Chapter 12 - Against the Innersphere -
- The Nightmare continue -[]
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Tranquil, Kerensky Cluster
Clan Space
3048
Liliana's fists were clenched, her gaze fixed on Star Captain Orlan's impassive face. She stood in the training hall, the walls echoing the low hum of machines and the faint clangs of distant combat drills. Her fellow cadets had gathered around, watching with a mixture of fear and awe. It was a rare sight to see a Star Captain take an active role in training, let alone a personal one. This was Orlan's show, and he was the type who expected excellence—or he would grind it into you with his bare hands.
The Kitmaster's voice had been clear that morning. "You are to face Star Captain Orlan in a supervised lesson. His patience is finite, his honor boundless. If you falter, you not only shame yourself but the entire Bloodhouse Furste." The words hung over her like a noose. The message was simple: failure was not an option.
As Orlan approached her, his cold, predatory gaze sent a chill through her. He carried the aura of a seasoned killer, every step measured, calculated. His expression was unreadable, the look of a man who regarded everything—even his own students—as expendable.
"You will face me as if I am your enemy," he intoned, his voice cutting through the hall. "You will fight with every ounce of strength you possess. Anything less, and you are nothing to me."
Liliana nodded, steeling herself as she took her stance, arms raised, muscles coiled. She had trained for this her entire life, honing her body and mind into a weapon. Yet, facing Orlan, she felt an unfamiliar sliver of fear—not the fear of pain, but of disappointing him, of proving herself unworthy in his eyes.
Without warning, he lunged, his fist a blur as it connected with her midsection, a crushing blow that sent her staggering backward, gasping for air. Pain exploded in her ribs, her vision swimming as she struggled to maintain her balance.
"Too slow," Orlan snapped. His voice was devoid of any sympathy, as if her suffering was an annoyance. "You must anticipate the movement of your enemy, Kit Furste. Your hesitation marks you as weak, and weakness is death."
Liliana gritted her teeth, pushing the pain aside as she regained her stance. She would not yield, not here, not to him. She tightened her fists, launching herself at him with renewed determination, her arm swinging out in a rapid strike aimed at his chest. But he was faster, sidestepping with ease, his hand shooting out to catch her wrist in an iron grip.
With a twist, he wrenched her arm behind her back, forcing her down onto her knees, her face inches from the cold, hard floor.
"Strength without control is useless," he hissed into her ear, his tone dripping with disdain. "Do you understand what it means to fight, Kit Furste? Or are you content to flail like a child?"
Liliana fought against his grip, the agony in her twisted arm almost unbearable, but she refused to cry out. "Aff, Star Captain," she grunted, her voice strained. "I understand."
"Do you?" He released her suddenly, and she stumbled forward, barely managing to catch herself before she fell. "Then show me," he commanded, his voice like a whip. "Show me that you deserve the blood that runs in your veins."
Ignoring the throbbing pain in her arm, Liliana squared her shoulders, her gaze fixed on him. She felt the stares of her fellow cadets, the weight of their expectations pressing down on her. She couldn't falter, not in front of them, not in front of Orlan. Her next move had to be flawless.
She lunged again, her movements sharper, faster, aiming a series of calculated strikes at his head and torso. For a brief moment, she thought she had him; her fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head to the side. But he barely flinched, his expression unchanging as he absorbed the blow, his eyes narrowing with something that looked almost like amusement.
"Better," he acknowledged, but before she could feel any satisfaction, his hand shot out, delivering a crushing blow to her ribs. She felt something crack, pain blooming in her side as she staggered back, struggling to breathe.
"But not good enough," he continued, his voice calm, almost bored. "You must learn to use your pain, to turn it into strength. Pain is the proving ground of a true warrior. You cannot escape it, and if it weakens you, you have already failed."
Liliana forced herself to stand, ignoring the stabbing pain in her side, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. She wouldn't show weakness, not here, not to him. She raised her fists once more, her gaze locked onto his, her body trembling with exhaustion but her resolve unbroken.
"Again!" he barked, his tone sharp, unforgiving. "Strike with intent, Liliana ! Make every movement count, or I will beat the failure out of you!"
