Chapter 6 - Against the Innersphere -
- Memories -[]
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Tranquil, Kerensky Cluster
Clan Space
The air was thick with the sounds of combat-the clang of training weapons clashing, the grunt of exertion, the thud of bodies hitting the ground. It was a familiar symphony, one that brought back memories of a time she thought she had left far behind. Liliana stood in the center of the sparring ring, facing down another kit from the Fürst Sibko, a young warrior who barely came up to her chin. She was poised, her body coiled, muscles tense, her eyes cold and unyielding.
Her opponent circled her, a feral grin on his face, a gleam of arrogance in his eyes. He was young, bold-like all the others. But he had no idea who he was facing. To him, she was just another kit, another rival to test his skills against. He didn't know she had earned her bloodname in battle, that she had once fought and died as a Star Captain. To him, she was just another kit.
"Come on, Liliana," he taunted, a smirk twisting his lips. "Are you even awake, or are you afraid?"
Liliana's lips thinned into a tight line, but she didn't respond. She let him taunt, let him circle, his words sliding off her like water. Words were meaningless here. She knew what was coming. She had seen it all before-the bravado, the false confidence of someone who had never faced true combat, someone who still thought strength was a matter of pride.
The other kits stood around the ring, their faces a mixture of amusement and anticipation. She could feel their eyes on her, but there was no camaraderie, no kinship in their gazes. They were strangers to her, and she to them. The Fürst Sibko was the last remnant of what she once knew, but there was no familiarity here, no warmth. They looked at her as if she was something alien, something both fascinating and unsettling-a creature from another world.
In a way, they were right.
Her opponent lunged, swinging his training baton toward her head. Liliana moved without thought, her body reacting with the precision of muscle memory honed over decades of experience. She sidestepped, bringing her own baton down on his wrist with brutal efficiency. He let out a gasp, his weapon clattering to the ground as he stumbled back, clutching his wrist.
The crowd around them murmured, a mix of surprise and irritation rippling through the group. Liliana kept her expression neutral, her eyes never leaving her opponent. To her, it was just another movement, another series of steps in a dance she had learned long ago. But to him, it was a humiliation, a reminder of his own inadequacy.
He recovered quickly, a scowl twisting his features. "Lucky hit," he spat, picking up his weapon with his uninjured hand. "You think you're better than us, quiaff?"
Liliana didn't respond. There was no need. She watched him with a detached calm, her stance loose, relaxed. She was aware of the others watching her, aware of the quiet disdain in their eyes. She had become an outcast among her own sibkin, a pariah, the last survivor of her star. They didn't see her as one of them; they saw her as a reminder of something darker, something that didn't fit within their understanding.
The kit lunged again, this time more carefully, his movements sharper, his eyes narrowed with focus. But it wasn't enough. Liliana blocked his strike with ease, twisting his weapon from his hand and shoving him back with a single, brutal push. He stumbled, nearly falling, his face flushed with rage and embarrassment.
"Fight back!" he snarled, his voice cracking with frustration. "What are you waiting for?"
She stared at him, her expression unreadable. "You call this fighting?" Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but there was a weight to it that made him flinch. "This is not fighting. This is posturing."
His face twisted with anger, and he rushed at her, his form sloppy, his movements born of rage rather than skill. Liliana sidestepped again, her baton lashing out, catching him in the ribs. He gasped, doubling over, and she followed through with a swift, controlled strike to his shoulder, sending him to the ground.
The crowd fell silent, their amusement replaced by an uncomfortable tension. They were used to competition, to rivalry, but what they saw here was something different. Liliana stood over her opponent, her stance calm, her face a mask of indifference. She didn't move, didn't gloat. She was beyond that. This wasn't a victory; it was a statement.
Her opponent struggled to his feet, his face pale with anger and humiliation. "You think you're invincible, quiaff?" he sneered, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip. "Just because you survived your star, just because you get your own room, doesn't mean you're untouchable."
Liliana met his gaze, her eyes cold and unyielding. "I am not untouchable," she said quietly. "I am simply better."
