held my first sword at 8 and learnt to be ruthless and cold from my grandfather.
I would be woken up at 4 am, drenched in cold water, and then forced to spar with my grandpa and his colleagues. And every single day, I would return with fresh wounds,making no room for the old ones to heal.
I'd want to cry, scream out in agony, resent my life and my parents, but I couldn't because if I did, I'd be whipped 150 times on my back, labelled as a chicken and weakling in the mafia world and finally disowned by my family which will give a free pathway to be hunted down by my competitors whom I had beaten or been compared to in the past and killed.
Any slack in the mafia world, and it's off with your head.
Years went by and the training only got worse.
Unfortunately,the old man passed away few m