She obeyed, launching herself at him with renewed fury, her strikes faster, harder, each one fueled by the pain radiating through her body. But no matter how hard she tried, he countered her every move with brutal efficiency, his blows landing with merciless precision. Each strike sent fresh waves of agony through her, but she forced herself to stay upright, to meet his gaze with unflinching defiance.
After what felt like an eternity, Orlan finally paused, his expression unreadable as he studied her, his gaze cold and calculating. She stood before him, bruised, bloodied, barely able to stand, but still defiant, her fists raised, her jaw clenched.
"You are relentless," he observed, his tone almost begrudgingly respectful. "But relentlessness without control is a liability, a weakness that will get you killed. Discipline, Kit Furste. A warrior without discipline is no warrior at all."
She nodded, her voice a ragged whisper. "Aff, Star Captain."
"Strength without control is useless," he hissed into her ear, his tone dripping with disdain. "Do you understand what it means to fight, Kit Furste? Or are you content to flail like a child?"
Liliana fought against his grip, the agony in her twisted arm almost unbearable, but she refused to cry out. "Aff, Star Captain," she grunted, her voice strained. "I understand."
"Do you?" He released her suddenly, and she stumbled forward, barely managing to catch herself before she fell. "Then show me," he commanded, his voice like a whip. "Show me that you deserve the blood that runs in your veins."
Ignoring the throbbing pain in her arm, Liliana squared her shoulders, her gaze fixed on him. She felt the stares of her fellow cadets, the weight of their expectations pressing down on her. She couldn't falter, not in front of them, not in front of Orlan. Her next move had to be flawless.
She lunged again, her movements sharper, faster, aiming a series of calculated strikes at his head and torso. For a brief moment, she thought she had him; her fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head to the side. But he barely flinched, his expression unchanging as he absorbed the blow, his eyes narrowing with something that looked almost like amusement.
"Better," he acknowledged, but before she could feel any satisfaction, his hand shot out, delivering a crushing blow to her ribs. She felt something crack, pain blooming in her side as she staggered back, struggling to breathe.
"But not good enough," he continued, his voice calm, almost bored. "You must learn to use your pain, to turn it into strength. Pain is the proving ground of a true warrior. You cannot escape it, and if it weakens you, you have already failed."
Liliana forced herself to stand, ignoring the stabbing pain in her side, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. She wouldn't show weakness, not here, not to him. She raised her fists once more, her gaze locked onto his, her body trembling with exhaustion but her resolve unbroken.
"Again!" he barked, his tone sharp, unforgiving. "Strike with intent, Liliana ! Make every movement count, or I will beat the failure out of you!"
She obeyed, launching herself at him with renewed fury, her strikes faster, harder, each one fueled by the pain radiating through her body. But no matter how hard she tried, he countered her every move with brutal efficiency, his blows landing with merciless precision. Each strike sent fresh waves of agony through her, but she forced herself to stay upright, to meet his gaze with unflinching defiance.
After what felt like an eternity, Orlan finally paused, his expression unreadable as he studied her, his gaze cold and calculating. She stood before him, bruised, bloodied, barely able to stand, but still defiant, her fists raised, her jaw clenched.
"You are relentless," he observed, his tone almost begrudgingly respectful. "But relentlessness without control is a liability, a weakness that will get you killed. Discipline, Kit Furste. A warrior without discipline is no warrior at all."
She nodded, her voice a ragged whisper. "Aff, Star Captain."
He circled her slowly, his gaze scrutinizing every inch of her battered form, as if he were evaluating her worth, assessing whether she was worth the effort he was investing. "I expect you to be exceptional," he said, his tone low, menacing. "Do you understand what that means?"
"Aff," she replied, though her voice shook with exhaustion.
"Then prove it," he snapped. He took a step back, crossing his arms as he regarded her with cold, unwavering eyes. "You have three seconds to strike. Make it count."
She swallowed, steeling herself as she prepared to attack. The pain in her ribs was excruciating, her muscles screaming in protest, but she forced herself to ignore it. She would show him, show all of them, that she was worthy of the blood that ran in her veins.
