The training grounds at the back of the estate had been Ryan Ashworth's own battleground. Every morning, as the sun bled across the horizon, coloring it in red tones, he was already awake—bruised, sweating, panting for air.
Mei Lin did not believe in mercy.
"Again," she shouted, arms crossed as she stood next to a wooden dummy bound in rope.
Ryan flinched, massaging his aching knuckles. "You said that ten times ago."
"Then you ought to have gotten it right ten times ago," she snapped. "Again!"
He gritted out an answer and approached the dummy. His stance was improved now—back straight, knees bent correctly. He shifted his weight and threw a punch, then a hard elbow and a sidekick.
Mei Lin observed intently, eyes hawk-like. "Your power is coming along. But you're still keeping back."
"I'm tired," he grunted, breathing harsh.
She moved in, bridging the distance between them. "Do you think the ones who murdered Hazel care that you're exhausted? That your arms hurt? That your muscles burn?"
Ryan's jaw clenched. Her words hit the center of him. He balled his fists. "No."
"Then fight like you're looking for pity," she snapped, taking hold of his wrist and readjusting his stance. "Strength is meaningless without purpose. Show me yours."
He nodded, beads of sweat rolling off his brow. Fire in his chest grew stronger.
He punched again.
And again.
Hours became indistinguishable in a blur of exercises. Push-ups on bloody knuckles. Balance training on thin beams. Ducking swinging sandbags from ropes. Falling. Rising.
Mei Lin was merciless. But never vicious.
"You're getting used to it," she grudged one afternoon, tossing him a dripping towel. "Slower than I'd have hoped. But you're not weak anymore."
Ryan laughed, falling onto the mat. "I can hardly feel my legs. Or lungs."
"That means you're alive. "
The following days brought more agony.
Sparring without weapons became controlled fighting. Ryan learned how to fall without a neck break, how to roll from a hit, how to lock and break holds. Mei Lin worked precision into every movement.
"Strike once. Strike clean," she'd tell him. "Fighting isn't about showing off. It's about ending it before they do."
He often failed. But she never allowed him to quit.
One evening, after a particularly savage session, Ryan stumbled to a bench on the edge of the courtyard. The moonlight highlighted the sweat on his skin. He hunched forward, gasping.
"You're getting there," a voice said.
He spun around. Jane Blackwood stood behind him, wearing a midnight-black silk robe, a glass of wine in her hand.
"Watching again?" he asked, wiping his face.
"I never stopped," she replied, her voice gentler than usual.
Jane sat down beside him, her fingers caressing a bruise on his arm. "You're bleeding under that bandage."
"Can't feel it," he grumbled.
She smiled weakly. "That's either impressive or stupid."
Ryan stared at her, something inscrutable in his eyes. "Do you think… Hazel would be proud?"
Jane was silent for a moment. Then, "She'd be devastated you have to turn into this… but proud that you decided to fight."
He bowed his head. "Some days I don't know if I'm fighting for her or for me."
"Perhaps it doesn't matter," Jane said. "What matters is that you continue."
Their quiet was interrupted by the sound of footsteps—Mei Lin came over, a towel draped over her shoulder.
"He maintained his balance on the beam today. Longest yet," she told Jane.
"Improvement," Jane said with approval.
Mei Lin glanced at Ryan with a fleeting, almost unnoticeable nod. "You're beginning to move like someone who might live through what's ahead."
He gave a small smile. "High praise from you."
"Don't get accustomed to it," she answered brusquely, but the edges of her mouth curled—just a little.
As Mei Lin headed out of the room, Jane came closer to Ryan.
"She may never tell you, but she admires you. That doesn't come naturally to her."
"Why is that?" Ryan asked.
"She's watched too many folks pretend to want strength… to shatter under before they've even started. Mei Lin did not live on niceness. She lived by becoming the deadliest knife in a world that only values steel."
Ryan observed as Mei Lin went into the shadows. "She ever tell you why she remained with you?"
Jane's voice was soft. "When I rescued her, she was seventeen. Being hunted by individuals who sought to sell her skills to the highest bidder. She had talent, but no freedom. No security."
"You gave her that?"
"I provided her with a home," Jane replied. "And in exchange, she gave me loyalty. Trained, bled, and remained at my side. She's family now… in her own way."
Ryan nodded, taking it all in. "Then I'm glad you asked her to assist me."
Jane smiled, but there was an extra spark in her eyes. "Just don't forget whose genius all this was."
He chuckled lightly. "I won't. I promise."
Another week went by. The training grew more intense.
Mei Lin brought in more forms—kata sequences, blindfold maneuvers, and grappling. Ryan flubbed more often, but with each mistake, he became sharper.
On the twelfth week, he faced Mei Lin in a sparring session. No equipment. No armor. Just reflex.
They moved.
Ryan deflected a strike, dropped low, struck back. Mei Lin kicked his leg. He rolled. Kicked up. Launched a palm strike that almost brushed her collarbone.
They halted. Panting. Mei Lin cocked her head.
"Not bad," she said.
Ryan grinned. "Coming from you, that sounds like applause."
Jane stood on the veranda, arms crossed, her eyes calm—but within her, something smoldered.
Her Ryan was evolving.
Stronger. Leaner. Focused.
But not hers. Not yet.
And each time Mei Lin smirked at him, corrected him, pushed him beyond his edge—Jane felt it. A tiny pang in her chest. A treacherous feeling worming beneath her calm.
But she remained silent.
She would wait.
For soon, Ryan Ashworth would not merely be ready.
He would be hers.
And she would set the world on fire to hold him near.