The words hung in the air, a cold declaration that left no room for argument. She saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes, the brief flash of fear that he quickly tried to mask. He wanted to be a warrior, wanted to prove himself, but he had never faced someone like her-someone who had already walked through the fires of battle and emerged on the other side, scarred but unbroken.
She turned away from him, her gaze sweeping over the other kits. They averted their eyes, shifting uncomfortably under her scrutiny. She could feel their resentment, their disdain, but it didn't matter. She had seen them before, in a hundred different faces, in a thousand different battles. They were her sibkin, the closest thing she had to family, but they were strangers to her, just as she was to them.
One of the younger kits, a boy with a nervous frown, spoke up, his voice hesitant. "How… how did you do that?"
Liliana looked at him, her gaze steady. "Practice," she said simply. "And survival."
The boy's frown deepened, and she could see the confusion in his eyes. They didn't understand. To them, combat was still a game, a test of skill and bravado. They hadn't tasted the reality of war, hadn't felt the weight of loss pressing down on them like a shroud. They hadn't watched the people they cared about die, hadn't felt the cold, empty ache of knowing they would never return.
As she stepped out of the ring, she heard the whispers start again, quiet murmurs that followed her like shadows. She was different, a mystery, an anomaly. She was the kit who had survived when her star had not, the one who had taken on the Dark Caste alone, the one who fought like a warrior who had seen more battles than they could imagine. And for that, they hated her.
She walked past them, her steps steady, her expression unreadable. The crowd parted as she moved, their eyes flickering with a mixture of fear and envy. She could feel the isolation wrapping around her, a barrier that separated her from the rest of them. She was alone, not because she chose to be, but because she had become something they couldn't understand, something they couldn't touch.
And as she left the training area, the silence following her like a shadow, she felt the ache in her chest deepen. She had been given a second chance, a chance to see the faces of her sibkin again, to relive the life she had lost. But instead, she was more alone than ever. She had gained nothing, only the hollow weight of memories that left her feeling like a ghost among the living.
Her opponent's words echoed in her mind as she walked away, the bitterness in his voice a reminder of the walls that now separated her from the only people who might have understood.
"Just because you survived…"
Survival. It was all she had now. She had survived the fall of Huntress, had been pulled back into the past, but it was nothing more than an illusion. The faces she saw, the voices she heard-they were echoes, reminders of a life she could never return to. And every time she looked at them, every time she stepped into the sparring ring, she felt the wound reopen, the ache of loss settling into her bones.
She was untouchable, invincible, not because of her strength, but because there was nothing left for her to lose. She was a warrior without a Clan, a survivor without a family. And as she left the crowd and the murmurs behind, the empty hallways swallowing her footsteps as she made her way to the auxiliary sparring room. This room was often quieter, less frequented by the more eager kits. It had always been her sanctuary, a place to focus, to train in solitude. She entered, expecting to find it empty, but a flash of movement caught her eye.
A young girl was sparring against a training dummy, her strikes swift and precise, each movement sharp with controlled aggression. She was smaller, more slender than most of the others, but there was a fire in her movements-a familiar spark that Liliana recognized instantly. The girl's black hair was pulled back tightly, her eyes narrowed with concentration, a mixture of resentment and raw drive in her expression. She moved with a relentless efficiency that reminded Liliana too much of herself, of Krysta. And seeing it now, like this, reopened wounds she thought she had buried.
Liliana crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, watching the girl without a word. She studied each strike, each pivot and turn, the way the girl seemed to pour herself into every blow. It was the way Liliana had trained as a young kit, driven by the need to be perfect, to embody the ideals of Clan Smoke Jaguar. She could see it in the girl's eyes-the hunger, the anger, the simmering resentment. And beneath it all, the drive to prove herself.
The girl noticed her, her strikes faltering for a split second as she glanced up. There was a flash of recognition in her eyes, but it quickly hardened into defiance. She continued her training, her focus unwavering, but Liliana could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her movements grew sharper, almost as if she were challenging Liliana simply by being there.
"Your stance is wrong," Liliana said, her voice calm, almost detached.
The girl paused, turning to face her fully. "My stance is fine," she replied, a note of irritation in her voice.