Without hesitation, she lunged, her fist arcing toward his jaw with every ounce of strength she had left. But he anticipated her, sidestepping at the last moment, his hand shooting out to catch her wrist. With a twist, he pulled her off balance, his knee slamming into her stomach with brutal force. She doubled over, gasping for air, the pain blinding.
"Too predictable," he growled, his voice filled with contempt. "Do you think your enemies will wait for you to figure it out? Do you think they will allow you the luxury of learning from your mistakes? No! They will kill you, they will crush you, and you will be nothing but another failure of the Furste Bloodhouse."
The words cut deep, a blow as sharp as any physical strike. She struggled to straighten, to meet his gaze, her pride refusing to let her fall.
Orlan sneered, his gaze filled with disdain. "I am investing my honor in you, Kit Furste. Do not make me regret it."
She managed a nod, her vision blurring, her body wracked with pain, but her spirit unbroken. She would not yield, not here, not to him. She would endure, no matter how brutal, no matter how relentless. She would prove herself worthy—or she would die trying.
"Good," Orlan said, his tone cold, satisfied. "Remember, Kit Furste, weakness is death. Pain is a lesson. Discipline is survival. Do you understand?"
"Aff," she whispered, her voice filled with a fierce, unyielding resolve.
He regarded her for a long moment, his gaze calculating. "Then we begin again."
As he paced around her, his gaze piercing, like a hawk assessing a wounded prey. He crossed his arms, his cold, calculating eyes locked onto Liliana as she struggled to remain standing. Her body trembled with exhaustion, her muscles burning, yet she refused to let herself collapse.
"You will learn," he said, his voice low, ominous, "to break seasoned warriors. When you stand in a Trial of Bloodright, you will not face kits or cadets. You will face those who have survived countless battles, who have forged themselves into weapons honed by fire and blood." His voice dropped, his tone filled with disdain. "The Trial will be difficult—near impossible. But if you are to carry my name forward, you will not just endure it. You will crush them."
She nodded, though her breaths were shallow, her ribs stabbing with pain from his brutal strikes. "Aff, Star Captain."
"Do not say 'aff' unless you mean it, Kit Furste. Words are as empty as a broken weapon," he spat, his eyes narrowing. "By the time I am finished with you, you will mean every word. I will break you down, strip away every weakness, every soft spot, and in its place, I will build a warrior worthy of the Smoke Jaguar name. If I must beat that lesson into you a thousand times over, I will. And you will thank me for it."
Liliana swallowed, the weight of his words settling over her like an iron shroud. This wasn't training—it was a crucible, a forge where he would burn away everything unworthy of his expectations, leaving only the purest steel behind.
Orlan took a step closer, his face inches from hers, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Do you understand what this means? This is more than strength, more than endurance. This is a willingness to endure agony, to be shattered and rebuilt, to face your own weaknesses and eradicate them. You will learn control, precision, and ruthlessness beyond anything you have known." His gaze hardened. "Because if you fail, you will be nothing."
He stepped back, gesturing at her with a dismissive wave. "Stand straight."
Liliana forced herself to straighten, though her body protested every movement. She bit back the pain, her chin lifting, her eyes meeting his without a hint of fear. Her face was set, her eyes cold, mirroring his own expression as she forced her exhaustion into submission.
"Good," he said, nodding with a hint of approval. "You have spirit, at least. But spirit alone will not win a Bloodright. You will need discipline, strength, and the instinct to read your opponent's every move before they make it. You will be taught this—through pain, through endless repetition, until your body and mind become one."
He raised a gloved hand, clenching it into a fist. "A prodigy, Kit Liliana, must be forged. It will not come naturally. I will break you down, again and again, until I have eradicated every ounce of softness within you. There is no room for weakness among the Bloodnamed. You will not simply learn to fight—you will learn to dominate. Every strike will be precise. Every movement will be deadly."
Liliana met his gaze, her expression unwavering. "I will not fail."
A shadow of a smile flickered across Orlan's face, though it was cold, humorless. "We shall see. Words mean nothing until they are tested."
