Chapter 8: Training

Chapter 8: Training

Vash was a monster given human form. Her cold, terrible beauty did nothing to assuage the training hell she was putting me through. The elegant features that had once seemed alluring now appeared predatory under the harsh light of the training room. Her movements were too precise, too fluid to be entirely human. Like a wolf pretending to be a woman.

She started with beating me.

The first session began without warning. One moment I was standing in the center of the circular training room, uncertain what to expect, and the next her fist connected with my sternum. The air rushed from my lungs in a painful burst, and before I could even register what had happened, a sweeping kick took my legs from under me. I crashed to the padded floor, only to receive a strike to my ribs that sent fresh waves of agony through my body.

I remember that the worst part of it was her expressionless face. Pure, cold, calculation, her dark eyes seeing every weakness. She didn't grunt, nor make any discernible noise other than a soft exhalation of breath that came with her strikes. No satisfaction, no anger, no emotion whatsoever. She could have been filing paperwork for all the emotion she displayed while methodically taking me apart.

The training room itself was sparse but sophisticated. Walls of some dark material that absorbed sound, floor sections that could change texture and density, and various racks of weapons positioned along the perimeter. Lighting panels in the ceiling adjusted automatically, keeping the space evenly illuminated without creating shadows. The air tasted faintly metallic, recycled through the ship's systems and carrying a hint of something alien that I couldn't identify.

I tried to defend myself, but it did no good, Vash's fist would find some part of my body, and pain, hot and fresh would burn through me. I raised my arms to block a strike to my face only to receive three rapid blows to my exposed midsection. When I moved to protect my core, her hand snaked past my guard and struck my throat with just enough force to make me gag without crushing my windpipe.

"Weak. Pathetic. Don't look away! Face down your opponent!" She swept my leg, following through with more strikes. She knew exactly how hard to hit me. Each blow calculated to cause maximum pain without rendering me unconscious or permanently damaged. A precision that spoke of years of practice inflicting suffering.

The other Nyxen would sometimes observe our sessions, standing at the edges of the room with their arms folded, expressions ranging from bored to mildly interested. None intervened. None questioned. To them, this was normal, perhaps even lenient treatment for a new initiate.

I screamed as I felt a rib crack. The sound echoed in the chamber, bouncing off the walls like it was trying to escape. Sweat poured down my face, mixing with blood from a split lip. My muscles burned from exertion and trauma, each movement becoming more difficult than the last.

"It is no wonder your wife and son are dead. No wonder you needed 'saving.'"

There was utter contempt in the word, spat like a poisonous viper. Her perfect features twisted just slightly, the first real expression I'd seen from her during our session. Each syllable cut deeper than her physical blows, reopening wounds that had barely begun to form scabs.

Rage ignited in my heart, a tsunami of flame that poured out from the core of me, suffusing me with its warmth. The mention of Lynn and Jackson shattered something within me, some barrier I hadn't known existed. The grief and horror I'd been suppressing transformed in an instant to white-hot fury.

With it, came power. I launched myself at Vash, who calmly swayed this way and that, smoothly dodging my strikes as easily as a reed in the wind. But something had changed. My movements were faster now, more coordinated. Where before my attacks had been desperate flailing, now they carried purpose and force behind them.

A faint blue glow surrounded my fists as I struck out, missing her face by millimeters where before I'd been missing by feet. The air seemed to thicken around us, charged with an energy I could feel but not see. The same energy I'd experienced briefly during the attack on my home.

We had been at this for half an hour, an eternity, and she wasn't even sweating. There were no wrinkles in her perfect dark training robes. Whereas my brown hair was matted, my face swollen, my right eye bleeding. Each breath sent fresh spikes of pain through my broken rib. My knuckles were split from the few times I'd struck the wall or floor instead of coming anywhere near her.

But for the first time, I saw something new in her expression. Her black eyes did have a satisfied sheen to them, like light hitting dark amethyst at just the right angle. The corner of her mouth twitched upward, so subtly I almost missed it.

"There it is," she muttered to herself. She stopped moving for a moment, observing me, studying the blue glow that now outlined my form.

"There is what?" I said through gritted teeth. Fresh pain shot through my jaw as I spoke, likely from a fracture I hadn't even realized I'd sustained. I launched another punch at her, putting all my remaining strength behind it.

She grabbed my wrist, her fingers like steel bands, and I was suddenly tumbling end over end, smashing into the wall. The impact reverberated through my entire body, rattling my teeth and sending fresh waves of agony radiating from my broken rib. My nose crunched in a sickening, wet sound, blood spurting as if it were water from a fountain. The metallic taste filled my mouth, hot and copper-rich. I slumped to the ground, vision swimming with black spots.

"So weak..." Vash trailed off, shaking her head. She stood over me, not even breathing hard, not a single hair out of place. The blue aura around me had faded, the momentary surge of energy depleted.

A healing potion materialized in her hands, and she tossed it to me. It hit my chest, causing another brief flash of pain, and I groaned as it tumbled to the ground. The glass vial rolled a short distance away, its ruby contents gleaming under the training room lights. I stared at it, wondering if I could even move enough to reach it.

"Drink that. Then we continue." Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact, as if she were giving instructions to a machine rather than a broken man.

I did. After all, I was property. With trembling fingers, I uncorked the vial and drank its contents. The now-familiar warmth spread through me, knitting bones and sealing wounds. The relief was immediate but somehow hollow. Physical recovery without the mental respite to process it.

