Chapter 9 - Against the Innersphere -
- Unattainable Perfection -[]
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Tranquil, Kerensky Cluster
Clan Space
Liliana moved in a methodical, almost detached rhythm as she struck the training dummy. Her fists connected with dull thuds, each impact precisely timed but lacking the fire that had once driven her in combat. She could feel the strength in her limbs, the muscle memory guiding her movements, yet her mind wandered, numb to the satisfaction that once accompanied such sessions. The dummy swayed slightly with each strike, a lifeless opponent against her equally hollow resolve.
Her gaze flicked to the side, noticing her sibkin watching. The girl, Sigrid, bore a resemblance so uncanny that it was like staring at a faded reflection of herself. Almost the same age, sharing the same genetic template—a fact that should have bonded them in shared ambition, yet it only seemed to deepen Liliana's sense of isolation. Sigrid's expression was tense, her face taut with concentration and youthful determination, a fierce spark of ambition that Liliana recognized well. But for Liliana, the spark had long since burned out, leaving only ash.
"Training alone again, Liliana?" Sigrid asked, stepping forward. Her voice was strong, youthful, untouched by the weight that burdened Liliana.
"Aff," Liliana replied flatly, pulling back from the battered dummy. She didn't meet Sigrid's eyes, focusing instead on the marks her fists had left on the synthetic flesh.
The sibko had been whittled down to ten—the last stretch before their destinies were decided, the culmination of years of grueling trials and the ever-present specter of failure. In a few months, they would face their final Trial of Position, a test that would define their ranks, their futures, and their very purpose. The air was thick with unspoken tension, each surviving member aware that only a few of them would emerge as warriors, the rest relegated to lesser castes or cast aside altogether.
As she ran her fingers over the coarse surface of the dummy, Liliana's gaze drifted to her codex. She remembered the words that marked her own bloodright, her trial long ago—the names of warriors who had fought, lived, and died before her, a lineage that had once filled her with pride. She had stood in that same arena, determined and unyielding, earning the honor to bear the Fürste bloodname. She had been the only one in her sibko to achieve it, a solitary victor in a brutal competition. Back then, the triumph had meant everything, a tangible symbol of her worth and her place within the Clan.
But now, even that memory felt hollow.
She glanced at Sigrid, whose eyes were filled with an intensity Liliana recognized from her own past. The girl was reaching for something Liliana had already grasped and lost—the purpose, the pride, the fire that once burned within her. Sigrid would face the same brutal reality, the same unforgiving tests, yet Liliana couldn't bring herself to warn her, to shatter the illusion of glory that clung to her youth.
"You fought well against Drelka yesterday," Sigrid said, her voice tinged with a note of admiration. "No hesitation. No mercy."
"It was necessary," Liliana replied, her tone devoid of the satisfaction Sigrid seemed to expect. Another match, another victory, another hollow step forward in a path that led nowhere.
As she turned to leave, she noticed Sigrid's gaze linger on the codex, on the page detailing Liliana's Bloodname trial—the trial where she had stood against her sibkin Krysta, her equal and rival, in a match that had culminated in a desperate, brutal hand-to-hand combat. They had both fought seasoned warriors, true veterans, emerging as the last two standing. But in the end, it had come down to the two of them, neither willing to yield, both driven by a fire that would not be quenched until one emerged victorious.
Liliana's victory that day had brought her honor, had secured her bloodname, had filled her with pride. But now, those memories were little more than distant echoes. She had failed her Clan before her displacement; she had failed the closest thing to family she'd ever known—twice over. Each victory, each name etched into her codex, only deepened the emptiness gnawing at her.
"Are you looking forward to the Trial of Position?" Sigrid asked, a faint tremor of anticipation in her voice. She tried to mask it, to appear as cold and unshakable as Liliana, but the excitement was unmistakable.
Liliana hesitated, her gaze drifting to the training dummy, battered and beaten but still standing. She saw her own face reflected in its featureless surface—a warrior who had survived, who had earned her place through blood and sacrifice, yet who felt nothing but an empty ache.