Without warning, he lunged at her, his fists swinging with deadly precision. Liliana's reflexes took over, her body moving instinctively to block, but he was relentless, his attacks unyielding, forcing her backward. She managed to deflect a few of his strikes, her movements sharper than before, but his strength overwhelmed her. A well-aimed blow struck her jaw, snapping her head to the side. She stumbled, tasting blood.
"Faster!" he barked, delivering another crushing blow to her ribs. "Predict, anticipate! Know my movements before I make them!"
Gasping, Liliana forced herself to react, dodging his next strike by a hair's breadth. Pain radiated through her body, but she pushed it aside, focusing entirely on his movements, on the rhythm of his attacks. He was faster, stronger, but there was a pattern to his strikes, a cadence that she could almost sense. She moved to intercept, swinging her fist toward his side, but he blocked it with ease, his eyes flashing with disdain.
"Good," he growled, almost approvingly, "but not good enough." He slammed his knee into her stomach, sending her crashing to the ground. She gasped for air, clutching her midsection, the world spinning around her.
"Again," he demanded, his voice unyielding. "Stand up."
She pushed herself to her feet, her vision swimming, but she refused to give in. Every nerve in her body screamed, but she forced herself to meet his gaze, her fists raised once more. She was battered, bruised, barely able to stand, yet there was no retreat, no surrender in her stance.
Orlan nodded, his expression unreadable. "This is the beginning, Kit Furste. You are being forged into something more than yourself, something greater. Your pain is nothing compared to what awaits you in the Trial, to the seasoned killers who will see you as prey. I will teach you to be more than they are. I will teach you to be relentless. And if you fail, you will wish you had died here."
The words sank in, a cold resolve hardening within her. She understood now; he was not merely training her—he was reshaping her, molding her into something that could endure anything, that could face any enemy and emerge victorious. She clenched her fists tighter, her jaw set with unyielding determination.
"I will not fail," she repeated, her voice steady, each word weighted with fierce intent.
Orlan's eyes narrowed, a hint of approval flashing in his gaze. "Then prove it." He raised his fists, his stance predatory, as if he intended to continue until she could no longer stand. "You will learn the meaning of strength, Kit Furste. You will learn to conquer, to destroy, to break those who stand before you without hesitation."
He lunged again, his blows coming faster, harder. Liliana's world shrank to the movement of his fists, to the rhythm of his strikes. Pain exploded with every blow, but she fought through it, her body adapting, her reflexes sharpening. She dodged, blocked, struck back with everything she had, refusing to fall.
Hours passed in a blur of agony and sweat, the relentless onslaught of his training beating her down, yet each time she fell, she rose again, her spirit unbroken, her resolve hardened. And as Orlan's fists connected for the hundredth time, she felt a flicker of understanding, a glimmer of the warrior he was forging within her.
This was her path, her Trial long before the official one. And as she stood before him, battered but unyielding, she knew she would endure. She would become the weapon he envisioned—a warrior of the Smoke Jaguars, unbreakable and feared.
She staggered again, her vision blurring as she blinked away the sweat and blood that seeped down her face. She tried to focus, to find her footing, but her limbs felt like lead, every movement a grinding agony. Orlan circled her, his face cold and impassive, watching her struggle with the satisfaction of a predator toying with its prey.
"Pathetic," he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "If this is the best you can offer, then perhaps the blood of the Furste lineage has thinned over the years." He tilted his head, a mocking glint in his eyes. "Are you even trying, Kit Liliana? Or has your pride kept you from admitting that you are simply weak?"
Liliana forced her trembling arms up, her fists raised. She met his gaze with defiance, but he saw the exhaustion, the pain in her eyes, and his lip curled in contempt.
"Again," he demanded, his tone sharp as a blade.
She took a deep breath, every inch of her bruised and bloodied body protesting, but she lunged forward, swinging a wild punch. He blocked it effortlessly, twisting her arm and slamming her face-first into the floor. She tasted the bitter, metallic tang of blood on her tongue as her lip split open. She tried to push herself up, but Orlan's boot came down hard on her back, pinning her to the ground.
"Is this what you consider strength?" he spat, pressing his boot harder against her spine. The pressure was unbearable, grinding her into the cold, unforgiving floor. "Do you think your enemies will give you a chance to catch your breath? Do you think they will let you stand if you falter?"
