Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby

Chapter 256: Victor Writes the Rules after the Battle

Chapter 256: Victor Writes the Rules after the Battle

Eleanor forced her trembling legs to obey, pushing herself upright. Every muscle screamed in protest, a symphony of agony conducted by Annabeth Chase. She staggered towards the table, the scent of roasted meat and herbs almost painful in its temptation against the frozen air. She lowered herself into the chair with a barely suppressed groan.

Annabeth said nothing at first. She carved two generous slices from the roast cow and laid them neatly onto plates. With a soft pop, she uncorked a bottle of wine, filled two glasses with the dark, ruby liquid, and slid one across the table towards Eleanor. Against the pale wood, the wine gleamed like blood.

"Eat," Annabeth commanded... not unkindly, but with the same inexorable authority as her strikes. "Your body is broken. It requires fuel to mend itself."

Eleanor did not hesitate. She gripped the knife and fork, her raw hands aching at the pressure, and cut into the meat. The first bite was revelation. It was not merely food, but life itself flooding into her battered frame. She ate with desperate focus, as only those who have been driven to the edge of endurance can eat.

The coliseum was quiet but for the scrape of cutlery and Eleanor’s steady chewing. Minutes passed in silence before Annabeth finally took a measured sip of wine and spoke.

"You could barely defend yourself by the end," she said flatly. "At least you stopped flying across the floor. That is the first step. Still, you are thinking like a cadet in a sparring ring. You treat this as an examination of defensive forms... as if I were grading how well you absorb my blows."

Eleanor paused mid-chew, her eyes fixed on Annabeth.

"But the real world is not a test," Annabeth went on. "It is a hunt. And in a hunt, there are only two roles... hunter and prey. Your aim should never be to defend yourself adequately. Your aim must be to win... to walk away alive while your opponent does not. You may choose to spare them once victory is yours, but do not delude yourself. If the roles were reversed, they would not spare you."

She leaned forward slightly, the wooden chair creaking under the shift of her weight. "Your determination is a flickering candle when it must be a raging fire. You are resolved to survive this training... but I need you to be resolved to defeat me."

swallowed hard, confusion etched across her bruised face. "But... you’re only using ten percent of your strength. You’re far beyond

the only reason you are still breathing. I was not striking with the intent to kill. But if you continue to see me as an instructor, you will always hold back. You will imagine boundaries that do not exist. In battle, there are no boundaries. No rules. No restraints. Your opponent will

I kick marble shards into her eyes? Can I drive her against the

She had been so intent on enduring, on proving she could weather

a means to an end... to pass a class, to please the Empress, to become stronger. That is too abstract. Training is not preparation. Training is transformation. It is the act of carving a new version of yourself out of the weak stone of the old. Every block, every dodge, every scream of pain is a chisel strike. You do not merely pass through training...

knife toward Eleanor’s bruised forearms. "In the past hours you learned how to block my punch. You noticed I was repeating the same motion. I let your instincts kick in. But I am not a machine throwing identical attacks. From now on I will

hunger evaporated in the

is the instinct of a student. The instinct of a warrior is to use the fall... to

then continued. "You cling to rules for a fight that does not exist in the real world. In

possess. Use the snow. Use the walls. Use your pain. Use every dirty trick you can conceive. Your only objective is to force me to use more than ten per cent of my power to stop you. That will be the

***

path carved between snowbound peaks, the trail whitened with frost and treacherous ice. Each step demanded care; a single slip would send

in the distance, Eleanor glimpsed the dark silhouette of the

of one-sided beating under Annabeth’s might. If the lightning had been torment,

Her bloodline abilities no longer felt like foreign powers to be summoned; they had bled seamlessly into her fighting style. They rose with her breath, pulsed with

bloodline lay dormant. Tactical Foresight and Killing Precision no longer waited to be called upon... they whispered silently at every opening, every flaw. Predator’s Awareness awoke unbidden whenever danger stirred, and, surprisingly, her Mental Lock latched

Voltaic power, the lightning woven into every blow until her speed and strength became something beyond human. Her Storm Heart revealed itself in battle... her