One Month Later – The Heir's Training
The sun had barely risen when I found myself standing in the middle of the Shiba training grounds, barefoot on the cold stone floor, sweat already trickling down my back. My father stood across from me, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
The past month had been brutal. Every day, before dawn, I was woken by the servants and dragged out here for training. At first, I thought I was ready—I had always been a fighter, always known how to wield my flames. But my father had quickly taught me the difference between strength and mastery.
I was strong.
He was something else entirely.
"Again," he said, voice calm.
I clenched my fists, forcing myself to focus. My body ached from the past hour of relentless sparring, but I couldn't afford to hesitate. With a sharp inhale, I lunged forward, aiming a straight punch at his chest.
He sidestepped effortlessly.
I pivoted, spinning on my heel to strike with my other hand. He caught my wrist mid-motion, twisted, and before I could react—
CRACK.
I was on the ground. Again.
I gritted my teeth, shaking off the sting as I rolled back to my feet. My father didn't even look winded. He barely moved, barely exerted any effort, yet I couldn't even touch him.
"Sloppy," he commented. "You're attacking with emotion, not intent. Strike with purpose."
I wiped blood from my lip. Strike with purpose, huh?
Fine.
I launched forward again, but this time, I feinted at the last second, shifting my weight to aim a low kick at his legs. His foot barely moved, but somehow, my strike glanced off him like I had hit solid steel. Before I could recover, his fist struck my stomach.
A simple, clean hit.
And yet—
BOOM.
The force of the impact sent me skidding across the ground, my ribs screaming in protest. I gasped, barely catching my breath as I pushed myself up. My father watched impassively.
"Good attempt," he said, walking toward me. "But predictable."
I clenched my jaw. I knew the gap between us was vast, but knowing it didn't make it any easier to accept. He wasn't even using his full strength, and I still couldn't do anything.
I sucked in a breath. If close combat wouldn't work, then—
Flames erupted around me.
I felt the heat pulse from my core, flickering to life in my hands. This was my strength. This was what made me different. If I couldn't match him in hand-to-hand combat, then I'd overwhelm him with fire.
I dashed forward, fire swirling around my arms as I threw a flaming punch.
He didn't even move.
The moment my fist got close, my flames vanished.
I barely had time to register it before he gripped my wrist, twisted, and slammed me into the ground again.
Pain exploded through my back.
I gasped, stunned. What…?
"You rely too much on your flames," my father's voice cut through the haze of pain. "And yet, you do not truly understand them."
I stared at my empty hands, my mind racing. He didn't use any special technique—he just extinguished my flames by sheer presence alone. How the hell did he—
"I have mastered fire far beyond your level," he said simply, as if reading my thoughts. "Your flames are still unstable. They burn hot but lack control."
I gritted my teeth. I hated to admit it, but he was right. My fire was raw, untamed. It responded to my emotions, not my will. And against someone like my father, emotions weren't enough.
I forced myself to my feet, breathing hard. "Again," I muttered.
For the first time that morning, my father smiled.
The Heir's Role
I collapsed onto the ground, chest heaving. My body felt like it had been trampled by a stampede of warhorses, every muscle aching. Across from me, my father sat down gracefully, barely breaking a sweat.
He studied me for a moment before speaking. "You're improving."
I let out a dry laugh. "Doesn't feel like it."
He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "Power alone means nothing, Kai. Even the strongest flames will die if they are not properly tended."
I frowned, glancing at my hands. "You keep saying that. What does it mean?"
He exhaled. "The Shiba Clan is built on more than just strength. We are warriors, yes, but we are also protectors. A leader's power must not only destroy but also shield. Do you understand?"
I swallowed. I had spent my whole life thinking strength was everything—that if I became the strongest, I could protect what mattered. But now, sitting here, bruised and beaten, I realized strength alone wasn't enough.
My father stood. "Rest is for the weak."
I groaned. "Seriously? We just finished—"
"Get up."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to complain.
Instead, I dragged myself to my feet.
Dinner & Mother's News.
By the time training was over, the sun had set. I barely made it through the doors of the dining hall before collapsing into a seat. The long, low table was already set with dishes—roasted meats, rice, steaming bowls of soup—but I was too sore to appreciate it.
Across from me, my mother, Sakura Shiba, sat gracefully, her long dark hair pinned up with golden ornaments. She gave me a knowing look. "Hard day?"
I exhaled. "You have no idea."
Father sat at the head of the table, silently eating. My mother, however, seemed in an unusually good mood.
"So," she said, delicately picking up her cup of tea, "we have a visitor coming tomorrow."
I blinked. "A visitor?"
She smiled sweetly. "Akiko."
I froze.
Then groaned, dropping my head onto the table.
"No."
My mother chuckled, ignoring my suffering. "She's been very eager to see you."
"That's the problem," I muttered.
Akiko was… persistent. A noble girl with far too much interest in me and far too little shame about expressing it. Most noble ladies were reserved, polite, subtle. Akiko? She was none of those things. She flirted openly, touched too much, and had no issue voicing exactly what she wanted.
And what she wanted… was me.
"I just finished a month of training from hell," I grumbled. "Can't I catch a break?"
My mother giggled behind her cup. "You should be flattered."
I shot her a glare. "You enjoy my suffering, don't you?"
She only smiled.
I sighed, already dreading tomorrow.
Some fights, it seemed, couldn't be won with strength alone.