She gasped, her face pressed into the floor, her breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Her pride screamed at her to fight, to struggle against him, but her body was on the verge of collapse. She bit down on her lip, tasting blood, her hands clenched into fists.
"Stand up, Kit Furste!" Orlan barked, lifting his boot only to kick her viciously in the ribs. She rolled onto her side, gasping as pain shot through her, her vision darkening at the edges. He crouched beside her, his expression cold, calculating, as if deciding whether she was even worth the effort.
"Do you understand now?" he asked, his voice low, laced with cruelty. "You are nothing. A weak, pathetic excuse for a warrior. I am investing my time in you, and you repay me with this?" He grabbed her by the collar, hauling her to her feet, her legs barely able to hold her weight. "If you collapse, I will leave you here to rot. Stand on your own, or crawl out like the worthless creature you are."
Liliana forced herself upright, her body swaying, blood trickling from a dozen cuts and bruises. Her face was swollen, her eye nearly shut from where his fist had connected. She met his gaze, her teeth gritted, refusing to show him any hint of submission.
Orlan's face twisted in anger, his grip on her collar tightening. "You think defiance is strength, quiaff? You think that glare in your eye makes you a warrior?" He laughed, the sound cold and mocking. "I will beat that arrogance out of you, Kit Liliana. I will break you until there is nothing left but obedience and discipline."
He threw her backward, her body crashing against the hard floor. She tried to rise, her arms shaking, but he was on her again, his fist connecting with her stomach, forcing the air from her lungs. She doubled over, struggling to breathe, but he gave her no time to recover, landing another brutal kick to her side. The pain was blinding, searing through her ribs, but she bit down hard, swallowing her cries.
"Is this how you intend to survive a Trial of Bloodright?" he snarled, his voice a relentless assault on her shattered pride. "Is this how you plan to honor your lineage? Pathetic."
She managed to get to her knees, her head spinning, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She felt tears burning in her eyes, but she forced them down, refusing to let him see her break. The room spun around her, her body trembling, but she pushed herself up, her fists raised, blood dripping from her knuckles.
Orlan watched her with a smirk, his arms crossed. "Still on your feet? Impressive. But let us see if you can endure a little longer."
He moved in, faster than she could react, his fist connecting with her jaw. She staggered back, but he didn't stop, his blows raining down mercilessly, each strike calculated, precise, designed to punish her for every perceived weakness. Her world became a haze of pain, her body battered and bruised, every nerve screaming in agony. But through it all, she refused to fall.
"Still standing?" Orlan sneered, wiping a trickle of sweat from his brow, as though even her resistance was beneath his full effort. "It seems you are too stubborn to know when you are beaten. Fine, I will teach you."
He lunged again, his hand closing around her throat, lifting her off the ground. Her vision blurred, her lungs burning as he held her aloft, his grip like iron. She clawed at his hand, her body writhing, but he held her effortlessly, watching her struggle with cold amusement.
"Look at you," he hissed, his voice filled with venom. "Weak, helpless. This is what you are—a pitiful, worthless kit who thinks defiance equals strength." He tightened his grip, her vision darkening as she gasped for air. "A true warrior does not rely on brute force or empty bravado. A true warrior is relentless, unbreakable, and you are far from that."
With a final sneer, he released her, and she collapsed to the ground, coughing, her hands clutching her throat as she struggled to breathe. Every muscle in her body screamed for rest, her mind teetering on the edge of consciousness, but she forced herself to look up, to meet his gaze with a fierce, unyielding glare.
Orlan's lip curled in disgust. "You have spirit, Kit Liliana, but spirit alone will not save you. You will be broken, over and over again, until you are molded into something worth the effort I am investing. And if you break—truly break—I will not waste another moment on you."
He took a step back, crossing his arms as he looked down at her battered form with disdain. "You will continue this until you learn, Kit Furste. Until your body and mind are honed into the weapon I demand. You are nothing yet. But perhaps, if you survive this, you may become something worthy of the Smoke Jaguar name."