"Look forward to it?" she murmured, more to herself than to Sigrid. "Neg. Not anymore."
Sigrid frowned, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. "But… isn't this what we've been trained for? To earn our place, to bring honor to the Clan?"
Liliana looked at her, her expression unreadable, her eyes shadowed by memories too painful to share. She remembered the words of Aleksandr Kerensky, the Great Father, whose message had once filled her with purpose. *To once more serve and protect and guide the Star League in mankind's quest for the stars.* But that vision had faded, lost in the endless cycles of violence and ambition that had consumed the Clans. Her victories, her bloodright, her status—they were all pieces of a broken dream, fragments of a purpose that no longer held meaning.
"Honor," she echoed softly, the word feeling foreign on her tongue. "Is that what this is?"
Sigrid's brow furrowed, her youthful confidence faltering in the face of Liliana's indifference. "It's what we're taught. To bring honor to our lineage, to uphold the legacy of Kerensky."
Liliana turned away, her gaze distant, as if searching for something beyond the cold walls of the training hall. She had once believed those words, had fought with everything she had to embody them. But now, each step forward felt like a step further from the ideals she had once held sacred. The path that had once seemed so clear was now shrouded in shadows, leaving her adrift, unmoored.
"I hope you find what you're looking for," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Because when you do… it might not be what you expected."
With that, she walked away, leaving Sigrid standing alone, the weight of Liliana's words hanging heavy in the air. As she made her way down the cold corridors, her mind drifted back to the past, to the faces of her fallen sibkin, to the echoes of battles fought and lost. She was a warrior, a survivor, a relic of a legacy that had long since crumbled to dust.
And in the silence that followed, she wondered if there was anything left worth fighting for. Yet the training hall was filled with the low hum of eager voices, the steady rhythm of fists striking dummies, and the hum of cooling reactors from mechs stationed in the distance. The air was thick with anticipation; the kits of her sibko were all aware that this was their final stretch. In only a few months, they would face the Trial of Position. It would be their ultimate test, the moment that would define their place in the Clan forever. There was an electricity in the air, a fierce excitement that seemed to spark from one kit to another as they pushed themselves, each imagining the honor, the victory, the right to call themselves warriors.
But for Liliana, the feeling was hollow.
She stood near the center of the training hall, methodically sparring against a dummy, her movements precise, practiced, and utterly joyless. Her fists connected with the synthetic surface, each strike resonating through her, but she felt nothing. She moved as though on autopilot, her body going through the motions while her mind drifted somewhere else. Around her, her sibkin trained with fierce determination, their energy almost tangible as they attacked the dummies and sparred with one another, their eyes bright with ambition.
The Kitmaster had left them to their own devices that day—a rarity, a moment of freedom. The Kitmaster's absence felt like a taste of adulthood, a hint of the independence they all craved. The others had jumped at the chance, embracing the freedom, pushing themselves harder, testing their skills against one another. But for Liliana, it felt like little more than a cold reminder of how alone she was in this place.
One by one, her sibkin began to notice her, casting glances her way, murmuring among themselves. Some of them approached, challenging her with barely veiled ambition. The fire in their eyes was unmistakable; they saw her as a benchmark, a test of their own strength, a final obstacle before they could claim their place. She recognized the look—they wanted to bring her down a peg, to prove themselves by defeating the one they saw as the strongest among them.
The first challenger was a boy named Arvid, a tall, broad-shouldered kit with a fierce determination that bordered on recklessness. He stepped into the ring with her, his eyes narrowed, fists clenched. She could see the pride in his stance, the way he held himself, as though he had already won.
"Ready, Liliana?" he asked, a smirk tugging at his lips.
She gave a brief nod, her gaze unreadable, empty. Arvid lunged at her, his fists flying, his movements sharp but unrefined. She sidestepped effortlessly, catching his wrist mid-strike and twisting, sending him sprawling to the floor in a single fluid motion. He landed with a grunt, the wind knocked out of him, his face flushed with embarrassment and frustration.
