Cross and Conflicts

CHAPTER XLVII: The Path to Revenge

Cross stepped back, raising his hands in a defensive stance. “If someone grabs you from the front, aim for their weakest points. The eyes, the throat, the groin. A quick jab to the throat can incapacitate most people long enough for you to escape or counterattack.”

He demonstrated, his movements precise and fluid.

“If they’re behind you, use your elbows. Drive them into their ribs or stomach. It’s not about strength—it’s about precision and speed.”

Noumenon watched intently, her mind racing to absorb every detail. She mimicked his movements, her strikes clumsy at first but gradually improving under his watchful eye.

“Good,” he said, nodding as she landed a solid elbow strike against the air. “Now, let’s talk about your legs. A well-placed kick can end a fight before it begins. Aim for the knees—they’re vulnerable and easy to target. A single kick can take someone down.”

He demonstrated again, his foot snapping out in a controlled motion. She followed suit, her kicks gaining strength and accuracy with each attempt.

As they continued, Cross pushed her harder, testing her limits. He attacked without warning, forcing her to react on instinct. She took several hard blows—his strikes were controlled but firm, enough to knock her off balance and leave her gasping for breath. But each time, she got back up, her determination burning brighter.

“You’re learning,” he said after she managed to block one of his strikes and counter with a knee to his side.

She wiped the sweat from her brow, her chest heaving.

“What about my father?” she asked, her voice steady despite her exhaustion. “How do I fight someone who can heal from anything?”

His expression darkened, his gaze sharpening. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his eyes flicked to the knife she had dropped earlier. Without a word, he tilted his head slightly, and the blade began to rise from the floor, as if pulled by an invisible string.

Her breath caught as she watched the knife hover in midair, its edge gleaming ominously in the dim light.

With a flick of his gaze, the knife shot forward, slicing through the air with deadly precision. It passed so close to her ear that she felt the rush of wind against her skin. Her heart pounded as she turned to see the blade embedded in the concrete wall behind her, quivering from the force of its impact.

He stepped closer, his movements deliberate, his presence commanding.

“Your father may be able to regenerate,” he said, his voice low and measured, “but he’s not invincible. Physically, he’s weak—lame, even. He relies on his bodyguards to do his dirty work. If you can get past them, he’s vulnerable.”

He paused, his piercing gaze locking onto hers. “But don’t think for a second that makes him any less dangerous. He’s cunning, manipulative. He’ll use every advantage he has to destroy you.”

Noumenon swallowed hard, her jaw tightening as she absorbed his words. “Then I’ll make sure he doesn’t get the chance.”

“You won’t be doing this alone,” he said, his tone definitive. “I’ll be there to finish him off. But before you make the fatal strike, you’ll need to teach him a lesson. Make him taste your revenge.”

Her eyes widened slightly at his words, but she nodded. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

He studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he stepped back, raising his hands again.

“Let’s see if you’re ready. Come at me.”

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. This was her fight now, her chance to prove that she could stand on her own. She lunged forward, her movements sharper, more precise. For the first time, she felt the weight of her purpose driving her forward, and she knew there was no turning back.

Cross didn’t hold back. His fists moved like lightning, each strike calculated to test her reflexes and endurance. Noumenon ducked under a jab aimed at her shoulder, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. She countered with a punch of her own, but he sidestepped effortlessly, his movements fluid and precise.

“Faster!” he barked, his voice cutting through the sound of their sparring. “You’re too slow. If you hesitate, you’re dead.”

She gritted her teeth, her frustration mounting. Her arms ached, her legs felt like lead, but she refused to stop. She threw another punch, this time aiming for his ribs. He caught her wrist mid-strike, twisting it just enough to force her to drop her stance.

“Again,” he commanded, releasing her and stepping back.

Noumenon steadied herself, her chest heaving. She lunged forward, feinting a punch before pivoting on her heel and aiming a kick at his side. Cross blocked it with his forearm, the impact reverberating through her leg.

“Better,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “But you’re still holding back.”

“I’m not,” she shot back, her voice laced with defiance.

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Prove it.”

He came at her again, his fists a blur. She barely managed to block the first strike, her forearms absorbing the brunt of the impact. The second punch grazed her shoulder, sending her stumbling back. She recovered quickly, her determination burning brighter with each blow she endured.

“Use your body,” he instructed, his tone sharp. “Your fists aren’t your only weapon. If you’re close enough, use your knees. If you’re off balance, use your weight to throw your opponent off.”