Liliana pushed off the wall, stepping into the sparring room. She gestured to the girl's legs, her tone clinical, distant. "Your weight is too far forward. It leaves you vulnerable to a counter. Here-" she moved closer, positioning herself beside the girl and adjusting her stance, "shift back. Center your balance. Use your opponent's momentum against them."
The girl frowned, but she followed Liliana's guidance, shifting her stance. She struck the dummy again, this time with a more fluid motion, her balance steady.
"Better," Liliana said, nodding. "But still sloppy. You're too focused on power. It's not enough to hit hard; you have to hit with precision."
The girl's eyes narrowed. "I don't need precision if I can overpower my opponent."
Liliana shook her head, a faint, almost sad smile tugging at her lips. "That's what I used to believe, too. But power without control is just wasted energy." She gestured for the girl to face her. "Here. Spar with me. Show me your strength."
The girl hesitated, surprise flickering across her face, but she quickly masked it with a look of determination. She took her stance, her eyes hardening as she prepared herself. There was a rawness to her, a hunger that reminded Liliana of her own early days-back when she believed that sheer force of will would make her untouchable.
The girl lunged, swinging with a fierce intensity, her strikes fast and aggressive. But Liliana moved with a calculated ease, blocking each blow with minimal effort, her movements a careful balance of defense and counter. She could feel the girl's frustration growing, each blocked strike fueling her anger. Liliana allowed her to keep striking, deflecting every blow, her own face calm, unyielding.
"You're too predictable," Liliana said, her voice low, almost a whisper. "You fight with anger, but anger blinds you."
The girl's face flushed, her strikes growing more erratic, more forceful. She swung with renewed aggression, trying to break through Liliana's defenses, but each attempt was met with the same cold precision. Liliana sidestepped, delivering a quick jab to the girl's shoulder, forcing her to stumble back.
"See?" Liliana said, her voice still calm. "Rage without control makes you vulnerable."
The girl's eyes blazed with frustration, her teeth clenched. "I don't need control. I just need to be stronger."
Liliana's expression softened, a flicker of sadness passing over her features. "And what happens when you meet someone stronger? Someone who has trained longer, who fights with both strength and control?"
The girl faltered, a momentary flicker of doubt crossing her face, but she quickly masked it, her defiance returning. "I won't lose," she said, her voice hard. "I can't lose. I have to be perfect."
Liliana felt a pang in her chest, the words echoing like a memory. She had once spoken those same words, with that same fire, that same determination. She saw herself in this girl, a younger version of herself, back before everything had been taken from her. Before she had lost everyone she cared about.
"Perfection is a lie," Liliana said softly, her gaze piercing. "No warrior is perfect. And the ones who try to be…" She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. "They break."
The girl's expression twisted, a mixture of anger and confusion. "You don't understand. You have no idea what it's like-to be told you have to be the best, to be the strongest, that anything less is failure."
Liliana's jaw tightened, her eyes darkening. "Oh, I understand," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "More than you know."
For a moment, they stood there, locked in silence, the weight of Liliana's words settling between them. The girl looked at her, a flicker of something softer breaking through her defiance. She was young-too young to understand the cost of the path she was walking. And Liliana knew that if she continued on this path, it would only end in the same emptiness, the same isolation that haunted her now.
She took a step back, gesturing for the girl to continue. "Come," she said, her voice steady. "Show me your strength."
The girl hesitated, but then she nodded, taking her stance again. This time, her movements were more controlled, more deliberate. She lunged forward, her strikes sharp and precise, and Liliana met each one, guiding her, adjusting her technique with each exchange. She was harsh, unyielding, pushing the girl to her limits, but there was a purpose to it-a lesson she hoped the girl would understand.
As they sparred, Liliana felt the weight of memories pressing down on her. She saw herself in this girl, saw the echoes of Krysta-the fierce determination, the anger, the relentless drive to prove oneself. She felt the ache in her chest deepen, a hollow reminder of everything she had lost. She had been given a second chance, a chance to see the faces of her sibkin again, to guide them, to protect them. But it was nothing more than an illusion, a painful reminder that she was alone.
