The darkness of the cave seemed to breathe around them, thick and suffocating, as if it were alive. Shade's training began with dawn and stretched far past dusk, each day a relentless onslaught designed to destroy any remnants of humanity he might still hold.
His master was ruthless, more a predator than a teacher, pacing around him with cold calculation. He spoke little, yet his movements, precise and deadly, told Shade all he needed to know: here, in this hollow of shadows, he would learn what it truly meant to be a weapon.
The punishments were brutal, each one harsher than the last. Shade's body was pushed beyond the limits of endurance. He was forced to hold impossible stances until his legs quivered, his skin bruised and raw. There were days he went without food or water, his strength depleted, but Shade never broke, not once.
He was struck, whipped, and left to fend for himself in the icy darkness of the cave when he failed. Blood smeared his skin, a constant reminder of his master's resolve to harden him.
But no matter how excruciating the torment, Shade's expression remained a void. His eyes, once alive with innocence, had become twin abysses, reflecting neither pain nor suffering.
Every bruise, every cut, every shattered bone-he bore it all in silence, his face blank, his breathing steady.The master would watch him with something akin to disbelief. "You're not even human," he spat once, pressing a blade against Shade's shoulder until it cut deep, drawing blood that dripped in thick trails down his arm. "A boy should scream, should plead."
Shade met his gaze, unfazed, his voice quiet. "Pain means nothing to me," he replied, his words devoid of defiance or pride, spoken as plainly as if he were stating a fact.
This answer unsettled the master. Each act of violence he inflicted seemed only to deepen the emptiness within Shade, as if he were feeding a void rather than creating a warrior. Frustration bubbled up within him-had he gone too far? Or not far enough?
Determined, the master designed punishments with the single goal of breaking through Shade's calm exterior. Shade was forced to crawl across sharp, jagged rocks, hands and knees bleeding, the raw stone digging into his flesh.
He was submerged in ice-cold water until his skin turned blue, only allowed out when his pulse began to weaken. He was bound to poles in the frigid mountain air, left to shiver against the harsh winds, his body bruised and battered.
Yet, no matter what horrors the master devised, Shade's reaction was always the same. He rose from each torment as though he had merely woken from a dream. Blood crusted his wounds, bruises painted his skin in shades of purple and black, yet his gaze remained as hollow as ever.
Finally, one night, the master stood over him, studying the mess of injuries across Shade's body. He was panting from the exertion of yet another torturous exercise he'd inflicted, expecting some flicker of emotion. "Tell me, Shade," he hissed, "do you not feel fear, or pain? Is there anything human left within you?"
Shade's answer was a whisper, chilling in its simplicity. "There is nothing left to feel."
For a moment, the master felt a pang of fear-a sense that perhaps, in creating this creature, he had unleashed something monstrous. He had sought to mold a weapon, a blade without conscience, but Shade had surpassed even his expectations. What stared back at him was a shadow in human form, a shell bound by neither morality nor mortality.