He demonstrated, stepping into her space and driving his knee upward in a controlled motion. She dodged just in time, the movement forcing her to pivot on her heel. Before she could regain her footing, he swept her legs out from under her, sending her sprawling onto the mat.

“Get up,” he said, his voice firm and unkind. “You’re not done yet.”

Noumenon pushed herself to her feet, her muscles screaming in protest. She adjusted her stance, her fists raised and ready. This time, she didn’t wait for him to attack. She lunged forward, aiming a punch at his jaw. He blocked it easily, but she followed up with a knee to his stomach. The move caught him off guard, and she felt a flicker of satisfaction as he stumbled back slightly.

“Now, keep going,” he said.

They continued, the room echoing with the sound of their sparring. He pushed her harder with each passing moment, his strikes relentless and unforgiving. She took several more hits, her body aching from the effort, but she refused to give up. Each blow she landed, each block she managed, felt like a small victory.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she raised a hand, her chest heaving.

“I need a break,” she said, her voice hoarse.

Cross stepped back, lowering his fists. He studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable.

“Take five,” he said. “But don’t get too comfortable. We’re just getting started.”

She nodded, her legs trembling as she made her way to a corner. She collapsed onto it, her head falling back against the wall as she tried to catch her breath. Her body ached, her skin was slick with sweat, but there was a fire in her chest that refused to be extinguished.

She glanced over at Cross, who was already preparing for the next round. His movements were calm, methodical, as though the grueling session had barely affected him. She couldn’t help but feel a flicker of admiration—and frustration. He made it look so easy.

But she knew this was only the beginning. If she wanted to face her father, if she wanted to survive, she would have to push herself harder than ever before. And she would.

The days that followed were grueling, each one blending into the next in a haze of sweat, bruises, and relentless determination. Cross was unyielding, his methods harsh but effective. He pushed Noumenon to her limits and then beyond, forcing her to confront not only her physical weaknesses but the doubts and fears that lingered in the corners of her mind.

The mornings began before dawn, the mansion still cloaked in shadows as she descended into the underground chamber. He was always there, waiting, his presence as steady and unrelenting as the training itself. He wasted no time with pleasantries, launching her into drills that tested her endurance, precision, and adaptability.

“Again,” he would say, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Faster. Stronger. You’re not there yet.”

Her muscles burned, her lungs screamed for air, but she refused to stop. Each strike, each block, each movement became a step closer to the person she needed to become. She learned to fight with her fists, her legs, her entire body, each part a weapon honed under his watchful eye.

The nights were no easier. After hours of sparring and drills, she would collapse onto the cold stone floor, her body trembling with exhaustion. But even then, he would push her further, forcing her to analyze her movements, to understand her mistakes.

“Why did you miss that block?” he would ask, his tone was always sharp. “What could you have done differently?”

At first, her answers were hesitant, her mind clouded by fatigue. But as the days passed, she began to see the patterns, to anticipate his movements and adapt her own. Slowly, she began to understand the rhythm of combat, the delicate balance between offense and defense.

The bruises on her arms and legs faded only to be replaced by new ones, each a testament to her progress. Her strikes grew sharper, her movements more fluid. She learned to read Cross’s body language, to predict his attacks and counter them with precision.

But it wasn’t just her body that changed. The fire in her chest burned brighter with each passing day, fueled by the memories of her mother and Sister Lita, by the weight of the injustice she carried. She channeled that fire into every punch, every kick, every breath, until it became a part of her.

Cross noticed the change, though he rarely acknowledged it. His instructions grew more complex, his challenges more demanding. He introduced her to weapons, teaching her the art of the blade and the bow, but always reminding her that her greatest weapon was herself.

“Your father’s bodyguards won’t hesitate,” he said one evening, his voice low and steady. “They’ll come at you with everything they have. You need to be faster, smarter. You need to make them regret underestimating you.”

She nodded, her jaw set with determination. “I will.”

The turning point came on the tenth day. They were sparring as usual, the room echoing with the sound of their strikes. Cross came at her with a flurry of punches, his movements a blur. But this time, she didn’t falter. She blocked his strikes with precision, countering with a series of blows that forced him to step back.

For the first time, she saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes, quickly replaced by a faint smirk. “Good,” he said, his tone almost approving. “You’re getting there.”

She didn’t allow herself to feel pride—not yet. There was still so much to learn, so much to prove. But in that moment, she felt a spark of hope, a glimpse of the person she was becoming.