Margarett Londy Yapharec stood in the underground training hall, a long-forgotten place beneath her castle. The cracked stone walls were covered in moss, and the air was heavy with the scent of dust and the remnants of history. She knew that if she wanted revenge, her weakness had to become her strength. There was no other choice.
Her frail body moved stiffly at first. Every limitation weighed on her—her trembling knees, her breath that ran short too quickly, her hands that shook even as she gripped a bow. But her resolve was stronger than the bones that threatened to betray her.
The first step in her training was *kyudo*, the art of archery that demanded focus and tranquility. She spent days trying to pull the bowstring, aiming at the target, only to fail over and over. Her fingers blistered, her back ached as if it would snap, yet she pressed on. When she finally struck the target, even just once, she did not smile. She knew this was only the beginning.
Next, she moved on to *sambo*, a martial art from distant lands. Its movements were fast and explosive, but her body couldn't keep up. Every throw she attempted ended with her crashing onto the cold ground, gasping for air. Yet, no matter how many times she fell, she got back up. *"I don't care how much this hurts,"* she murmured, her voice hoarse. *"I won't stop."*
She then attempted *jiu-jitsu*, a style that relied on technique rather than strength. Here, she learned that despite her fragile body, she could still adapt. She began to understand how to use gravity and angles to her advantage. But despite grasping the theory, reality was cruel—her physical limitations remained painfully clear.
Even though she absorbed knowledge at an alarming rate—like a sponge soaking up every bit of information—her body refused to cooperate. Every movement brought pain. Every attempt left behind bruises. But inside her, the fire of vengeance burned brighter than any wound could extinguish.
At the end of the grueling day, Margarett returned to her magic chamber. Her body was drenched in sweat and covered in wounds, but her mind remained sharp. She knew that martial arts alone wouldn't be enough. She needed magic. Her body might be weak, but her mind—her mind was still her greatest weapon.
Standing before a small flickering candle, she practiced basic spells—creating sparks, moving small objects, lighting a candle without touching it. Yet even these simple tasks left her frustrated. The candle refused to light, the objects remained still.
*"Not strong enough,"* she muttered under her breath. *"But I won't give up."*
Margarett glanced at the small mirror in the corner of the room. Her reflection was one of exhaustion, of struggle. But in her eyes, there was something new. A certainty that no matter how slow her progress was, she would find a way. And when the time came, the world would see the true Margarett Londy Yapharec.
Days passed, each one sacrificed for training. But her body remained her greatest enemy. Every morning, she woke up with pain stabbing through her muscles—her thighs swollen, her arms stiff, even breathing felt like a battle. Yet, none of it compared to the humiliation that haunted her thoughts.
It was late at night when Margarett returned to the training hall. Weapons lay scattered across the floor, proof of her relentless efforts. She picked up a wooden sword—no heavier than a stick—and tried to swing it. Even that sent pain shooting up her wrist. The sword slipped from her grasp, clattering to the ground as she stumbled back, collapsing onto the cold floor.
*"I… I can't..."* she whispered, lips trembling. Tears welled in her eyes, but she wiped them away quickly, refusing to let weakness consume her.
Slowly, Margarett pushed herself up. She knew she couldn't rely on physical strength alone. So, she returned to the magic chamber—the only place in the castle that felt remotely like home. A simple magic book lay open on the table. Unlike the forbidden tome she had used before, this one was meant for beginners, filled with spells designed for everyday tasks. But even the smallest step had to start somewhere.
*"Alright,"* she murmured, voice quiet but steady. She flipped to the first page, studying the instructions carefully. She chose a simple spell—lighting a candle. With trembling fingers, she focused her mind on the image of a tiny flame. The wick remained untouched.
*"One more time,"* she told herself, though it sounded more like a command. Taking a deep breath, she tried again. This time, the faintest spark flickered at the candle's tip—barely visible, but real. And for the first time, Margarett felt a small, fragile sense of triumph.
She spent the rest of the night practicing. Moving a pen across the table, stopping a falling cup before it hit the ground. Her progress was slow, riddled with failure, but she found a strange comfort in the process. For the first time in her life, she felt a sliver of control over the world around her.
But deep in her mind, she knew that small victories wouldn't be enough to face the hero. She needed something stronger. Something greater.
For now, though, Margarett accepted this tiny win.
As dawn broke, she gazed out of the chamber window, watching as the sky turned gold with the rising sun. *"I'm nowhere near ready,"* she whispered. *"But I won't stop. Not now. Not ever."*
With that, she closed her book and allowed herself a few hours of rest—only to wake and continue her relentless pursuit of strength.