Training

"Goddamnit, Mira," I think to myself as I stagger back to my feet, wiping the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. My head is still spinning, a byproduct of both the punch and the disorienting feeling of having a blindfold on. "Should've expected her to go for a sucker punch. No holding back, eh?" Tsk, dammit, I don't feel any improvement. 

Mira's footsteps echo against the floor, circling me like a predator ready to strike its prey. "Ready to get your ass kicked again?" she taunts, her voice dripping with contempt.

"Ready as I'll ever be," I respond, cracking my knuckles. My blindfolded eyes don't see her running, but I can sense her approach.

Here she comes. My heart pounds, I listen intently for the rush of wind, the shuffle of her feet, the flexing of her muscles. In a millisecond, my mind constructs an imaginary trajectory of her fist.

Too slow. Fuck, way too slow. Her fist connects with my midsection, and I feel like I've been hit by a freight train. "Fuck! Again?"

The momentum sends me tumbling backward, crashing into the wall behind me. I struggle to catch my breath, the taste of iron flooding my mouth.

I hear Mira snicker. "Look at you, stumbling like a newborn calf. You sure you're the right person to teach me humility?"

I rip off my blindfold, glaring at her. "Well, someone's gotta do it. Might as well be the guy who won the bet," I sneer back, my voice laced with gritted teeth.

"Don't get cocky. Your weird martial arts, I didn't see it coming. I won't lose again." she retorts, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Rubbing my chin, I spit out a glob of blood onto the floor. "This is annoying," I mutter, my mind racing through options and scenarios, searching for a workaround to my blindfold handicap.

Mira grins, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of the challenge. "Come on, V, take off that blindfold and fight me properly," she calls out, lunging toward me in a sudden rush.

I dodge her strike with a swift sidestep, aiming a counterattack at her exposed flank. But Mira's faster than I give her credit for; she parries my counter and aims a knee at my gut.

Predictable. I think, pivoting away from her knee and delivering an elbow strike aimed at her jaw. But then she catches my elbow with her palm, redirecting my momentum.

"Not so fast," she thinks, launching her own counter-counter. But I'm already moving, countering her counter to my counter with yet another counter.

What the fuck are we even doing? I find myself thinking. It's a ridiculous chain of counters that has both of us spinning in a dizzying dance of strikes and parries.

"You think you've got me?" Mira's thoughts echo, a deranged glee coloring her inner voice. But she doesn't realize that I'm already anticipating her next counter to my counter of her counter to my original counter. What's going on? I can't tell how she's attacking but I can see her mana moving through her body. Just what the hell is this? 

I twist my body just so, feeling my muscles coil like springs, and then I release, aiming a palm strike at her midsection.

Mira tries to parry, but she's a millisecond too slow. My palm connects, and I channel a burst of energy, enough to send her stumbling back.

Mira's face contorts, half in pain and half in disbelief. "You fucker," she spits out, clutching her stomach where my palm struck.

"I told you, didn't I? I'll kick your ass," I gloat, pulling off my blindfold and tossing it aside. 

I look down at my hands, the subtle tremors unsettling me. Just what happened? I got lost in the moment. Why? Something happened, I'll have to ask Ilka later. 

I step off the platform, tossing my blindfold aside. "Alright, tomorrow, same time."

Mira, clearly annoyed, steps off as well. "What's the point of it? The blindfold?" she snaps, her eyes narrowing.

Rubbing my forehead, I respond, "Try it out yourself, you might learn something." I grab a towel and wipe the sweat and grime off my body. Maybe she'll find something I don't understand, though I doubt it.

Just then, Isadora walks into the gym, her presence as imposing as ever. Mira raises an eyebrow, her tone turning incredulous. "You're going to train with that monster? You're insane."

I shrug. "I know."

Isadora unsheathes her sword and heads up to the platform, swinging it casually, almost like a warm-up. The damned blade moves through the air as if slicing through butter. No resistance, no hesitation. Pure, unadulterated skill. 

I let out a sigh as I walk up to join her. "God, I hate myself. Torture, day after day without a break." My hand wraps around the hilt of my own sword. I give her a nod, and she returns it, her eyes locking onto mine as if issuing a silent challenge. But she doesn't say a word; she just waits, her sword held casually in one hand.

Alright, let's do this. This is an inevitable ass-kicking about to unfold. With a deep breath, I launch into a series of strikes, aiming high, low, feinting left then striking right. Complex combinations designed to exploit any weakness... Well, she doesn't have a single weakness I can exploit. 

Isadora effortlessly parries each strike with a single hand, her eyes never leaving mine. Is she even human? I designed, I know I'm no match for her but just one time, I just want to catch her off guard one time. The way she moves her blade seems to defy the very laws of physics. It's like fighting a wall, but a wall that can predict every move you make before you even make it.

Finally, after a particularly fast sequence, I put all my weight into a downward strike, aimed to split her guard and catch her off-balance. But Isadora merely shifts her weight, tilting her blade at an angle, and my sword glances off with a loud screech, the force of my own strike nearly sending me stumbling.

