Our workshop ended around two in the afternoon. Afterward, Father took me to our backyard.
"Now, I'm going to teach you the basics of combat. This system is called Endo Natie. It's a combination of the best techniques from every martial art in the world. The system consists of eight basic striking stances and about ten defensive stances.
However, you won't move on until you've practiced each strike perfectly. Not a thousand, not two thousand, but a million times if necessary. You'll keep practicing until I'm satisfied. From there, I'll teach you the fundamentals of using weapons like swords, spears, shields, bows, and daggers over the next four months."
"And after that, Father?" I asked, excited but also a little apprehensive.
"I'm not finished yet," he said sternly. "Don't interrupt me, and don't ask any questions until I'm done. I've told you this before, and I don't want to have to repeat myself." His glare made me want to cry.
"You'll do exactly as I say. Every muscle in your body needs to be trained. Starting today, you'll begin drills every day from 6 PM. Be here, ready to train, with your assigned work completed."
Assigned work? Did that mean more studying? What had gotten into him all of a sudden?
.....................
Even with the 20-kilogram rings on my ankles, the warm-up nearly killed me. My muscles burned, my breath came in ragged gasps, and sweat stung my eyes. I realized just how weak I really was.
Father, on the other hand, had eight of those rings on one arm! He moved with effortless grace, a stark contrast to my clumsy attempts. Then, the real training began.
"First," he said, his voice echoing in the twilight,
"we'll start with the Horse Stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent, back straight, like you're riding an invisible horse. Hold it."
It sounded simple enough, but after just a few minutes, my thighs screamed in protest. My legs trembled, and I could feel sweat trickling down my face. He circled me, correcting my posture, his touch firm and unforgiving.
"Lower… straighter… tighter…" he'd say, his words precise and demanding.
Next came the Forward Stance, then the Back Stance, each requiring a different distribution of weight and a precise alignment of the body. He demonstrated each one flawlessly, a picture of power and control.
I tried to mimic him, but my body felt awkward and uncoordinated. "Again!" he'd bark after every failed attempt, and I'd grit my teeth and try again, each repetition pushing me closer to my breaking point.
We finished the exercises around 9 PM. He said he wasn't pushing me too hard on the first day, and not doing any combat training until my body could handle the current stances, but even that was enough to make me realize how little I'd actually done in school.
My hands were raw and blistered, my legs trembled with exhaustion, and a dull ache settled in my lower back. My body ached so much that I skipped dinner, took a quick shower, and collapsed into bed, falling asleep instantly. Even in my sleep, my muscles twitched and throbbed.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
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A desolate landscape, once a prosperous kingdom, now lay in ruins. The ground was parched and cracked, littered with the sun-bleached bones of dead animals. A chilling wind howled through the skeletal remains of what were once great trees. In the distance, a dark, cavernous area, shrouded in swirling black and purple smoke, seemed to pulse with an unholy energy.
In the middle of this blighted land, a medieval-looking old stone wall, covered by dark moss, larger than any elephant but damaged as if attacked by cannons, scarred and crumbling, yet still imposing, loomed under a bruised and fading light. Massive, rusted chains hung from the gate, and statues of imposing, fully armored warriors, their faces grim and eroded, stood guard.
Beyond the gate, the landscape within the walls, though now scarred, hinted at a time when it was green and beautiful. A road, cracked and overgrown, stretched towards the center, lined with more statues of armored warriors, each holding a sword pointed towards the sky. Near the center, the castle itself stood, its silhouette like jagged teeth against the fading light. Its stone walls, though showing signs of age and neglect, still radiated an aura of power.
Inside, in a dark, lightless prison cell, the air was thick with the stench of mildew, urine, and decay. The stone floor was damp and slick with grime, and the scratching of rats – or perhaps something worse – echoed from the shadows. Cockroaches, larger than any insect Ayan had ever seen, scuttled across the walls.
A figure, barely recognizable as human, hung upside down from a cross, bound by barbed wire chains that bit deep into their flesh. Their body, covered in wounds and scars, was almost completely naked, the tattered remnants of clothing clinging precariously. Their hair, matted with blood and grime, hung down, obscuring their face. It was a woman… She looked as if she had been submerged in a blood bath, her skin raw and glistening, the crimson staining the stone beneath her. Blood dripped steadily from her ears, mouth, and eyes, mingling with the grime and tears. Her fingernails had been ripped out, the raw nail beds a gruesome testament to the torture she had endured. Beneath her, a pool of blood gathered, far more than any human body could contain. What kind of human is she…?
......
Outside the prison cell…
"My daughter… she's already unconscious. What more do you want from her? Please, stop this!" His voice was raw with desperation, a plea torn from a soul breaking apart. His love for her had become his greatest weakness, twisted into something that left him powerless.
"Hah ha ha… Stop? How can we stop? She hasn’t told us anything we need to know. We’ve already pulled out all her fingernails… Next, when she regains consciousness, we’ll remove her teeth. Bwah ha ha ha!"
The words came from his own lips, dripping with cruel amusement—yet they were not his own.
"Please… stop. I can't take it anymore… please… my chest hurts." His mind struggled to form the words, the agony of watching his daughter being tortured tearing through him like a blade. Helplessness made it worse, amplifying the pain into something unbearable.
"Heh heh… Your chest?" The voice sneered. "Our chest, you mean. Hah!....You weak fool. You don’t even know where she is, do you? Your precious queen… idiot."
"No… please don't do this… please..." His thoughts trembled, unraveling. "She’s my daughter… Why does she have to suffer for something she doesn’t even know?"
"She’s our daughter now," the voice hissed. "She needs to tell us what she knows. And she will obey. Or she will suffer… And eventually, she will break. She will tell us where her aunt hides.
Your ignorance is why your family suffers.
You are why she suffers."
"Ahh… please… please stop…" The father’s will flickered like a dying flame, his voice barely more than breath.
"Heh heh… Since she’s unconscious, we’ll resume tomorrow morning. Heh heh…" The words left his mouth like a curse, thick with malice.
A figure in a dark robe stepped out of the prison hall, its face buried beneath a heavy hood. As it moved, something gleamed faintly in the dim torchlight—a jagged crown, barely visible beneath the shadows.
The figure wept… but also smiled.
Tears streamed from its eyes.
Its mouth twisted into laughter.
The tears belonged to the father.
The smile… to something else.
......