Kingsland Arc: Chapter:21 - The Barrage and the Beast Within
The third dawn found Ronin already stirring on his cot, though every fiber of his lean body screamed in agony. His hands, despite Miya's skilled re-bandaging during the night, felt like raw, burning coals. His back and legs throbbed with a deep, protesting ache from the endless rock moving. His head pounded with exhaustion. Yet, the memory of Baelish's last words – "Tomorrow, we add Reflex Drills. Before dawn, you will face my barrage" – filled him with a cold dread that eclipsed even the physical torment. He had to rise.
He dragged himself out of bed, each movement a Herculean effort. Dressing was agony, every brush of fabric against his bruised skin a fresh torment. He moved like an old man, his young face set in a grimace of pain and determination.
In the dining hall, the others were already seated, a strange, expectant quiet hanging in the air. Chou, Rafaela, and Yue Xin exchanged quick, subtle glances as Ronin shuffled in. Their faces held a mix of pity for his obvious suffering and a growing, silent respect for his endurance. Baelish was already there, a dark, imposing silhouette by the unlit hearth, his ancient eyes fixed on Ronin.
"Training yard," Baelish's voice cut through the quiet, sharper than usual. "Now."
Ronin's stomach churned, but he merely nodded, his gaze unwavering as he pushed away from the table.
The training yard was stark in the pre-dawn gloom, illuminated only by the faint, eerie glow of a few enchanted lanterns Baelish had placed around the perimeter. The air was frigid, biting at Ronin's exposed skin. Baelish stood in the center, his black cloak utterly still, like a statue carved from shadow. In his hands, he held a collection of blunt, oddly shaped stones and a few heavy, padded wooden batons.
"Your body may be strong, boy, but if it cannot move, it is useless," Baelish stated, his voice a low, resonant rumble that seemed to fill the cold air. "Today, we hone your Reflexes. You will not block. You will not retaliate. You will only evade. Survive." He pointed to a small circle etched into the packed earth where Ronin was to stand. "This is your arena. Do not step outside it."
Ronin nodded, his jaw tight. He understood. This was about pure evasion, about dodging the impossible.
"First," Baelish announced, his voice devoid of emotion, "we test your speed and your senses." Without another word, he flicked his wrist. A small, jagged stone, thrown with deceptive force and speed, whistled past Ronin's ear.
Ronin flinched, his head jerking back on instinct. The stone embedded itself with a soft thud into the gnarled tree post behind him. His heart hammered. He was too slow.
Baelish began a relentless barrage. Stones, small and large, blunt wooden darts, and even padded batons flew at Ronin from all angles, sometimes singly, sometimes in rapid succession. Baelish moved with a terrifying, ancient fluidity, his throws precise, aimed not to hit, but to force Ronin to move, to push his limits. Ronin dodged, weaved, and spun, his lean body reacting instinctively. He scraped his knee against the rough earth, a stone grazed his temple, sending a fresh jolt of pain through him. He gasped, stumbled, but always, he remained within the circle.
Chou, Rafaela, and Yue Xin watched from the house's edge, their faces grim. Chou, still nursing his injuries, crossed his arms, his eyes narrowed, analyzing Ronin's movements. Rafaela clenched her hands, her kind face a mask of discomfort, wishing she could intervene. Yue Xin, her slender form rigid, observed Baelish's chilling precision, her brow furrowed in deep thought.
"Faster, boy! Feel the air! Anticipate!" Baelish's voice boomed, relentless. He began to move around Ronin, circling him, making his throws even harder to predict. "Your eyes are too slow. Your ears, dulled by the noise of battle. True evasion comes from instinct! From knowing the flow of the air, the shift in your opponent's weight! How do you think the ancient demons fought in the shadowed forests? Not by seeing, but by sensing!" His voice took on a strange, ancient cadence, almost a hiss, hinting at knowledge gained from experiences far beyond human ken.
Ronin pushed himself beyond exhaustion. His muscles screamed, his vision blurred from fatigue and the constant motion. He felt the whisper of air currents, the subtle shifts in Baelish's stance. He moved, reacting to the slightest sensation, narrowly avoiding a heavy baton that would have shattered his ribs. His green eyes blazed with a desperate focus.
And then, as Baelish launched a particularly swift flurry of objects, Ronin was pushed to the absolute breaking point. A red mist seemed to descend over his vision. The black aura, which had been dormant since his collapse, stirred. A cold, raw power pulsed beneath his skin, demanding release. His body twitched, fighting the instinct to transform, fighting the urge to stop dodging and simply smash the incoming objects with his demonic might. He felt the familiar, dangerous surge of uncontrolled power, the insidious whisper of Zorde's blood demanding control.
Baelish, mid-throw, paused. His dark eyes, usually unreadable, flickered, a subtle, almost imperceptible recognition in their depths. He observed Ronin's trembling, his tightened jaw, the faint, nascent black ripple just beneath his skin. A ghost of a smirk, ancient and knowing, touched the corner of Baelish's lips. He understood the struggle raging within Ronin.
"Good," Baelish rumbled, his voice low, cutting through Ronin's internal maelstrom. "Enough for now. One hundred successful evasions." He gestured to the scattered projectiles. "Your afternoon ritual awaits. Move all these. Back to where they started. By hand."
Ronin collapsed, a gasping, trembling heap in the center of the circle. His body was a symphony of agony, his lungs burned, and the demonic energy, though now retreating, left a chilling residue. He had survived the barrage. He had not broken.
As the sun began its descent, painting the sky in fiery hues, Ronin stumbled through the Iron Skin Drills, each strike a brutal reminder of his battered hands. He was a creature of pure instinct now, pushing through the pain, fueled by the image of Rose's sad farewell and the terrifying potential of the power within him. He wouldn't just survive; he would master it.
Baelish stood over him as night fell, his silhouette tall and imposing against the twilight. "Tomorrow," he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly whisper, "we introduce Combat Application Drills. You will learn to use those blades as extensions of your hardened body." A chilling promise, hanging in the quiet night. "The true forging continues, boy."
[To Be Continued]