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The training schedule was no joke.
Cassius had expected a ramp-up, but the moment he stepped onto the lot, they threw him straight into the deep end.
Director Justin Lin stood in front of the three specialist coaches with his arms crossed. "This is Cassius—our Zhen. You've all read the script and the character notes. I don't want pretty choreography. I want real, believable combat that sells on camera."
He pointed at each coach in turn. "Jack, you own the hand-to-hand and tactical movement. Carlos, you're on driving and vehicle dynamics. Sara, you keep him healthy and recovered. Two weeks. I need him ready for principal photography on the action beats. Can you deliver?"
All three answered at once: "Yes, Director."
"Good." Lin checked his watch. "Cassius, settle into your trailer, get familiar with the facility. Training starts at nine sharp on Field One. I'll swing by when I can."
He gave Cassius an encouraging nod and headed off. The rest of the production needed him, but he'd made time for this because he genuinely believed in the role—and maybe, just maybe, saw a little of his own younger self in Cassius.
---
Cassius followed Sara to the modest trailer. It was basic—one bed, a small closet, a desk, and a private bathroom—but cleaner than most location housing he'd seen.
"Here's your daily schedule," Sara said, handing him a laminated sheet. "Everything's timed: training blocks, meals, recovery, rest. Any questions, come straight to me."
Cassius scanned the page. It looked more like a special-forces selection program than a movie prep schedule. Wake-up at six, training until ten at night, with built-in recovery windows.
"Intensity's high," he noted.
"Everything's designed to make the on-camera stuff look effortless," Sara replied with a professional smile. "Change into your training gear. Nine o'clock sharp on Field One. Jack and Carlos don't like waiting."
---
Nine a.m. Field One.
The "field" was actually a huge paved lot with a few props and vehicles parked at the far end—one Dongfeng Mengshi, one Dodge Charger, and a Nissan GT-R.
Jack, the ex-Marine combat instructor, was already waiting, arms folded. Next to him stood Carlos, the stunt driver, and Sara.
"Morning, Coach," Cassius said.
Jack didn't waste time on small talk. "First week belongs to me. Today we start with the basics—how you stand, how you move, how you strike. Zhen is a former elite operator turned Interpol agent. Your posture, footwork, and power generation need to scream 'trained professional.'"
He demonstrated the fundamentals: combat stance, weight distribution, tactical walking patterns.
The moves looked simple on paper, but Jack's standards were brutal.
Cassius's first attempts were a little stiff—he'd never had formal military-style training. A gray orb dropped from Jack:
[Basic Stance Correction +1]
He absorbed it instantly. His body relaxed, muscles remembering the more efficient posture on their own.
Jack kept correcting. More orbs followed:
[Tactical Movement Footwork +2]
[Upright Combat Posture +1]
Cassius's form improved visibly with every rep.
Jack's eyebrows slowly crept up. He'd trained plenty of rookies in the Marines. He'd never seen anyone adapt this fast.
Still, he said nothing and simply ramped up the difficulty, adding basic escapes and control techniques.
By the end of the morning session, Cassius was flowing through the drills almost as cleanly as Jack himself.
Jack watched in silence, then walked off to the side and downed an entire bottle of water without a word.
---
That night the lights in Jack's small office stayed on until 3 a.m.
Coffee pot bubbling, he hunched over his laptop, completely rewriting the next day's plan. The original two-week progressive program was now compressed and loaded with advanced techniques and scenario drills.
"He can't possibly keep this pace," Jack muttered to himself, rubbing his tired eyes.
---
Day Three.
Jack watched Cassius nail a full tactical movement sequence and a clean combo of strikes with near-perfect form.
He was speechless.
By lunch, Sara pulled Jack aside. "He's not even showing fatigue. I had to tell him to take a break—he wanted to keep going."
Jack stared across the lot at Cassius, who was calmly hydrating, looking fresh.
That night the office lights burned until dawn again.
---
Day Four.
Jack threw everything at him—dynamic scenario drills, multiple-angle attacks, fatigue-state decision-making.
Cassius adapted on the fly.
Blue orbs started dropping from Jack at a faster rate:
[High-Pressure Stress Response +3]
[Confined-Space Footwork Adjustment +2]
Cassius absorbed them instantly, his body and instincts sharpening in real time.
By the end of the day he was countering Jack and Carlos in live drills with calm, efficient movements.
Jack finally stepped back, sweat dripping down his face, and muttered, "Fuck it."
He walked over to Sara. "I'm done trying to pace him. This kid's already operating at active-duty special forces level. I don't think we need any more basic combat training."
Sara glanced at Cassius, who was breathing hard but still standing tall, eyes bright. She smiled. "I'm starting to understand why Director Lin and Universal were so desperate to get him."
---
That night Jack didn't even try to sleep.
He sat in his office, coffee in hand, staring at the training plan for Day Five.
Then he deleted the entire document and started over from scratch—this time with zero hand-holding.
The new schedule was pure hell: full-contact scenario training, multi-threat ambushes, decision-making under extreme fatigue.
He printed it out at 4 a.m., eyes bloodshot, and muttered to the empty room:
"Let's see how you handle this one, kid."
---
Five a.m. Training Field.
Jack was already waiting when Cassius showed up, looking rested and focused.
Without a word, Jack handed him the new plan.
Cassius read it, folded the sheet, and tucked it into his pocket.
"Ready when you are, Coach."
Jack cracked his knuckles, a tired but determined grin on his face.
"Today we stop playing nice."
The real work had just begun.