CHAPTER 6: Target Practice
1298 Words
CHAPTER 6
The dawn broke over the Black Serpent training complex, but the cold silence Ryle had left behind lingered long after he disappeared. Lauren stumbled back to the barracks, falling onto her cot not with the exhaustion of failure, but the satisfying ache of effort. She knew she was still miles behind Ryle, but the mere fact that he had stayed was a strange kind of victory. She had earned his attention, somewhat as an instructor for the night, albeit in a hostile manner.
During the morning’s combat drill, Ryle was back to his usual self—a remote, silent machine of lethal efficiency. He didn’t spare Lauren a glance. He didn’t care about her. He moved through the drills with a cold, almost bored precision that set him apart.
The other trainees, however, were keen for his attention. Ryle’s skill meant he was a walking cheat sheet for survival. Several recruits, the new ones, knowing the instructors wouldn’t slow down for them, tried to approach Ryle for advice.
“Ryle, wait up! On the rotational pivot, my back foot keeps sticking—” a taller recruit began, jogging to catch up with him after a rapid-fire drill.
Ryle didn’t slow his pace or even turn his head. He continued walking toward the weapons racks, his eyes fixed on a point far ahead.
“Ryle," the recruit persisted, using his surname. “Just a quick tip, man.”
Ryle didn’t even respond or glance.
He continued, “How do you keep the dagger balanced when you pivot that fast?”
Ryle reached the rack, snatched a handful of throwing knives, and tucked them into his wrist sheath. He turned, his light gray eyes finally fixing on the recruit, but there was no malice, no heat—just a blank, uninterested coldness.
“Read the manual,” Ryle said, his voice flat.
He didn’t wait for a response before spinning on his heel and heading toward the isolated marksmanship tunnel, his focus already absolute. The recruit was left standing dumbfounded, the question dying on his lips.
Lauren watched the whole exchange and came to a simple, annoyed conclusion: He hates everyone equally. His arrogance toward everyone around him only fueled her irritation.
At lunch, the mess hall was loud with the clatter of metal trays and the low-pitched chatter of the trainees. Lauren sat across from Finn, who was effortlessly translating a tactical report from an archaic, obscure language while chewing on a piece of dried meat.
“You look like you wrestled a stone golem last night," Finn observed, setting his paper aside and giving her a gentle, concerned look.
Lauren shrugged, picking at her bland rations. “I just didn’t get good sleep.” She lied as she didn’t want Finn to know that she had been getting out at night to practice by herself.
“Well, you did a good job on your knuckles this time,” Finn noted, pointing to the neatly tied wraps.
“A good teacher.” she muttered, feeling a slight flush.
Finn initially took the compliment, thinking she meant him, but his smile gradually faded. His warm brown eyes drifted past her to where Ryle sat alone at a distant table, his back to them. After watching Ryle for a beat, Finn leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“He’s been watching you,” Finn whispered. “Every time you move, every time you take a breath. And he looks furious about it.”
Lauren twisted in her seat to glance back. Ryle was chewing slowly, his gaze directed at his tray, but as soon as she looked, his head lifted, and his light gray eyes locked onto hers across the crowded room.
There was no direct emotion in the stare, but the sheer intensity of his focus felt like a physical weight, heavier than any of Jarek’s punches.
She quickly faced Finn again, shrugging dismissively. “He hates everyone.” She responded, “I told you. He just hates my presence here. It must be because I’m a girl.”
“No,” Finn insisted softly, shaking his head. “He ignores everyone else. You, he focuses on. There's a difference between disinterest and target practice.”
“What was I supposed to say?” Lauren asked, picking up a spoon. “I’ve no idea what that guy is thinking.”
Finn sighed, a low, frustrated sound. “I think he’s conflicted.”
"Conflicted about what?” She responded with a hint of sarcasm, “Whether to be an ordinary jerk or a monumental one?"
He chuckled dryly, “Who knows?” He shrugged his shoulders before adding, “But you know, maybe it’s because you remind him of Rianne, and he hates that you survived when she…” He cleared his throat.
“Who’s Rianne?” Lauren questioned curiously.
Finn looked at her and shook his head, “Don’t ever speak that name aloud infront of him.”
That evening, the complex hummed with anticipation. Fridays meant the Royal Rumble, a brutal, free-for-all sparring match that instructors used to gauge raw aggression and survival instincts. Before the call came to head to the arena, Lauren was packing her gear in the weapons storage area when she heard a voice too close behind her.
“Hey, newbie.”
It was Taron, Jarek's sidekick, a taller boy with a perpetually shifty gaze. He leaned against the shelf, trying to appear nonchalant.
"What do you want?" Lauren asked, not bothering to turn around. She was tired, hadn’t had a good sleep, and was wary.
“Just seeing if you need any pointers for the Rumble," he said, his voice lowering into a suggestive drawl. "I could show you how to hide, where to find the blind spots, if you know what I mean."
“I’m not interested," Lauren replied flatly.
Taron chuckled, a greasy sound. “Come on. Don't be like that. We could be a team. You just need someone to... lighten you up.” He took a step toward her, reaching out a hand, intending to brush her hair back from her face.
Lauren’s heart hammered; Taron's move instantly triggered a painful memory of the men at the casino who had relentlessly tried to take advantage of her because she was young, ignoring every rejection.
The voice in her head was Ryle’s: Don’t think. Hit faster.
As Taron’s fingers brushed her cheek, she didn’t hesitate. She rotated her hips, driving all her weight into a tight, explosive cross, exactly the move Ryle had executed the night before. She put everything into it—her anger, her defiance, her desperate will to survive.
The punch connected with Taron's jaw with a shocking CRACK.
Taron stumbled backward, his eyes wide in disbelief and pain. He swore loudly, clutching his cheek. Lauren’s punch was strong, fueled by technique and fury, and the sudden, fierce defense stunned him.
“You little b***h!” Taron roared, his face darkening with humiliated rage. Her strong punch felt like a severe injury to his ego. He raised his own fist, discarding any pretense of friendliness.
Lauren braced herself, ready to receive the blow, but she was too slow. Taron slammed his fist hard into her stomach. The force knocked the air from her lungs.
She doubled over instantly, a sharp, searing pain blossoming in her abdomen. She gasped deeply, staggering back against the cold stone wall, the world tilting.
“You better be ready for the Royal Rumble,” Taron spat, leaning closer. “Because when it’s my turn, I’m going to f*****g choose you as my opponent and beat your weak ass.”
A shadow fell over the entrance to the storage area. Ryle stood there, saw everything, and just left.
- Writer
