saudade; raiden ei

xxxɪx. tournament

The student bowed deeply before his teacher as she stared at his panting form. This bow was not a bow but an exhausted fold; Carlos had completed his initial talent assessment and collapsed at her feet, thus resembling the respectful gesture. Y/n retained silence, perhaps wondering how such feebleness was possible. Was he indeed a lost cause?

Gently, she lowered herself before him, her mind filled with dread at the thought of the work and exertion he'd require. As she crouched before him, she said: "Not terrible. But your stamina needs serious work."

He groaned. "What's the point? I'm not even going to survive the first round."

"With that attitude, you won't." She countered. Y/n seized the bottle he'd been indulging and stood, hands on hips. "On your feet. There's no time to lose."

In her mind was a strict training regime for the next four days. She'd work Carlos to the bone, first by commissioning two days of tireless exercise and ending with multiple rounds of sparring. Both by the sword and by the fist, she'd force him to face her head-on until he could stand firm in the face of adversity.

Begrudgingly, he pulled himself from the floor, objections silenced by fear of the soldier's fiery gaze. Two minutes later, he was on the ground in the form of a press-up. "One." She counted, eyes fixated on his posture. She placed a rock upon his shoulders. "Two." Another stone, and then another. Carlos glared at the floor before him, his arms shaking in threat of collapse. After five, he was on the ground.

He didn't even have to look up to hear the soft 'tsk' escape her lips, and he didn't have to think before she commanded: "Again."

Deep down, he appreciated her efforts. But he was genuinely starting to despise the woman.

They trained this way until dark was nigh, taking minimum breaks between drills. Faced with the boy's exhaustion after running multiple laps of the city, Y/n would relentlessly claim that his arms couldn't be tired as his feet. She'd then slide into the seat opposite him at a table, urging an arm wrestle that would result in his perpetual loss. And every time, her lips would curl upwards.

By the end of the second day, she told him he'd improved. He again balanced rocks upon his compressed form. This time, he made it to twenty-two counts. This time, his glare was lined with determined fire. By the end of the third, his legs could carry him further without breaking a sweat. She had handed him a wooden blade, drawing her own and slowly performing a sequence of strikes for him to follow. With her own hands, she'd patiently correct his faults and posture. By the end of the fourth, he had successfully disarmed her once and could hold his own without his sword.

The soldier stared carefully at her disciple. "Be quick and clever," she urged. "Don't try to subdue your opponent with brute force. You won't."

He nodded, eyes reflecting the glow of houses nearby. The night was silent as people settled into their beds, the air heavy with anticipation of tomorrow. "Use my strengths, I know. Do you think I'm ready?"

For the first time since they'd met, Y/n visibly relaxed. Her features softened, and she smiled at him encouragingly. "I know you are," she assured. Her face flashed with pride. "Now, off to bed, hm? You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow."

His expression faltered in a state of momentary surprise before morphing into one of newfound confidence. He rose from his seat, his brows firmed, and his lips pursed. "Goodnight, ma'am. I can't thank you enough."

She watched him walk away before retreating to a temporary room of her own. On that night, as with many others before it, Y/n awoke in a cold sweat.

✧:･ﾟﾟ･