Three years ago
The training hall was bigger than she'd imagined. Smooth concrete floors stretched beneath a grid of lights embedded into the ceiling, casting a clean, cold glow. The space smelled faintly of antiseptic, metal, and the faint burn of synthetic incense—Mei's strange touch to tradition.
Liang Yue stood at the center, six years old and shaking slightly, dressed in her first training gear: dark stretch-fabric pants, a moisture-absorbing shirt, and soft-soled boots. Her twin brother, Jin, sat cross-legged near the edge of the mat, legs swinging restlessly.
Across from her, Liang Zhen—their elder brother and a decorated military general—watched her with arms folded. His voice was calm but carried the sharp weight of command.
"Begin."
Yue lifted the wooden staff in her hands. It was taller than she was and slightly too heavy, but she didn't complain. That wasn't allowed.
She lunged forward with a swing—too wide, too slow. The staff clattered against the padded post with a weak thud.
"Reset your stance," Zhen said without emotion. "Back straight. Feet grounded. Don't swing like it's a stick. Swing like it's part of you."
She adjusted, blinking sweat from her eyes. Her heart thundered.
The second strike was better. Still wrong.
Her knees ached from the strain, arms shaking with each repetition. Drones hovered silently overhead, recording her movements. Beside the platform, Mei stood with a tablet in hand, analyzing her form in real time.
Yue's legs trembled. Her lungs burned. The staff slipped from her hands once, drawing no comment from Zhen—but the silence stung more than words.
Still, she kept going.
Her mother's voice echoed in her memory, from the night before.
"You are not less just because you are young. You are more, because you are chosen."
Chosen.
She swallowed the pain. Lifted the staff again.
This time, the swing struck clean. A solid, satisfying sound.
Zhen raised an eyebrow. Just slightly. "Again."
---
Later, Yue sat on a bench outside, breathing hard. Her uniform clung to her skin. Her fingers were blistered, and a dull throb pulsed in her temple.
Jin dropped beside her with a grin. "You survived! Did he make you fight a tiger?"
"Just a wooden post," Yue replied with a faint smile.
"I had to chase a drone on my first day," he whispered dramatically. "I fell into the koi pond."
Yue laughed softly, the tension easing from her shoulders.
Their parents stood nearby. Father tall and silent, arms crossed. Mother beside him, reviewing data on her wrist display.
"They'll always watch us," Jin said, leaning closer. "Not because they think we'll fail. But because they want to see us win."
Yue nodded slowly. Her gaze turned back to the training hall. Her staff still lay where she left it. That last strike replayed in her mind.
It hadn't been perfect.
But it had been clean.
"I'll do better tomorrow," she whispered.
---
Over the months, the routine became rhythm. Morning drills at dawn. Tactical simulations with Fei. Physical enhancement trials monitored by Mei. Meditation with their mother under the energy dome. Weapon forms, stealth routes, sparring matches. Every day a test, and every test a step.
Yue's body hardened. Her resolve sharpened.
She learned to predict drone paths, to hear the shift in someone's stance before they struck, to mask her energy with a calm so still it unsettled even Zhen.
By the time she turned seven, Liang Yue was no longer just the youngest daughter.
She was a shadow in training.
A spark, waiting for ignition.