As I dragged myself to my feet, I caught my reflection in one of the polished panels on the wall. For a moment, I didn't recognize myself. Blood-smeared, hollow-eyed, a stranger's face staring back at me. In that reflection, I saw the ghost of the man I had been, fading with each brutal session.

For weeks, ninety percent of what Vash did was use me as her personal punching bag. If it were not for healing potions, I would have died, I was sure. The days blurred together into a haze of pain, brief recovery, and more pain. The blue glow would manifest occasionally, always when my emotions peaked, but never for long enough to make a real difference.

The training room became my entire world. I memorized every panel, every seam in the floor, every rack of weapons I wasn't permitted to touch. I began to measure time not in hours or days, but in sessions and healing potions. Three sessions meant one day had passed. Twenty-one potions meant a week of my new existence.

Yet I began to hate the red liquid. The healing itself was almost as unpleasant as the injuries, bones grinding as they reset, flesh crawling as it knit together. But worse was knowing that recovery only meant more punishment would follow immediately.

I would learn that there was a certain limit the human mind had. Even after tempering, it could be reached. Healing a man after he was nothing more than a bunch of broken parts, only to immediately begin taking him back to the edge…

The physical pain eventually became almost secondary to the psychological torture. Being broken and remade, over and over, without rest or reprieve. There were moments when I found myself longing for death, for an end to the cycle. Moments when I thought of my daughter and wondered if she would be better off without a father who was being systematically unmade.

I prefer not to dwell too much on it.

Between sessions, I was permitted to see Elisa. These brief visits were both salvation and torment. She seemed to be adjusting better than I was, fascinated by the ship and the strange new people around her. The Nyxen had assigned a caretaker, a woman named Lyra who was gentler than the others, who taught Elisa about the Flux and showed her wonders that made her eyes light up with childish delight.

"Daddy, I made a light!" she told me during one visit, cupping her small hands together. A tiny, flickering blue spark danced between her palms for a moment before dissipating. "Lyra says I'm a natural!"

I hugged her tightly, ignoring the pain from my most recent session, wondering what plans the Nyxen had for my daughter. Wondering if her path would be as brutal as mine. The thought gave me strength to endure the next beating, and the next, and the next.

After the second bout of turning me into a gibbering mush of pain, Vash would give me another health potion, and we would focus on the Resonance Blade. These sessions were less physically punishing but no less frustrating. Hour after hour of attempting to manifest a weapon that stubbornly refused to appear.

The simple cruciform pommel and hilt still refused to activate. The white jewel remained dormant, no matter how I strained or concentrated. I would hold it until my hand cramped, visualizing the blade as Vash instructed, trying to channel whatever energy had produced the blue glow during combat.

I was sitting down cross legged, hands wrapped around it. The metal was cool against my palms, the weight substantial but not uncomfortable. After weeks of handling it, the hilt had begun to feel like an extension of my arm, even without a blade. But that was as far as the connection went.

Vash paced around me, her steps silent on the training room floor. The soft rustle of her robes was the only sound besides my own labored breathing. Her shadow fell across me periodically, a reminder of her constant scrutiny.

"The Resonance Flux, once it connects to a world, begins to flow through all living things. Some are more sensitive to it than others, but all can access it. You can feel it in you, a warmth at the center of yourself. You must draw it through you, through your hand and into the blade. The Resonance Crystal will activate, and your blade will form."

The words had become a mantra, repeated so often I could recite them in my sleep. I focused on that warmth she described, trying to feel it, to coax it outward. Sometimes I thought I sensed something, a flicker of energy, but it always slipped away before I could grasp it.

I did as she said, but when I closed my eyes, Vash would slap me. Hard, but not hard enough to send me sprawling. The stinging blow would jerk me back to full awareness, break whatever tenuous connection I might have been forming.

"Do you think an enemy will give you time to close your eyes, idiot? No. I think not. You will do this with your eyes open. You are with the Nyxen, not the Har'Ji."

I was going to ask what that was, but her dark eyes told me that was a bad idea. The mention of this other group clearly carried some weight, some history that made her expression harden even further. One more question to add to the growing list I might never have answers to.

Instead I turned my attention to the blade. I stared at the white jewel, willing it to light up, to show some sign of responding to me. Occasionally, I thought I saw a flicker deep within its facets, but it always faded before I could be sure it wasn't just wishful thinking.

I would inevitably fail. Something blocked my way. A mental barrier I couldn't identify or overcome. Perhaps fear, perhaps grief, perhaps simply exhaustion from the constant physical abuse. Whatever the cause, the blade remained inert, a useless piece of metal in my hands.

Vash would growl, and the beating would resume. A cycle of violence and failure that seemed without end. Each session concluded with her cold assessment: "Inadequate. We try again tomorrow." No encouragement, no guidance beyond the same repeated instructions, just the promise of more pain.

And then, one morning, Vash entered the training room with a different expression. Something calculating, almost eager, in those dark eyes that had previously shown only contempt and impatience.

"We will try a new approach," she announced, her voice carrying a tone I hadn't heard before. She touched a panel on the wall, and the training room door slid open.

The lieutenant who had shown me to my room that first day stepped in, his brown eyes still carrying that same dislike. But what froze my blood was who he led by the hand.

Elisa.

My daughter looked confused, her small face uncertain as she glanced between the lieutenant, Vash, and me. When she saw my battered state, her eyes widened.

"Daddy? Are you okay?" Her voice trembled slightly.

What she tried next made me wish for the beatings once more.