The girl stumbled, and Liliana stepped back, allowing her a moment to catch her breath. She looked at the girl, her gaze softening. "Strength is not just about being the best," she said quietly. "It's about knowing your limits. It's about control. Without that, strength is just recklessness."
The girl looked at her, something in her eyes shifting, a glimmer of understanding breaking through her frustration. "But… what if I fail?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
Liliana's heart twisted. She reached out, placing a hand on the girl's shoulder. "We all fail," she replied, her voice softer than she intended. "But a true warrior learns from failure. They don't let it consume them."
The girl looked down, her expression thoughtful, vulnerable in a way that reminded Liliana too much of herself. She could see the same doubts, the same fears that had driven her, that had led her down a path of isolation and pain.
"Don't let your drive for strength make you lose yourself," Liliana said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Strength is not about being invincible. It's about enduring, even when everything around you falls apart."
The girl nodded slowly, a faint glimmer of understanding in her eyes. For a moment, there was silence, the tension between them softening, shifting into something that felt almost like a bond. Liliana could see the potential in this girl, the fire that could either forge her into a warrior of greatness or consume her completely.
As the girl stepped back, bowing her head in acknowledgment, Liliana felt a bittersweet pang in her chest. She had been given a chance to guide her, to pass on the lessons she had learned through pain and loss. But she knew that, in the end, this girl would have to find her own path. Liliana could only offer her a glimpse, a warning.
She watched as the girl left the room, her footsteps echoing down the corridor. Liliana stood alone in the sparring ring, the emptiness pressing in once more. She had seen herself in that girl, seen the remnants of her own past, her own mistakes. And she knew that, despite her guidance, despite her warnings, the path of a Smoke Jaguar was one that ultimately had to be walked alone.
As the silence settled around her, she stood alone again in the silent room, her chest rising and falling as the emotions from the sparring session lingered. She stared at the training dummy, her eyes cold, her mind awash in a turbulent mixture of rage and sorrow. The sight of that young girl-the fire in her eyes, the unbridled hunger for strength-had stirred something deep within her, something raw and painful. Memories she had tried to bury, thoughts she couldn't afford to dwell on.
Without a word, she moved to the training dummy, her hands curling into fists. She struck it, the impact jarring through her body, but it wasn't enough. She hit it again, each blow harder than the last, her movements precise yet brutal. The dummy was designed to withstand heavy punishment, reinforced to endure the beatings of warriors in training, but she pounded it with a relentless fury that spoke to something deeper, something dark that words couldn't express.
Each punch, each strike, was an outlet for everything she couldn't say, for the ache that gnawed at her insides. The memories of Huntress burning, the agony of losing her Clan, the hollow reality of waking up in a past that was nothing more than an illusion-all of it surged to the surface, and she unleashed it on the dummy, her strikes growing wilder, harder.
"Why-" She slammed her fist into the dummy, her voice barely a whisper, almost a growl. "Why did I come back?"
The dummy took each hit without complaint, a silent partner in her suffering, but it wasn't enough. She wanted to feel something-wanted the pain, the exhaustion, anything that could numb the emptiness that seemed to have become part of her. Her fists were a blur, her breath coming in ragged bursts, each strike driven by a fury she couldn't contain.
"You took everything from me," she spat, her voice filled with bitterness, each word punctuated by another brutal punch. "Everything."
Her fists began to ache, her knuckles bruising beneath the impact, but she didn't stop. The pain was grounding, an anchor in the storm that raged within her. She needed it, craved it, if only to feel something other than the hollow emptiness that had settled in her chest since her return. She struck again, and again, her hands moving with a rhythm that was almost frantic.
The door slid open, but Liliana didn't hear it. She was too consumed by her own anguish, too lost in the memories that haunted her. It wasn't until she heard a sharp voice-a voice with a weight of authority that cut through her haze-that she stopped, her fist frozen mid-strike.
"Kits Fürst."
