The revelation of Kiera's true purpose shifted everything.
Ryu was no longer just a prisoner; he was a tool. A means to an end. But for the first time, their goals—his survival, her revenge—were aligned.
The next morning, Kiera led him back to the training room. There was a new, dangerous intensity in her eyes.
"Joric says your body is a faulty container," she began, her voice devoid of any sympathy. "It cracks under pressure. So, we're going to apply pressure. Constant, unrelenting pressure. You will either learn to contain the energy, or you will break. There is no middle ground."
His training was not what he expected. There were no lessons on stances or energy flow. There was only pain.
Kiera's method was simple and brutal.
She made him fight her. It wasn't a spar; it was a systematic deconstruction.
She was infinitely faster, stronger, and more skilled. She didn't use her blade. She didn't need to.
She used a simple wooden training staff, and with it, she dismantled him.
She exploited every flaw in his self-taught brawling.
Every time he overextended, she'd rap him sharply on the back of the knee. Every time he telegraphed a punch, a sharp jab to the ribs would steal his breath.
She was a master, and he was a child flailing in the dark.
The stimulant Joric had given him made it worse, amplifying every jolt of pain into a searing agony that echoed through his nervous system.
"You're pathetic," she said coldly as he lay gasping on the floor after being swept off his feet for the tenth time. "You fight with desperation. It makes you predictable."
"What do you want from me?" he choked out, his body a symphony of fresh bruises.
"I want you to stop fighting me," she replied, standing over him. "I want you to focus. The energy inside you responds to your will, to your emotional state. Right now, you're a mess of fear, anger, and self-pity. That's why it's killing you. You need to find a center. A point of calm in the storm."
For the next few days, the routine was the same.
She would attack, and he would fail. Each session left him more broken than the last. The physical pain was immense, but the psychological toll was worse.
She was forcing him to relive every defeat, every humiliation, every moment of his life where he had been proven worthless.
He wasn't just fighting her; he was fighting the ghosts of Grak, of Silas, of every jeering crowd and dismissive foreman.
During one particularly brutal session, after a sharp blow to his head sent him sprawling, something inside him snapped. He wasn't angry. He wasn't afraid.
He was just... tired.
Tired of the pain, tired of the failure, tired of it all.
He lay on the floor, his vision blurring, and simply gave up. He stopped trying to win, stopped trying to block, stopped trying to do anything but endure.
Kiera stood over him, her staff raised for another blow. But she paused.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice sharp.
"Nothing," he whispered, his eyes closed. "I can't beat you. So I'm not going to try."
He waited for the blow to fall, but nothing came. Instead, he felt a strange stillness.
The chaotic, painful energy that was always churning inside him seemed to quiet down. The roaring fire became a low, steady hum.
He opened his eyes. Kiera was looking at him with a flicker of surprise.
"There," she said, her voice softer than he had ever heard it. "That's it. That's the feeling. You've found the eye of the storm. Now, get up. The first lesson is over. The real training begins now."