She pushed herself up, her limbs trembling, blood dripping from her split lip, her swollen eye half-closed. The hall was silent, the other cadets watching her with expressions ranging from pity to awe. She wanted to collapse, to let the darkness claim her, but she forced herself to stand, her fists clenched, her gaze fixed on Orlan.
"I will not break," she whispered, her voice hoarse, raw.
Orlan's eyes narrowed, a cold smile playing on his lips. "Then prove it."
And so the training continued, brutal and unrelenting. Orlan beat her down again and again, each strike meant to drive home her weaknesses, each bruise a reminder of her failures. He would give her no rest, no mercy, forcing her to rise after every blow, taunting her with words that cut deeper than any wound. Her sweat mingled with blood, her body a map of bruises, yet she refused to fall.
Through the haze of pain, she began to see the method in his brutality. His strikes were precise, his movements honed, each one meant to teach her a lesson, to show her the difference between strength and control, between raw power and refined skill. And as much as she hated him, as much as she wanted to scream at him, to lash out, she couldn't deny the truth in his words.
She would need to be more than just strong. She would need to be disciplined, precise, every movement a calculated blow. Orlan's fists taught her lessons her pride could not.
Days turned into weeks, each training session leaving her more battered than the last. But as the bruises faded, as her body adapted, she began to see the changes. Her movements became sharper, her strikes more precise, her instincts honed. She could sense his attacks, read his intentions, counter his moves with a skill she hadn't known she possessed.
And through it all, Orlan pushed her, his words as brutal as his fists, reminding her of every failure, every weakness, every imperfection. She hated him, with a fury that burned in her chest, but she used that hate, channeled it into her strikes, her endurance, her resolve.
One day, as she stood battered and bleeding before him, her breath coming in sharp, controlled gasps, he finally stepped back, his gaze appraising.
"You are learning," he said, his voice devoid of praise, yet she could sense the grudging acknowledgment in his tone. "You may yet survive the Trial of Bloodright."
He turned, leaving her standing alone in the center of the training hall, her body screaming in pain, yet filled with a fierce, unyielding pride. She had endured. She had not broken. And as she watched him walk away, she vowed that one day, she would surpass him, prove herself not just as a warrior, but as something greater.
Yet as she stood alone in the silent hall, her breaths shallow, each one a knife of pain slicing through her ribs. Blood trickled down her face, sweat mixing with dirt and grime, a grim reminder of the punishment she'd endured. She barely noticed as her vision swam, darkness creeping at the edges of her sight, but she forced herself to stay upright, her fists still clenched.
Orlan had left, but the challenge he issued in his final words lingered. You may yet survive the Trial of Bloodright.
May.
It was not a promise. It was a thin chance, a brutal reminder that she was still unworthy. She grit her teeth, a raw, animalistic snarl clawing at her throat as she choked down the anger, the hatred that he'd stoked with every blow, every insult. She would not let him have the satisfaction of her despair.
The doors to the hall creaked open, and she glanced up, barely able to see through her bruised eye. Kitmaster Kürst entered, his face as hard and unreadable as stone. He surveyed her battered form, his gaze narrowing as if he were looking at something broken and unimpressive.
"So, this is the prodigy Orlan claims he is molding," he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Pathetic."
She forced herself to stand straighter, the bones in her back grinding, her vision blurring again. "I will be ready for the Trial," she rasped, her voice hoarse.
"Will you?" Kürst stepped closer, his face inches from hers, his gaze sharp, unforgiving. "You think this"—he gestured to her bruised and bleeding form—"is strength? You think enduring a few broken bones and bruises qualifies you as a warrior?"
He delivered a swift, unexpected punch to her already swollen jaw, sending her sprawling to the floor. She felt the hard impact of her cheek against the cold tiles, the metallic taste of blood flooding her mouth, but she pushed herself up, spitting blood onto the ground. She looked up, defiant.
"You are nothing but a stubborn child," Kürst sneered, his eyes flashing with disgust. "A true warrior does not need a beating to learn discipline. A true warrior controls themselves. You? You are barely a weapon. More like a broken blade."
Liliana swallowed down the bile rising in her throat, forcing herself to her feet once more. She stood, swaying slightly, her gaze fixed on him, refusing to let him see her weakness. She would not give him—or anyone—the satisfaction of watching her fall.