Liliana turned, breathing heavily, her eyes meeting the cold, unyielding gaze of Kit Master Kürste. His expression was impassive, but there was a flicker of something-curiosity, perhaps, or judgment-in his eyes as he regarded her. He stepped into the room, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid and commanding.
"Explain yourself," he said, his voice calm but laced with an undertone of severity.
Liliana straightened, her fists dropping to her sides. She met his gaze, her face a mask of stoicism, but she could feel the weight of his scrutiny, the way his eyes seemed to pierce through her. There was no excuse, no reason she could give that would make sense to someone like him, someone who saw the world in terms of efficiency and discipline.
"I was… training," she replied, her voice steady, though her hands still trembled slightly.
Kürste's gaze narrowed, his eyes sweeping over the bruises forming on her knuckles, the faint tremor in her shoulders. "Training," he repeated, a note of skepticism in his voice. "You looked more like a warrior in battle than a kit in training."
Liliana held his gaze, refusing to flinch. "Battle and training are not so different, Kit Master."
He regarded her for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Is that so?" he replied, his tone neutral. "Then tell me, Kits Fürst, who was your opponent? Who was it that you felt the need to destroy so thoroughly?"
Liliana hesitated, her mind racing. She knew what he wanted-a logical explanation, something that fit within the confines of the Clan's teachings. But how could she explain the hollow rage, the loneliness, the weight of loss that had driven her here? How could she put into words the pain that lingered beneath her cold exterior?
"It was no one, Kit Master," she said finally, her voice quiet. "Just… memories."
Kürste's gaze hardened, a faint frown tugging at his lips. "Memories are a distraction, Kits Fürst. They have no place here. A true Smoke Jaguar does not dwell on what is past."
"I am aware," she replied, her tone clipped, though there was an edge of defiance in her voice.
Kürste stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied her, the weight of his presence pressing down on her. "Your performance in the sparring ring was… impressive," he said slowly, as if choosing his words with care. "But a warrior who fights with reckless fury is a liability. Tell me, what use is strength without control?"
The question hung in the air, a quiet challenge, and Liliana felt a flicker of resentment rise within her. Control. It was what they always preached, what they demanded of their warriors. But what good was control when it stripped away everything that made them human? What good was discipline when it left them empty, hollow, alone?
She held his gaze, her voice cold. "Sometimes, Kit Master, control is not enough."
Kürste's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flash of something-anger, perhaps, or a flicker of understanding. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual impassive expression.
"Control," he said, his voice firm, "is what separates us from the beasts. A warrior who cannot master themselves will be mastered by others. Remember that, Kits Fürst."
She clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to snap back, to let the bitterness spill over. She wanted to tell him that she had seen what control led to-had watched as warriors disciplined to perfection had fallen, had burned, had been reduced to ashes because they believed in a structure that gave them no room for humanity. But she held her tongue, swallowing the words that burned at the back of her throat.
"Yes, Kit Master," she said, her tone cold, detached.
Kürste watched her for a moment longer, his gaze sharp and unyielding. "Your performance has been noted," he said finally. "But remember this: strength alone will not carry you. If you wish to rise, you must temper it with wisdom. A warrior who does not learn this will be discarded. Do you understand?"
"Aff," Liliana replied, though her voice held none of the conviction he likely wanted to hear.
Kürste turned, casting one last look at the battered training dummy, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Do not allow your memories to make you weak, Kits Fürst. We are Smoke Jaguars. We are the strongest because we shed what holds us back. See that you do not forget this."
And with that, he left, his footsteps fading into the distance, leaving Liliana alone once more.
She stood there, the silence pressing in around her, the weight of his words settling like a stone in her chest. She looked at the dummy, at the bruises forming on her knuckles, and a hollow ache spread through her. Control, discipline, strength-these were the tenets drilled into her from the moment she could walk. But they felt hollow now, empty ideals that offered no comfort, no meaning.
"Control…" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
But as she stared at the beaten dummy, she felt nothing but the emptiness, the unspoken rage that lurked just beneath the surface. Control had taken everything from her-her Clan, her family, her very sense of self. And now, as she stood alone in the quiet, she felt the bitter truth settle over her.
Control was all she had left, but it would never be enough.