The training hall reeked of iron and sweat, the sun slanting through the narrow windows like molten fire spilling across the floor. Stipo stood at the center, fists clenching, brow furrowed. I could feel the tension rolling off him like a storm about to break. Four months. That's all we had before my sixteenth birthday, the day of the clan mission. And I was still a fucking mess.
"Look at you, Abel," Stipo growled, pacing like a predator circling its prey. "Four months. Four fucking months, and you're still slower than a half-dead goat compared to the other boys at your age. They'd shred you like paper and barely break a sweat."
I swallowed, cheeks hot, fists curling around the handles of my tantos. I hated hearing the truth, but I needed it like a punch to the stomach.
"You're not using your energy," he spat, slamming a hand into the wooden floor, sending a shiver up my spine. "Not because you can't… because you're scared. You cling to those toys like a baby to a pacifier, thinking the tanto will save you. They won't. Not forever."
Then he stopped, turned, and the air shifted. Stipo's fingers bled tiny red drops, each one catching the light and reflecting it like a spark of fire. He whispered something I couldn't catch, and suddenly, the droplets exploded into jagged red crystals, spinning through the air like bullets made of glass. Each one hummed with energy, sharp enough to pierce steel, sharp enough to tear through flesh. My eyes widened.
"That," he said, voice low and almost reverent, "is Solidification. My blood. My fucking power. Learn it, or you'll die trying to pretend you can handle a tanto."
Then he reached behind his back and pulled out a weapon that made my chest tighten—a tanto, old as the blood on its blade. Generations of warriors had wielded it, soaked it in enemy blood, absorbed their strength, hardened it with every war it survived. Stipo handed it to me like it was breathing, alive in his calloused hands.
"Here. It's yours now. But don't fuck it up."
I grasped it. The weight was perfect. Balanced. Dangerous. I could feel whispers of every enemy it had struck, every battle it had survived. I wasn't worthy. Not yet. But maybe one day… maybe I could make it mine.
"Basics first," Stipo said, his tone softening only slightly. "Stance. Grip. Swing. Parry. Every movement, every strike is a conversation. You speak with your blade. You don't just hit."
Hours passed like knives cutting through fog. My arms screamed, my hands blistered, my legs felt like lead, but I mirrored every motion Stipo showed me: the shift of weight, the flick of the wrist, the subtle twist of a blade mid-swing. He corrected me endlessly, sometimes with a laugh, sometimes with a growl.
"You're slow, Abel," he said, ruffling my hair in a rare gesture of affection, "but you've got heart. You've got grit. That's why I didn't kill you already. That's why I'm still your teacher.."
I gritted my teeth, sweat dripping into my eyes, but I couldn't help the tiny smile tugging at my lips. Stipo, for all his thunder and fire, was my anchor, my mentor, my family. Blood didn't matter here. None of it did.
The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching across the hall, and I realized that even if I was weak, even if I stumbled, I had something stronger than skill alone: I had Stipo. And as long as I had him, maybe I could survive this world, maybe I could master my energy, maybe… just maybe… I could earn the right to wield this tanto with pride.
Then Stipo smirk and said:"Now run BITCH"
"Again! Fuck you, again!" Stipo screamed, his voice a fiery whip that slapped my resolve.
My tongue was thick with fatigue, my throat a desert, yet I continued. The boulder crushed me, the ground seemed to shift beneath my feet, and the wind against my face was sharp, sharp, like invisible blades. Every step was a choice between falling and continuing, and every fiber of my muscle cried out for vengeance.
"Fuck you, Stipo! Who brought you into this world? I'm going to die here like a hunting dog!" I spat, spewing out anger and exhaustion at the same time, yet my feet continued to pound the ground, because stopping wasn't an option.
The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long shadows across the Kyoshi clan grounds. I trudged along the cobblestone paths, the weight of the boulder still fresh on my shoulders, sweat drying into sharp, salty streaks along my spine. Around me, the clan was alive—its heart beating in rhythm with the clatter of training weapons, the murmur of strategists, and the occasional barked order from the elders.
The air smelled of wet wood and fire, of iron and earth, like the bones of the world had been left out to bake under the sun. Young trainees ran past me, their shouts sharp as knives, faces flushed with exertion, bodies taut with muscle and energy I could only envy. A group of girls practiced hand-to-hand combat nearby, their movements fluid, precise, almost like water curling around stones, bending without breaking.
I passed the training pavilions, watching older warriors spar with such speed and grace that the sunlight itself seemed to hesitate, afraid of missing a single motion. The banners overhead flickered in the wind, red and gold cutting through the blue sky, and I felt the weight of history in their folds—every stripe a tale of victories, defeats, blood, and honor.
Even the servants moved with a rhythm that seemed too deliberate for mere duty. Their steps, soft and measured, painted invisible lines across the courtyard, a dance no one but the clan could perform. I couldn't help but notice the slight smirks exchanged between some of the apprentices, the subtle nods from elders who caught a clever misstep or a perfectly timed parry. The clan was a living organism, and I was a tiny pulse struggling to find its place in the current.
Passing the smithy, the scent of molten metal and oil hit me, sharp and electric, making my stomach twist with both hunger and awe. Blades hung in rows, polished and gleaming, each one a promise of pain or protection, depending on the hand that wielded it. I thought of the tanto at Stipo's side, its weight a reminder that history could be held, if only one had the strength to bear it.
As I continued, I caught sight of the gardens, small pockets of calm amid the chaos, where flowers leaned into the sun as if they too trained themselves for perfection. The scent of kiwi, still faint in the air, reminded me of Sheshy, and for a moment, the heat in my chest was not exhaustion, but something else entirely—familiar, teasing, infuriating.
Every corner I turned, every sound I passed, the Kyoshi clan felt alive, watching, judging, shaping me. And I, hybrid, caught between curse and blessing, cursed and blessed, walked through it all with the echo of Stipo's voice in my head: "Strength isn't given, boy. You take it. Every day."
To be continued…