Another kit stepped forward, a girl named Rina, her expression set with steely determination. Liliana barely had time to catch her breath before Rina was upon her, fists flying in a rapid succession of strikes. Liliana blocked each one with ease, her movements almost lazy, as if the effort required barely registered. With a quick pivot, she slipped behind Rina, sweeping her legs out from under her and sending her crashing to the ground.
The next challenge came quickly, and then another. They came at her one after another, each sibkin fueled by the excitement of competition, by the desire to prove themselves. But each encounter ended the same way—with them on the floor, dazed, defeated, staring up at her with a mixture of frustration and awe.
Liliana barely felt the impact of their strikes, her mind numb to the weight of their fists, her senses dulled to the tension around her. She was fighting, yes, but it felt like little more than a chore, a task to complete. Each victory felt hollow, the same emptiness gnawing at her, an ache that seemed to deepen with every challenge.
The others watched her, their eyes alight with excitement, with envy, with admiration. To them, she was a figure of strength, an obstacle to overcome, a model of what they aspired to be. She should have felt pride, a sense of purpose, a spark of satisfaction. But all she felt was the growing weight of solitude, the cold realization that she was drifting further and further from the people around her.
She could see it in their eyes, in the way they looked at her—an unspoken understanding that she was different, separate. She was a relic from a past they could never understand, a shadow among the eager young faces who looked to the future with bright, unburdened ambition. They were excited, thrilled by the prospect of the coming Trial of Position, their minds filled with visions of honor, of ranks, of the glory that awaited them.
But for Liliana, that future felt as empty as the past she had left behind.
After the last of her sibkin was left sprawled on the floor, panting, defeated, she returned to the training dummy, resuming her strikes with a mechanical precision. Around her, the others regrouped, murmuring among themselves, casting glances her way, but none dared to challenge her again. She could feel their eyes on her, could sense the questions they didn't dare to ask, but she ignored them, focusing instead on the rhythm of her fists against the synthetic surface.
In her mind, the faces of her old sibko flickered—Krysta, Erich, Sorina—all of them gone now, lost in a past that felt like a distant dream. She had once fought alongside them, had shared in their ambition, their drive, their vision for the future. They had been her family, her kin, bound together by the same fierce pride, the same relentless determination to prove themselves. And yet, one by one, they had fallen, their dreams extinguished, leaving her to carry the weight of their memories alone.
Around her, her sibkin laughed, sparred, their voices filled with the thrill of competition, the promise of victory. But for her, that promise had turned to ash. She was a stranger among them, a relic of a life that no longer existed, bound to a path that felt increasingly meaningless.
She struck the dummy again, harder this time, the impact resonating through her, but it did nothing to fill the emptiness within her. The others were excited, driven by the thought of what lay ahead, but for Liliana, the future was a hollow void, a shadow of a dream that had already died.
She didn't belong here. She was a warrior of Smoke Jaguar, yes, but her Clan, her kin, her purpose had all been left behind on the burning fields of Huntress. And now, surrounded by her eager sibkin, she felt more alone than ever, adrift in a world that had forgotten her, a ghost clinging to memories that were little more than echoes.
Her fists connected with the training dummy in a relentless rhythm, her strikes landing harder and faster, yet each one left her feeling emptier. The hollow thuds echoed around her, swallowed by the buzz of her sibkin sparring, laughing, challenging each other. They moved with eager energy, the intensity of those who had never known true loss, who had only glimpsed the trials ahead as distant dreams filled with glory and honor.
None of them understood her. How could they? They hadn't been there when her star had fallen one by one, each death tearing a piece of her away. They hadn't watched their closest kin fall around them, hadn't felt the weight of survival as a bitter, suffocating curse. They hadn't been the last one standing, the sole survivor of a star wiped out, a monument to a loss that no victory could ever redeem.
