plumbing. He found a way to communicate with other inmates using Morse code tapped through the pipes. Then he seeded those channels with false escape rumors, watched panic spread like fire.

He studied who folded, who ratted, who stayed silent.

Those who ratted died quietly. Those who stayed silent were noted.

And through the silence, something shifted.

*Vince "The Architect" Carver* noticed.

Vince—the kingpin, the puppetmaster, the ghost in the concrete. He ran the prison from the shadows, traded favors like currency, owned guards like real estate.

He'd already given Vale books—*The Art of War\, Discipline & Punish\, The Prince\, Beyond Good and Evil*—but now he watched with a veteran's eye.

He sent word through a mute runner:

*"Let the boy train. He's got something. Don't touch him."*

That message bought Vale three weeks of uninterrupted training.

One night, under the moonlight slicing through rusted bars, Vince himself came to Vale's cell. He sat on an overturned crate like a man holding court in hell.

"You're building something," Vince said, eyes scanning the bruises on Vale's ribs. "But too much muscle makes them nervous. Makes them think you're preparing for war."

Vale, soaked in sweat, his knuckles wrapped in blood-soaked cloth, said, "Good. I want them to."

Vince chuckled softly. A low, controlled sound.

He handed Vale a flask—not of alcohol\, but *sea salt\, powdered soap\, water*—a prisoner's antiseptic. "Clean yourself. Infection makes martyrs. We need monsters."

Their interactions were swift. Clinical. Strategic. No warmth. No false mentorship. Vince wasn't here to teach; he was here to invest. Vale was stock with rising returns.

In return, Vale whispered into Vince's web. He fed it secrets: names of guards who dozed, who drank, who screwed up inventory sheets. Supply choke points. Inmates who bent under even mild pressure.

He curated profiles. Psychological dossiers of every man who shared the air with him.

One guard, Jenkins, flinched every time he heard keys jingle—a response from childhood trauma. Another, Santiago, paused before opening any door—paranoia or caution? Vale watched, recorded, adapted.

He learned how to micro-stare—just long enough to unnerve, not long enough to provoke.

He learned the art of pre-suasion: dropping ideas into minds weeks before they sprouted into belief.

He weaponized patience.

In the cracked mirror, Vale's smile wasn't human anymore. It was geometric. Precise. Like a formula for destruction.

Dante whispered:

\"You're not a monster. You're evolution."

And Vince, watching from the corridor, thought:

*"No\, you're something worse. You're potential."*

One day, during lunch, an inmate who mocked Vale's silence found a nail in his mashed potatoes. No one saw who put it there. No one dared ask. Vince never commented, but that afternoon he sent Vale a gift—a chessboard carved from soap and matchsticks.

"For strategy," the note read.

Each piece was missing a head.

So the devil trained in the dark—nourished by blood, mentored by madness, and now backed by a king.

He wasn't preparing to survive anymore.

He was preparing to rule.

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