“Again.”

Yunho grunts as he is thrown to the ground once more – how many times has it been now? – his back aching as it crashes into solid earth. He coughs, all of the air rushing from his lungs, and for a moment the only thing he sees are splatters of color spotting his vision beyond the clouds in the sky. A sharp pain electrifies the back of his head, and his temples pulsate violently. He smothers a groan, and the creaking of his spine as he struggles to come to a stand does not help him feel any less damaged.

“I suggest you rise faster,” Matsumoto drones from across the field, his lean body still knelt in an offensive position. “Your opponents will not wait for you to find your bearings, Inko-sama.”

Steadying himself, Yunho spits out a wad of thick blood, shaking his head clear of dizziness. He does not stumble as he holds up his wooden sword (he cannot afford to show such weakness, not after all he has been taught), though his body does sway as his eyes swim with an unsettling, cloudy haze. The ache in his skull does not wane even as he forces himself to focus on Matsumoto’s blurred figure in the distance, but he ignores it. Just as he ignores the trickle of blood which drips from his hairline, nearly blinding him. Just as he ignores the quivering of his bruised knees, the splinters piercing his palms –

The smirk of Gakuto, from the sidelines, as he watches him through those haunting blue eyes.

Yes, Yunho has grown quite adept at disregarding such things (of which have grown trivial in the years he has spent within the Tora no Shiro beneath his elder brother’s thumb). No longer does the pain of gruesome training break him until he is nothing but a boy crying for it to end. No longer does the apathy in the eyes of those around him – cold, distant masks of sheer indifference that would rather watch him turn to ash than dare douse the flames which burn him – cause his heart to lament in loneliness. And no longer does his brother’s twisted fascination with his suffering keep him awake at night, praying to the gods for them to return to him the family he once had. The family they had taken.

The family he has no choice but to find within Gakuto.

For no matter how sadistic, no matter how cruel and unjust, Gakuto is still his brother. They share the same father. The same blood. And while the man rather prefers to see that blood spilled by his own hand, from Yunho’s own body, he still struggles to see his captor as anything less than his kin.

His mother had always placed high value in such a concept. Family, that is. Though it is an admittedly delusional notion, to stand so firmly by the thought that blood is thicker than water. That family is family regardless of circumstances. She told him as much when she brought Jihye into the world one spring’s eve. Months prior, the proud and beautiful Jung Yoomi had been bedded by a merchant willing to pay a hefty sum for her services. And despite her pride, despite her dignity, she was a mother who would do anything for her son. For his survival.

From that night, Jihye was conceived. And although they did not share a father, although she was the spawn of an act of sheer greed and lust, although she was a bastard child without a true surname (as he had once been)...

“She is your sister, Yunho-yah,” his mother told him forcefully as Jihye’s newborn wails filled their home. “She is and will always be your family.”

The thought of his precious Jihye always makes Yunho bite his lip with worry. He hopes she had survived that horrible night their mother was taken. He hopes someone had heard her cries and had welcomed her under their protection. Yunho’s old home had been deep within the woods of their village, but surely someone had heard his sister’s shrieks. Surely someone had saved her from that hut drenched in blood and stained memories. Maybe one day he can return to his birth lands and find her. See for himself how she has grown after all these years.

He hopes for a lot of things. For the impossible, really. But Yunho has always been one to think on the positive side. Even if nothing in his life reflects as much.

“You are distracted,” are the only words which give Yunho warning for Matsumoto’s oncoming attack. The soldier’s sword (real, unlike his, and ready to maim at any moment) swishes over his head as Yunho ducks low to his haunches. He parries the next blow aimed for his neck, just as quick and unrelenting as the one before it, and curses when he feels his own sword crack loudly from the pressure.

Sparring sessions with Matsumoto always begin at the dawn of each morning, only ending when the man deems the time right. It has been so ever since Yunho was brought to the Tora no Shiro, but not even years of seemingly endless drills and training was enough for Yunho to grow fully accustomed to it. He accepts it, yes. But even his body, toughened by so many days spent fighting, grows fatigued after a certain point.

By now, the sun is high in the sky, blaring down on his skin in all of its bright fury. Yunho pants as if he has never breathed before, still in position even as Matsumoto backs away to assess him. He must look a sight: red in the face, hair and robes a mess, sword broken in half, and gasping desperately for air. It must be why Matsumoto finally decides to sheath his weapon and bow in a symbol of a match completed. And a match well done (or as well as it could have been) if he heeded Gakuto’s hardy laugh in the distance.

Yunho falls to his knees and nearly vomits. He feels terrible. He hardly even has the strength to lift his head and watch as his brother saunters onto the field, one hand carrying a chalice of some disgusting alcoholic poison while the other claps Matsumoto on his shoulder.

“Good show, my friend!” Gakuto cheers drunkenly. “A shame there was not a single broken bone this time.” He laughs, loud and shrill, and the other soldiers flanking him (members of the Ryuu no Kishi, his personal guard) join in as if he had truly spoken a humorous joke. Matsumoto, ever the silent man, simply nods as he eyes Yunho with something akin to concern. Though that could just be Yunho’s battered mind playing tricks on him; he really does not feel well.

Wandering over to him, Matsumoto sighs. “Next time,” he begins in a strict voice, “do not simply defend. Attack as if your life depends on it. You are more powerful than you think, Inko-sama. Do not withhold your strength. Understand?”

Yunho fears that if he nods, he will lose