Kürst's expression twisted into something crueler. "I see Orlan has been far too gentle," he said coldly. "It seems a real lesson is in order. You will understand what it means to be Smoke Jaguar."
Before she could brace herself, his fist connected with her stomach, his knuckles digging deep into her gut, wrenching the air from her lungs. She doubled over, gasping, but he grabbed her by the hair, jerking her upright, his gaze filled with disdain.
"Stand," he demanded, his tone icy, merciless. "Stand, and keep standing until you understand what it means to endure. Or would you rather be sent back to the ranks of the lower castes?"
She straightened, each breath a jagged, searing pain. She met his gaze, her lips twisted in a bloody snarl, her body trembling from the exertion, but her spirit unbroken. "I… will not… yield."
"Then prove it," he said, releasing her with a shove that nearly sent her sprawling. "Prove to me you are more than just Orlan's pet project."
Kürst's next blow came as a whirlwind of brutality, his fists landing with merciless precision. Each strike found a fresh bruise, each blow reopening a wound, his attacks honed with the precision of someone who knew exactly where to strike to hurt the most. He was not just trying to beat her; he was trying to break her, to shatter any remaining pride she had left.
Her vision darkened with each punch, her knees buckling, but she forced herself upright again and again. Her mind became a haze of pain, her thoughts reduced to one singular, burning purpose: endure. She would not fall. She would not give him the satisfaction. She clung to the rage, the hatred for every lesson, every brutal reminder that she was still unworthy, using it to drive her forward.
"Is this all?" he mocked, his voice cutting through her haze. "Is this the best you can do? Perhaps the Furste line is weaker than I thought."
The insult cut deeper than any blow. With a growl, she swung at him, her fist aimed squarely at his jaw. He dodged effortlessly, catching her wrist and twisting it behind her back, wrenching her arm painfully.
"Pitiful," he spat. "A true warrior anticipates every move, every reaction." He shoved her forward, sending her stumbling to the ground.
She landed hard, her body screaming in agony, but she pushed herself up, her arms trembling, her breaths ragged. She spat blood onto the floor, her vision blurring as she fought to stay conscious, to push through the haze of pain that threatened to consume her.
"On your feet, Kit Liliana," he commanded, his voice cold. "Or have you finally accepted your place?"
She forced herself up, every nerve in her body aflame, her fists clenched, her jaw set with a fierce, unyielding resolve. She would not give in. She would not let him see her break.
Kürst shook his head, a twisted smile on his face. "Perhaps there is some shred of worth in you. But only time will tell if you survive the Trials, or if you die like so many worthless kits before you."
He turned and walked away, leaving her battered, broken, and alone in the training hall. She staggered, her body trembling, her mind numb with pain. The other cadets watched her in silence, their faces a mixture of awe, pity, and fear. She barely registered their stares, her thoughts consumed by the burning fury that had kept her on her feet.
Slowly, painfully, she sank to her knees, her body finally giving out. Her breaths came in shallow, broken gasps, her mind a fog of exhaustion. She had endured the worst the Smoke Jaguars had to offer, had faced their brutality and survived.
But as she knelt there, broken and bloodied, she knew this was only the beginning. They would push her again and again, until she either shattered or emerged stronger, a warrior worthy of their Clan. Her path was one of blood and agony, a crucible that would burn away everything she was until only the warrior remained.
She clenched her fists, her knuckles white, her jaw set. She would survive. She would endure. And one day, she would prove herself, not just to Orlan or Kürst, but to the entire Clan. She would carve her name into their legacy, her spirit unbreakable, her strength undeniable.
For now, though, she was alone, broken in the silence of the hall, a solitary figure in the brutal world of the Smoke Jaguars. Her body was a canvas of bruises, her blood marking the floor, each drop a testament to her defiance, her resilience.
One day, she vowed, she would look back on this moment and know that she had not only survived it but had risen from it, stronger, sharper, a true Smoke Jaguar warrior. And they would regret every blow, every insult, every attempt to break her. They would see her for the warrior she had become—unyielding, relentless, forged in the fires of their brutality.
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