The faces of her fallen comrades haunted her, flickering in her mind like ghosts. She remembered each of them in painful clarity—the fierce determination of Krysta, the quiet strength of Erich, the reckless courage of Sorina. They had been her family, her kin, each one bound to her in ways that transcended words. Together, they had forged a bond through blood, sweat, and sacrifice. And then, in a single brutal encounter, that bond had been shattered, leaving her alone amidst the carnage.
Her fists struck the dummy with renewed force, the synthetic flesh denting beneath her blows, but it brought her no satisfaction, no sense of release. Her mind drifted back to that ambush, the day when the Dark Caste had swept down upon them with ruthless precision, catching her star in a trap designed for annihilation. She had fought with everything she had, driven not by honor or duty but by a raw, primal fury—a fury that had transformed her into something unrecognizable, something that had frightened even the veteran warriors who had come to witness the massacre she inflicted.
She could still see it in her mind, the vivid, brutal clarity of that day—the scent of scorched earth, the taste of blood on her lips, the distant, horrified expressions of the seasoned warriors as they stood by, silently watching her carve through the Dark Caste forces with an intensity that bordered on madness. She had lost herself in the fight, had let the rage consume her, each kill a small, empty vengeance for her fallen comrades.
No one here had seen her like that. They hadn't seen the blood, the wreckage, the silent carnage she had left behind. They hadn't witnessed the way she had broken every rule, disregarded every code of honor, every pretense of zellbrigen. She had fought like a beast, a force of pure, unrestrained wrath, tearing through the Dark Caste with a brutality that had left even the hardened warriors speechless.
And in the aftermath, when the last of the enemies had fallen and she stood alone amidst the bodies, the silence had descended, a heavy, oppressive weight that pressed down on her until she could barely breathe. The others had looked at her with a mixture of awe and fear, but none of them had reached out, none of them had spoken. They had left her standing there, alone in the silence, alone in the blood-soaked wreckage of her own rage.
Her sibkin would never understand that. They couldn't fathom the weight she carried, the hollowness that gnawed at her, the way every fight, every victory felt like little more than an echo of something lost. They sparred with each other, their eyes bright, their laughter ringing out in tones filled with ambition and excitement. To them, the future was a bright path leading to honor, to recognition, to a destiny they believed was waiting for them.
But for Liliana, that path felt like little more than a shadow. She had walked it once before, had fought for honor, for a Clan that she had given everything to, only to watch it all crumble, to be left standing alone amidst the ashes. Each victory, each kill was a reminder of what she had lost, a painful echo of battles fought and won, yet leaving her with nothing but a hollow ache.
She struck the dummy again, harder this time, her knuckles throbbing with the impact, but the pain was nothing compared to the ache within her. She wanted to feel something—anger, pride, even hatred—but all she felt was an emptiness that stretched on endlessly, a void that no victory could fill.
The others continued to train around her, their voices a distant hum, oblivious to the weight that pressed down on her. They didn't know what it was to lose everything, to be the last one standing, haunted by the faces of those who had fallen, by the ghosts of a life that no longer existed. They hadn't watched their comrades die, hadn't felt the bitterness of survival when it felt like a punishment rather than a triumph.
One of her sibkin, a younger boy with bright, eager eyes, stepped into her path, challenging her with a bold smile. "Think you're untouchable, Liliana?" he taunted, his tone light, playful. "Care to prove it?"
She looked at him, her expression unreadable, her gaze cold and distant. Without a word, she took up the stance, her hands raised, her body moving with a practiced ease that felt more like muscle memory than intention. He lunged at her, his movements filled with a youthful confidence, the determination of someone who had never tasted defeat. She sidestepped effortlessly, catching his arm and twisting it, sending him sprawling to the floor in one smooth motion.
