CHAPTER 5: A Lesson in Fire
1378 Words
CHAPTER 5
The word "AGAIN" hung heavily many times in the cavernous room, sharp and cold, a gauntlet thrown at Lauren’s feet, which caught her off guard, almost made her flinch. Every muscle screamed from the fatigue, and the sting in her knuckles had been a constant pain reaching down to her wrists, but the fire Ryle had demanded now burned hot and clean in her gut.
She exhaled heavily through her nostrils as she mentally screamed in the back of her head, “I’m not going to be a whimpering garbage. I’m not going to be the loser you named me.”
She quickly adjusted her stance, pulling her elbows tighter to her sides, remembering the brief, startling moment his large, controlled hand had rested over hers on the whetstone.
His light gray eyes never left hers as they were as piercing and as cold as ice as the first time she saw him. She aimed for the center of the bag and struck, focusing the desperate energy of her anger into the blow.
Thud-THUM.
“Okay, that was better.” She thought as she tilted her head to the side and thought in comparison, “Not his earth-shattering WHUMM, but it was a solid impact.”
“Hips,” Ryle ordered, his voice unwaveringly monotonous, as if he were a merciless drill sergeant of the darkness. “Rotate your hips.” He scolded once again, still his voice sounded monotone. “I said rotate. It’s not your arm, it’s the turn.”
Lauren clenched her jaw and bit her inner cheek hard. Even as he taught her the basics and a few tricks that were very helpful for her growth, she felt a burning humiliation in the deepest pit of her stomach. His help seemed calculated, a deliberate performance designed to underscore his superiority and remind her that she was nothing but a loser, like his nickname for her
She exhaled shakily through her parted lips, tried her best to fight to keep the frustration from turning into tears. She took a half-step back and watched the faint shadow of her reflection on the stone wall. She forced her body to twist slightly just as her fist connected.
THUD! The impact was louder, a genuinely satisfying blow that jarred her shoulder but felt right. Lauren’s eyes widened, and she started to smile as she turned toward Ryle, but the expression instantly vanished when she saw his emotionless face.
"Better," he conceded, his monotone voice offering a purely clinical acknowledgment of her improvement, entirely devoid of praise. Still, a sense of pride bloomed in Lauren—which Ryle immediately crushed.
"But slow," he added immediately, his voice turning heavier, and that feeling inside her chest was instantly shattered with just two words. "You telegraph every move a full second before you strike."
What the hell does that even mean? Lauren thought furiously before Ryle delivered the inevitable consequence: “You’ll be gutted before you even land the first blow."
Feeling exhausted and stressed, "I can't be fast right now," she panted, leaning her forehead against the cool leather of the bag for a brief rest. "I'm exhausted." She confessed, and it was not an excuse.
Ryle didn’t pause; he walked around the bag until he was directly opposite her, fixing her with an intense stare. “Exhaustion is irrelevant,” he stated, adding, “Exhaustion is when you get sloppy.”
Lauren rolled her eyes in immediate defiance. Ryle’s jaw tightened at the blatant disrespect, but he continued to press her: “Sloppy gets you killed.”
“I…” she stammered, then forced the denial out: “I’m not sloppy.”
His annoyance visibly sharpened. “Then be better,” he snapped, using a far harsher word. “Worthlessness gets you killed. Now, hit faster. Three in a sequence. Don’t think.”
She exhaled heavily and tried to think of his words, but she was snapped back to reality when he yelled out loud, “I said don’t think!” He slammed the punching bag, which caused her to flinch.
She straightened, the demand pushing her past her perceived limits. She unleashed a frantic flurry—left, right, left—each one faster than the last, but her form dissolved into wild, clumsy swats.
Ryle caught the bag on its fourth swing easily, stopping its momentum instantly with his very powerful, casual grip. "Stop."
Lauren slumped, leaning her hands on her knees, struggling to pull air into her lungs. “I told you, I’m trying.”
“You’re not.” He answered right away.
She scoffed, “I am. Very much. I haven’t been doing this since I was a child. I was busy… with other things."
He didn't flinch at her bitterness. His light gray eyes were still fixed on her, assessing her as if she were a faulty piece of equipment. "You're relying on that anger," he observed, his voice surprisingly analytical. "It gives you power, but it blinds you. It makes you predictable."
Ryle paused, and for a fleeting instant, she thought she saw something—a shadow of experience, perhaps—flicker in his eyes.
"The best fighters are cold. They don't feel anything," he continued, demonstrating his point.
He took a step back into a fighting stance and executed a perfect sequence: a quick, tight jab, followed by a cross that pivoted his entire body, which seemed like a very great move for a newbie like Lauren. The movements were fluid, precise, and utterly devoid of wasted energy. He looked less like a boxer and more like a human clockwork mechanism, operating with flawless mechanics.
"See the difference?" he asked.
She exhaled softly, "Yes," Lauren whispered. "You're perfect. I'm not."
"Perfection is irrelevant," he countered, echoing his own word back to her. "Efficiency is what matters. Now, you watch my feet. Don't look at my hands. Watch how the weight shifts.”
He launched into another series of shadow strikes, slower this time, allowing her to track the minute movements of his weight transfer. For the next hour, Ryle maintained his position as her silent, punishing taskmaster. He didn't touch her again, nor did he offer a single word of genuine encouragement, but he stayed. Every time she faltered, every time her shoulder dipped or her hips locked up, his cold voice cut through the silence.
“Stance.”
“Core.”
“Don't lean in.”
The insults continued, though less frequently.
When she complained of the pain in her ribs, he only said, "Pain is a distraction. Learn to file it away."
As the first faint gray of dawn began to seep into the complex, washing out the gaslight shadows, Ryle stopped the session with a final, unceremonious command.
"That's enough."
He turned and walked toward the archway leading back to the barracks.
"Wait!" Lauren called out, her voice raw.
He stopped, but didn't turn around. His back was broad and rigid, a wall of disciplined muscle.
"Why?" she asked, the question tumbling out. "Why are you helping me? You hate me. You hate my presence. You just told me I'm garbage."
Ryle stood motionless for several long seconds. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat and chillingly practical. “Helping?” He sounded like he was mocking. "You’re a recruit. You're my competition," he stated clearly. "And if you're going to be my competition, I refuse to waste my time fighting a whimpering garbage."
He finally turned his head, his light gray eyes catching the faint, cold light of dawn. The look he gave her was pure warning, sharp and unforgiving.
"Get stronger, loser," he ordered, his words a final, icy challenge. “Or get out of my way.”
He didn’t wait for her response. He simply walked away, leaving Lauren standing in the empty arena, her body aching, her pride wounded, but her fists still clenched and ready.
She was still a loser in his eyes, but she had earned a lesson—and that felt, impossibly, like a victory. She knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her core, that she would be back the next night.
She had a rival now, and she had everything to prove.
- Writer
