It had been two hours since I found myself trapped here. I sat on the cold floor, gently resting my head against the door—at first out of frustration, then in quiet surrender. The silence grew heavier. If he truly were my master, shouldn't he be teaching me something—anything—worth learning? Locking me away like this felt pointless.
After letting my thoughts drift aimlessly, it struck me: I was only eleven. Perhaps he assumed that, like most children, I feared the dark. So he confined me here to test that fear. That man—he thinks too much.
Hunger gnawed at my stomach. I tried to distract myself with hope. There must be a window… I searched the room with desperate eyes. And yes—there it was. But it was far too high. My small hands could never reach it.
Suddenly, a noise broke the stillness. A loud bang. The door creaked open. Chao Xing stood there.
"Get ready for dinner," he said, stepping into the room and lighting a few candles.
I flinched. On the table behind me, I noticed a box of matches. I hadn't seen it before. The sight made me feel small, useless. He smiled at me with that same unreadable expression—calm, almost casual, but with an undercurrent of something dangerous. It felt like he was preparing for war.
I stepped out of the room. So did he. Since I was new here, I followed quietly, trying to match his long strides with my smaller ones.
"You don't seem suitable to be my disciple," he said, a mocking edge in his voice.
I wanted to say, Neither do I wish to be one. But fear held my tongue.
"Yes," I replied softly.
He stopped and tilted his head slightly, those dark eyes locking onto mine. I froze under his gaze—it was like falling into a shadow you couldn't escape.
"You," I said, trembling. "What is your age?"
Why did I ask that? I was supposed to act bold, unshaken. But instead, I blurted out a question that made no sense in the moment.
"Sixteen" He answered like he is going to feed me to hungry wolves captured in his basement
I was done for—completely and utterly.
We stepped into a dining hall where dishes were already served. To my surprise, the food resembled what I used to eat with my parents. A flicker of warmth touched my chest. I sat down and quietly began eating, chewing each bite with care, until I noticed I was alone. Perhaps they dined elsewhere. Regardless, I continued with my meal in silence.
The next day, I found myself alone on the training ground, standing in front of Chao Xing . For what reason, I didn't know—but it felt like judgment.
"If you can't do anything right…" His voice dropped, harsh and deep.
"I'll kill you."
Fear surged through me, but I gripped the wooden sword in my right hand and tried my best to follow every instruction he barked. I failed. Miserably.
As punishment, he struck my hands with a stick—fifteen times on each. When he was done, he dismissed me like discarded dust. I ran, tears threatening to fall, and locked myself in my room. I threw myself onto the bed and wept.
"I hate him. I don't want to be here, Mother…"
My cries weren't loud, but they weren't silent either.
I heard footsteps near the door. I wiped my tears quickly, hoping—foolishly. I opened the door. No one. Just the air, empty and cold. I closed it and lay down again, forcing myself to sleep.
Morning came, and once more, I stood on the training ground. Sleep clung to my body like chains—I kept falling, standing up again, only to fall once more. This loop continued until evening.
Then came the stick. Again. But this time—thirty strikes on each hand. I wanted to glare at him in anger, to show I was not weak, but when I looked up, his gaze was already on me. It wasn't rage that I saw—it was disappointment.
I lowered my eyes. The fight within me faded. I turned and walked away, back to my room. Closed the door. Prepared for sleep.
Days turned into nights. Nights into days.
I was trapped in a loop—unending, unbearable. A burden that clung to my heart. I began to believe there was no escape.
Three years passed. This year, I will turn fifteen. Xiaoxing will be nineteen.
Uncle Igo is often too busy with his work. I barely see him now. I remember Xiaoxing's eighteenth birthday—Uncle didn't come home. Chao Xing's fury was like a bull seeing red. And when he's angry, he takes it out on me. I've become his punching bag, his outlet.
So I try to keep him happy—because when he's happy, I am safe. It's a strange sort of balance. A win-win, I guess.
Now, after so long in his shadow, I've become something like him. I speak like him, act like him—though not as sharply, not as powerfully—but close enough. Almost identical. I've turned into another Chao Xing
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