The others laughed, clapping and cheering, treating the exchange as nothing more than friendly competition, a moment of light-hearted rivalry. But to Liliana, it felt empty, meaningless, a hollow imitation of the battles she had once fought. She could see their admiration, their awe, but it did nothing to fill the void within her. They would never understand the weight of victory, the emptiness that came from surviving when everyone else had fallen.
As the boy picked himself up, dusting off his bruised pride, he gave her a grin, unbroken, undeterred. "You're something else, Liliana," he said, laughing, as though her cold indifference were merely another challenge to overcome.
But she barely heard him, her mind drifting back to the faces of her fallen kin, to the silence that had followed the Dark Caste ambush, to the way the veterans had looked at her with quiet, horrified respect as she stood alone amidst the carnage. She was something else, yes—a warrior who had lost her purpose, a survivor of battles that had left her hollow, a relic of a Clan that no longer existed.
Her sibkin laughed and trained around her, their voices bright, their spirits high. But to Liliana, the sounds felt distant, like echoes of a world she no longer belonged to. She was a Smoke Jaguar, a warrior, but she was also alone, a ghost trapped in a cycle of violence that brought no honor, no satisfaction, only the quiet, unending ache of survival.
The laughter of her sibkin grated on Liliana, each peel a bitter reminder of how removed she felt from them, how distant she was from the fire of their ambitions. They trained with the fervor of kits who believed in the glory of the path before them, who were still untouched by the brutal truths of what it meant to be a true warrior of Clan Smoke Jaguar. They wore their enthusiasm like a badge, a symbol of their confidence, their certainty that they would emerge victorious, worthy of honor. But to Liliana, their laughter felt hollow, the sound echoing in the empty space within her—a space that had once been filled by her fallen star, by comrades who had fought and died while she was left to carry the weight of survival alone.
Around her, the hall buzzed with the relentless pace of the sibko's training. The sparring mat was a mess of motion—kicks, punches, the dull thud of fists connecting with flesh. There was no space here for compassion, no room for sympathy. This was not just training; it was culling. The weak were weeded out ruthlessly, each bout another test of strength, of resilience, of their worthiness to carry the bloodlines of Smoke Jaguar. Kitmasters patrolled the edges, silent but watchful, their gazes cold and appraising, each failure a mark against the young warriors they were meant to mold into the Clan's next generation.
Liliana could see it in the eyes of the Kitmasters—the harsh calculation, the unyielding expectation. There was no patience here, no understanding. If you fell behind, if you showed weakness, you were cast aside without hesitation. The Clan had no use for softness, for doubt, for anything less than absolute strength. She could still feel the sting of those early days, when any misstep was met with swift, brutal correction, when any sign of hesitation or empathy was driven out through pain and punishment.
A Kitmaster barked an order, his voice slicing through the hall like a blade. "If you are not fighting, you are failing. Strength is the only currency here. If you cannot earn it, you are nothing."
The Kitmaster's gaze swept over the sibko with disdain, his eyes lingering on the weaker kits, those whose forms were not as sharp, whose strikes lacked precision. He did not need to say more; the message was clear. Strength was survival. Weakness was death.
Another kit stepped forward, challenging Liliana with a look that was half pride, half arrogance—a look that said he wanted to make a name for himself by taking her down. He was tall, lean, his movements quick and aggressive, driven by the kind of ambition that bordered on desperation. He sneered, his fists raised, his stance tight. He saw her as a stepping stone, a challenge that would elevate him in the eyes of the Kitmasters.
"Furste, you think yourself untouchable," he taunted, voice laced with venom. "You fight like you are already a warrior, yet you are as much a kit as the rest of us. Let us see if you bleed like one."
Liliana's expression remained cold, unreadable. She did not rise to his bait. Instead, she shifted her stance, her movements measured, almost bored. To her, this was not a challenge. She had faced true enemies, seen real violence, lived through the blood-soaked chaos of war. This kit was nothing but a distraction, another hollow echo of the battles she had fought and survived.