"God-fucking-dammit," I say, regaining my footing. "What is it going to take?"

Isadora finally speaks, her voice barely above a whisper but carrying the weight of a judge passing a sentence. "You're still too weak."

I chuckle darkly, the irony of the situation not lost on me. "Yeah, thank you for stating the Obvious."

Gritting my teeth, I launch into another frenetic series of strikes—down, left, side, up. Each one meets the immovable wall that is Isadora's sword. With just a flick of her wrist, she effortlessly repels my strike, sending me stumbling backward again. I can feel the burn in my muscles, the ragged edge of my stamina.

Isadora looks at me, her eyes devoid of expression. She might as well be looking at a wall for all the emotion she's showing.

"Dammit... I feel like I'm not improving whatsoever," I groan, my frustration spilling over.

She starts to swing her sword in the air, each motion like a brushstroke on an invisible canvas. "Why do you have no sword technique?" she finally says, her voice so soft it barely qualifies as a whisper.

I tilt my head, puzzled. Is this... is she actually engaging in a conversation? I think to myself, still not used to her speaking during our training sessions.

"I can't," I finally say, exhaling a weary breath. "I'm still learning my martial arts footwork. I don't want to mess anything up, so I'm going to learn one later."

Silence hangs in the air for a long moment. In that pause, I get back up and start to swing my sword again, each motion a testament to my stubbornness.

"Why... why don't you make your own? Something that matches your martial arts," she finally says, shattering the silence.

I almost choke and manage to hold it in. Dammit, Isadora, not everyone's a genius like you! You can't just make a sword technique like that. I think, incredulous. But what comes out of my mouth is, "I didn't think of that."

For a while, we continue swinging our swords in an eerie yet comforting rhythm, the sound of steel slicing through the air punctuating the stillness.

Every once in a while, she turns and blinks at me. Those brief glances feel more probing than a scalpel, dissecting each of my movements, judging and analyzing.

Then she does something entirely unexpected. She walks up to me and says, "Don't copy me." Seizing my sword mid-air, she adjusts the speed and angle of my swing.

My eyes widen. This... this. She's helping me?

I follow her instruction, swinging my sword at the new speed and angle she's set for me. It feels different—more organic, somehow. Like I've found a groove I never knew existed.

"Why are you helping me?" I ask, cutting through the sounds of clashing steel. There has to be a reason. Isadora isn't the type to extend a hand without something in it for her.

As I watch her continue to swing her sword, with that near-mechanical precision, it suddenly clicks. Her stomach grumbles, a low sound that breaks through the rhythm of our training.

Ah, she's hungry. That's what this is about. She wants food. I think, my lips curling into a grin. A sword master motivated by her stomach. Classic.

I step off the platform and head to my bag, rummaging through it until my fingers close around the familiar texture of a coconut. With a fluid motion, I toss it in her direction. Isadora, ever precise, plucks it from the air as if she'd been expecting it. 

"What do you want to eat?" I ask, holstering my sword. "I'll make you whatever you want today."

She contemplates the question, her finger tapping her chin as her eyes look skyward, as if seeking divine culinary inspiration. "Something delicious," she finally says.

I sigh, half amused, half exasperated. "Fine, fine," I mutter, rolling my eyes. She could use some communication classes, but then again, who am I to talk? I'm not exactly Mr. Congeniality myself.

★  ★  ★  ★  ★

The room is in disarray, an utter chaos of strewn clothes, books, and unidentifiable bric-a-brac. The dim lighting casts strange shadows on the walls, further emphasizing the unsettling atmosphere. As if imbued with a dark aura, the room seems to breathe, its walls appearing to pulse ever so slightly. In the middle of it all lies Sera, eyes flickering open, the world a swirl around her.

"Aughhh!" What—what's going on...?

Everything's a mess—blurry, out of focus. Clothes? Books? Can't make sense of it. My head... throbbing. My vision twitches, the walls bend, and there's a—smile? A smile in the dark?

"Get out! Get out of my head!" My voice doesn't sound like my own; it's laced with an uncharacteristic terror. My hand crashes down on something—wood splinters, my dresser is in pieces.

Walking. Need to walk. But the floor tilts, everything's sideways. I slam into the wall, gasping.

Figures. Shadows. A face? "Aughhhhhh!" My hand flails in the air, grasping at phantoms. I tumble down, my head in my hands. It's like a vise around my skull, tightening every second. My heart pounds against my ribcage like a caged animal.

Something else now—a voice? It pierces the haze. "Oh my~ Ah, it's painful right? It's alright, everything will be alright~ The pain is part of the Lord's gift~ You must endure it~"

My cheek is cupped, a warm hand? It's comforting but wrong, so wrong. The room twists once more, and for a split second—eyes, Nyssa's eyes?

"Everything will feel better soon~ You'll wake up as a new person soon~ Embrace the blessing." The voice whispers softly into my ear.

Something is in my mouth, a bitter taste—pill, herb, drug? And then, it's like I'm sinking, sinking into an all-encompassing darkness. My thoughts scatter, like shards of glass in a void.

What—what's happening? Why Ny—?

And then, nothing.