Chapter 1
"Please!" I manage. "Stop!" I shriek.
He doesn't stop. If anything he drives deeper. I sob.
"Why are you doing this to me?!" I say, voice breaking.
"Please! Stop! You're hurting me!" He mocks.
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Hi. I'm Akira Shinazugawa. If your wondering how I ended up here, then let me tell you.
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The training ground is quiet, dusk settling over the field. The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of grass and earth. I stand in the center, my breathing steady as I practice my wind breathing.
Without warning, the sound of a snap—like a twig breaking—echoes behind me. I spin, but not fast enough. A fist drives into my lower ribs, cracking bone. I fly back, hitting the dirt hard. Before I can scream, a boot slams down on my left ankle with brutal precision.
Sanemi looms over me, each hit precise. He’s all control, all contempt. His knee pins my midsection. My breath hitches and comes out as a wet rattle.
“You’re still useless,” he says. His voice is low, matter-of-fact. “Even now. Look at you.”
My vision blurs. Blood pools in my mouth. My arms are too heavy to lift as a blow lands on my temple.
"Bitte... hör auf..." I choke out in German, voice small and broken.
Sanmi pauses for half a second, something flickering in his gaze too fast to read. Then his fist comes down again, white-knuckled, just hard enough to leave me gasping. Not hard enough to stop my heart.
The moment hangs, a single beat of silence between us. Then his fist comes down again.
It’s not a wild swing. It’s measured. Methodical. His knuckles crack against my cheekbone, and my head whips to the side. A spray of blood and saliva arcs through the fading light. I taste copper, feel the hot sting of split skin.
Before I can process the pain, he’s already moving. His other hand grabs a fistful of my white hair, yanking my head back. My neck strains, a raw gasp tearing from my throat. The stars in my hair—the dark red accessories I always wear—scatter across the dirt, lost.
“You think those gods of yours are watching?” he hisses, voice low and venomous. His knee drives into my diaphragm. I convulse, air leaving my lungs in a strangled wheeze. “Where are they now, Akira?”
I can’t answer. Can’t breathe. My fingers scrabble weakly at the ground, nails caked with mud and blood.
He releases my hair, letting my face smack into the dirt. Then he rolls me onto my back with his foot. I’m exposed. Broken. My training gear—the bandages wrapped around my chest—are soaked in red, dirt smeared across my skin.
Sanemi crouches beside me, his face unreadable. For a moment, there’s nothing. No hatred. No pity. Just a cold, clinical emptiness.
Then his fist comes down again. This time, it’s my ribs. A sickening crack echoes across the empty field. I scream—a wet, broken sound that dissolves into a sob. My body tries to curl in on itself, to protect, but he doesn’t let me. His hand clamps around my throat, not choking, just holding me in place as he pulls back his other arm.
Another punch. My vision whites out. “You’re weak because you believe you are.”
One more. Harder. Directly into my sternum. I hear the crunch before I feel it. My back arches off the ground, a guttural noise escaping my lips. Tears stream freely now, mixing with the blood that trickles from my nose, my split lip, the gash above my eyebrow.
He stops. Stands.
For a long, agonizing moment, I lie there—a crumpled, broken thing on the cold ground. The world swims in and out of focus, colors bleeding into muted grays. But then, something shifts. A spark ignites in my chest, deep beneath the cracked ribs and bruised lungs. Rage. Pure, undiluted rage.
My bloodied fingers curl into fists. The dirt beneath me feels solid. Real. And I pushe.
Sanemi is already turning away, wiping his knuckles on his pants, when he hears me—my wet, ragged inhale. He glances back, eyes widening slightly as I lunge.
I slam into him with a feral scream, driving him backward. We hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the wind from his lungs. I'm on top of him in an instant, straddling his chest, my thighs clamping down on his sides. my hands find his shoulders, pinning him with a strength born of desperation and fury.
“You—!” I choke out, voice raw and broken. Blood drips from my chin onto his face. “You—!”
I raise a trembling fist, ready to bring it down. But he doesn’t try to block it.
Instead, his right hand moves—sliding up my thigh, fingers digging into the firm flesh. Not pushing me away. Not holding me back. Just... resting there, a grounding weight. His other hand drifts lower, palm flat against the curve of my ass, gripping with deliberate pressure.
I freeze.
My fist hovers in the air, mid-swing. Confusion cuts through the haze of fury. My chest heaves, blood-streaked and erratic. The pain screams through my body, but right now, all I can focus on is the heat of his hands on me.
Sanemi stares up at me, his expression unreadable. His grip doesn’t tighten, doesn’t loosen. It simply holds.
And for a moment—just a single, fractured moment—neither of us moves.
