The children were gathered in a circular room, with the light of the southern sun streaming in. We must have been released from our dark rooms at different times, because some of the kids were staring at their surroundings in wonder, as though they were seeing them for the first time.
“It is now time for your endurance training. Pick up your wooden knives,” a robed man commanded in a low voice. At his feet was a box containing more wooden knives than there were children.
We were probably being trained to be assassins or something similar. I waited for the throng of kids to disperse a bit before going to fetch my own knife. As I did, my eyes met those of the man in the robe.
“Don’t dawdle,” he said. I recognized his voice. I was sure he was the surly man who had escorted me to the ritual.
I nodded and went back to join the other children.
“Line up. Then we will start practice.”
I copied those who had clearly done this before and stood on an empty space. The man then showed us how to swing the knife.
“You must either keep your left hand behind you or placed on your chest. Otherwise, it will get in the way. This is your basic stance when using a knife. Use an overhand grip with your right hand and keep your elbow bent so that you’re ready to strike at any time. Whether you are swinging or stabbing, start and end with this stance.”
Taking on that stance with perfect form, the man demonstrated stabbing, downward slashing, deflecting, and attacking from several different angles.
“Start with the basic stab.”
“Yes, sir!”
I was as obedient as the rest, and so I began to stab at the empty space in front of me. A search through the memories of my previous life came up with nothing for this kind of thing—I’d probably only ever held a kitchen knife. Thus, I continued to practice, trying to keep in mind the man’s example strikes. I worked on keeping my arm as straight as possible when I stabbed.
My breath came out in a steady rhythm. There was a real flow to my movements, even though I was only pushing my arm forward. It must have been because of the lightness I felt in my body. Having a tail meant that my sense of balance differed from what I was used to from my previous life. When I started taking its movement into account, the stabbing got easier. But it also meant that I was moving too precisely, which affected my speed.
The wooden knives were light and perfectly sized for our hands. However, that meant there wasn’t much power behind our strikes. Nevertheless, practicing over and over gradually led to exhaustion.
I heard an “Oh!” as the boy next to me dropped his weapon. It had flown out of his hand as he stabbed at the air, cutting through the sand on the ground, sending up a cloud of dust.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I dropped it, that’s all—”
The man kicked the boy before he could finish his excuse, sending him sprawling. “Pick it up.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy managed to grunt, his body caked in sand. He did as he was told.
“Take your stance.”
“Yes, sir.” He readied the knife. There were tears in his eyes.
“You are holding it too tightly. That makes you tire very quickly. When you hold it, keep your focus only on your ring and little fingers. You only need to tighten your grip when you stab or slash.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy responded. There was a hint of confusion to his tone. Evidently, he had been expecting a scolding.
“Show me.”
“Like this?”
“Be more precise with how much strength goes into your grip.”
“Yes, sir!”
The boy practiced his stabs over and over, adjusting each attempt in accordance with the man’s instructions. The excess tension in his grip was soon gone, the light returning to his eyes when he realized he had improved.
“Do not drop your knife. Not even if you die.”
“Yes, sir!”
Whatever the reason, it seemed that dropping our weapons was a surefire way to incur the man’s wrath. The man nodded at the boy’s response before moving on. I incorporated what I had overheard from his instruction and found that I was able to use my knife more effectively with a slightly looser grip.
I continued to practice wholeheartedly. Soon I heard the man’s footsteps stop behind me.
What does he want?
Stab, exhale, stab, exhale. The man remained silent. Normally, I would pause and ask him outright what he needed or at least glance at him to glean what I could. Unfortunately, this was no ordinary environment. I was certain he would strike me and send me flying if I stopped. Should he punch this fragile body of mine at full strength, a few fractures would be the least of my worries.
Stab, exhale, stab, exhale. As frightened as I was on the inside, I continued my training. Eventually, the footsteps retreated.
A few seconds later, I saw a child tumbling to the floor in my peripheral vision. This world was twisted. I had been considering investigating what was outside this place, but I realized that I would likely be killed on the spot if I tried to leave without permission.
We were made to practice for a long, long time. Once our endurance training was finally over, we put our knives back in the box.
“You there. The snakeborn with the dark hair.”
I didn’t know who he meant at first, but he was clearly looking in my direction. He must have been referring to me.
“Yes, sir?” I stammered.
Snakeborn. Presumably a race of people with serpentine features. There were other children here with scales on their faces and arms and others with tails. However, I was the only one with a snake tail and black woven through my hair. The man rummaged through the chest area of his robe, and I heard the clink of metal.
“Hold out your hands.”
I paused. “Yes, sir.”
I cupped my hands in front of me, and he dropped a coin into my palms. “Give that to Sister at dinner. You will get meat.”
A reward. I placed it in my pocket. I could hear whispers around me, about it being “him today.” These coins were given out daily, it seemed. I put my hand in my pocket and felt its surface. There was something carved into it—numbers maybe, denoting its value or perhaps a series of complex characters. I had a thought that the man might have made it himself, and I imagined him engraving the word “meat” into it. I had to suppress my laughter.
“Next, you will be having essence training in the meditation room.”
The man’s work seemed to be over, because with those words, he left the grounds.
I didn’t know what “essence training” was, but it elicited delight from the children around me.
An older boy appeared behind us. “I will now lead you to the meditation room.”
He seemed to be fourteen, perhaps fifteen years old. I was only five or so, so he looked huge to me. He wasn’t human either, but something like a deer. He had antlers, though what was more conspicuous were his arms. Or lack thereof. Where his right one should’ve been, there was nothing. Perhaps he was now working odd jobs here, since he was no longer able to fight.
As we followed him, another group of boys passed by, who looked to be a couple of years older than us. They were heading in the opposite direction, toward the training grounds we had just left. The teenager’s eyes seemed to follow them for just a moment before he collected himself and faced forward again.
There was something wistful about that gaze.