[Past] The Blonde

"I need a break… Please…"

The girl's voice trembled, frail and fading, swallowed by the vast wooden walls of the enormous dojo. Her panting rasped through the cavernous space, the only sound breaking the stillness. Sweat glistened on her brow, matting her blonde, boyish hair to her scalp, her skinny frame quaking with each shallow breath.

Only two figures stood in the sprawling room—her, a fragile silhouette against the polished floor, and the towering woman before her, a pillar of unrelenting steel.

"Get up."

The woman's voice boomed, a thunderclap that devoured the girl's pleas, reverberating off the rafters high above. Her tone carried no warmth, no mercy—just command, sharp as the blade at her side.

"I can't…"

The girl's whisper barely reached her own ears, let alone her mother's. Her arms trembled, hands splayed on the cool wood, nails scraping as she fought to rise.

"Please…"

Silence answered, heavy and unyielding. She knew that quiet—knew it meant no reprieve, no escape. Her mother's stillness was a verdict, colder than any shout.

With a groan, she gripped her wooden bokken, its grain rough against her palms, and hauled herself upright. Her legs wobbled, knees threatening to buckle, but she forced them steady. Raising the practice sword, she locked her bleary eyes on the woman—her mother, her tormentor—and charged.

There was no strategy, no hope of victory—just a blind, desperate lunge to end it, even if it cost her a bone or two.

WHAM!

The woman sidestepped with feline grace, her own sword flashing back to its sheath as her leg snapped out. A merciless sidekick slammed into the girl's ribs, launching her skyward. She soared—four meters up, six more rolling across the floor, a rag doll tumbling through the air.

Her bokken clattered away, spinning into the shadows. Pain exploded in her chest, her vision blurring as she skidded to a stop, sprawled and broken. Her mother's voice cut through the haze, icy and final: "What a disgrace."

Darkness swallowed her whole.

The next day dawned cold and gray, the training room a stark contrast to the dojo's warmth—a concrete box with a single bulb flickering overhead. The girl knelt on the hard floor, her arms trembling beneath a 5-kilogram weight plate strapped to her back. Sweat dripped onto the stone, pooling beneath her palms.

"One more, come on, you can do it!"

A muscular blonde man loomed over her, his voice a gruff cheer, his whistle dangling from his lips like a taunt. His biceps bulged under his tank top, his hair slicked back with the sheen of a man who thrived on exertion.

"GAAaaa…"

Her arms buckled, the weight pressing her down, her breath a ragged wheeze. She pushed, muscles screaming, but her elbows locked halfway, quivering with strain.

"Don't waste my time. Come on, girl, come on!" He clapped his hands, the sound sharp, his whistle bobbing as he barked. No softness, just impatience—a father who saw weakness as a personal insult.

"WaH!"

She collapsed, face smacking the frigid concrete, the weight pinning her like a tombstone. Tears sprang free, hot and unchecked, streaking her cheeks as she sobbed into the floor.

The man crouched, yanking the plate off her back with a grunt. "Again," he commanded, his voice flat, devoid of pity, his blue eyes scanning her with clinical disdain.

She didn't move, her cries echoing in the empty room. He straightened, brushing his hands as if wiping off her failure. "What a waste of time," he muttered, turning on his heel to stride toward the far end, where his other children—stronger, faster—awaited his drills.

The next day brought a new tormentor, a new arena. The girl stood in a narrow courtyard, the air thick with dust, her fists pounding a wooden dummy scarred from years of blows. Her arms ached, each strike weaker than the last, her knuckles red and raw.

tak tak tak

"Faster, faster!"

A well-groomed brunette woman paced behind her, her voice a whip cracking through the haze. She wore a black hoodie and sweatpants, her hair pulled tight in a bun, her face a mask of stern precision—no flicker of emotion, just relentless expectation.

tak tak tak

"More, faster, faster!" she snapped, her tone rising as the girl's rhythm faltered, each hit slower, softer, a dying pulse against the wood. The woman's expression didn't shift—stone-cold, unyielding, a mirror of the dummy itself.

"Don't stop for another ten minutes."

The girl nodded mutely, her arms moving on autopilot, the tak tak tak a dull mantra as sweat stung her eyes. The woman stood watch, arms crossed, her gaze boring into the girl's back like a drill.

Ten minutes crawled by, an eternity of numb repetition. When the last strike landed—feeble, barely a tap—the woman stepped forward. "You were as slow as ever. No improvement. Go back to your room."

"Yes, master," the girl rasped, bowing stiffly, her body a knot of exhaustion and shame. She shuffled away, the courtyard's gravel crunching underfoot.

From a nearby hall, her siblings' laughter drifted—bright, carefree giggles that twisted the knife deeper. She ducked her head, blonde strands falling over her face, and hurried on, the sound chasing her like a mocking shadow.