He lunged, his fist flying toward her, but she caught his wrist mid-strike, twisting it sharply until he yelped in pain. There was no mercy in her eyes, no hesitation in her movements. She drove her elbow into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and as he doubled over, she struck him across the jaw with a brutal efficiency that sent him sprawling to the floor.
The others watched, their faces a mixture of admiration and wariness. To them, she was a paragon of strength, a figure to be respected, feared. But they couldn't understand the hollowness within her, the emptiness that fueled her relentless precision. To them, this was still training, still preparation. To Liliana, it was simply survival, a monotonous dance of violence that brought her no satisfaction, only a numb, bitter ache.
The Kitmaster's gaze lingered on her, his expression as cold and appraising as ever. There was no praise in his eyes, no acknowledgment of her skill. Here, strength was expected, demanded. She had done what she was supposed to do, nothing more. The Clan had no place for pride in victory; they only saw weakness in defeat.
Another kit, emboldened by the Kitmaster's lack of response, stepped forward, his face twisted in defiance. He was shorter, stockier, but his stance was solid, his gaze fierce. "You think you're better than us, don't you, Furste?" he spat, fists clenched. "You think you're untouchable just because you've bested us once. But a real warrior isn't untouchable. A real warrior doesn't fight just for herself."
His words struck something within her, a flicker of the pride she had once felt, the sense of belonging that had tied her to her star, her fallen kin. But that feeling was buried deep now, hidden beneath layers of numbness, of emptiness. She didn't respond, didn't rise to his taunts. Instead, she took her stance, her movements as controlled and dispassionate as before.
He charged at her, his punches fast, driven by a fury that was raw and untamed. She sidestepped, deflecting his strikes with ease, each movement precise, mechanical. He was determined, relentless, his attacks fueled by a desperation that bordered on recklessness. But she was Smoke Jaguar, forged in the fires of real battle, her skill honed through pain, through loss.
With a swift, brutal twist, she caught him off balance, sweeping his legs out from under him and sending him crashing to the floor. She dropped to one knee, pinning him down, her forearm pressed against his throat, her gaze cold and unfeeling.
"Is this what you wanted?" she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper, but sharp enough to cut through the murmurs of the onlookers. "To see if I bleed? To see if I care quaff?"
He struggled beneath her, his face flushed with anger, with humiliation, but she held him firm, her grip unyielding. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the way he fought against her, his defiance a last, desperate attempt to prove himself. But she knew the truth—knew that no amount of struggle, no amount of ambition could change the reality of this place, of what they were.
In the eyes of the Clan, they were tools, weapons to be honed and wielded, and discarded if found wanting. There was no room for sentiment, no place for bonds. She had learned that lesson long ago, had seen the truth of it in the blood of her fallen star, in the hollow gazes of the Kitmasters who watched them with the cold detachment of hunters sizing up their prey.
She released him, stepping back, her expression as empty as ever, watching as he picked himself up, his face flushed with anger, with shame. The others looked at her, their expressions a mixture of awe and fear, but she felt nothing. They wanted her respect, her approval, but they would never understand the weight of survival, the emptiness that came from being the last one standing.
The Kitmaster's voice cut through the silence, harsh and unyielding. "Enough. Return to your drills, all of you. There is no honor in fighting amongst yourselves. Save your strength for the Trials, where it will truly be tested."
The kits scattered, each returning to their training with a renewed focus, their eyes still casting furtive glances her way, their admiration tempered by a newfound wariness. To them, she was an enigma, a figure to be feared and respected, a warrior who held herself apart. But none of them saw the truth, the hollowness that gnawed at her, the weight of a past they could never understand.
As she returned to her training, her fists striking the dummy with cold precision, she felt the ache within her grow, a reminder of the life she had lost, the kin who had fallen beside her, the pride that had once burned bright but had been reduced to ashes. She was Smoke Jaguar, a warrior bred for battle, but here, surrounded by kits who would never know the price of survival, she felt more like a ghost—a relic of a Clan that no longer existed, bound to a path that held nothing but hollow victories and endless solitude.