The courtyard of the large house, Shadowood.
The supervisor stepped out of the main door, holding his personal bat—a worn-out old baseball bat covered in dust and scratches, stained with thick dried blood. Anyone seeing it for the first time might think it was painted a dark red. The cracked wooden surface glimmered faintly under the soft light of the torches, giving off a foul metallic scent mixed with moisture.
He advanced deliberately, his heavy steps crushing the ground beneath his worn shoes, his eyes fixed on Lyria with a greedy, glinting gaze like that of a hungry wolf. Her expression didn't change; she stood firm as a rock, breathing deeply and calmly, with her hands behind her back. This was not the first time she had been beaten—anyone looking closely at her fragile body would notice old wounds mixed with new bruises, scars forming a map of pain on her pale skin.
"Where is my money?" the supervisor asked slowly, his voice rough as gravel. Lyria didn't have time to answer before he raised the bat and struck her forcefully in the stomach.
Crack!
Even with all her preparation, Lyria couldn't fully withstand the blow; her knees slipped to the ground as she clutched her stomach with slightly trembling hands, some threads of saliva dangling from her cracked lips from the pain spreading through her body like fire. Yet she didn't scream or cry—she remained standing, her blue eyes fixed on him in silent defiance, a spark of anger growing more and more inside her.
His twisted smile widened, his gray eyes shining with perverse delight.
"You really are the best punching bag ever, Lyria."
He continued hitting her everywhere—the shoulder, arm, leg—each blow adding new wounds to the old, and the bat grew redder with every drop of blood.
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Through the narrow windows of the house, the other children watched Lyria with eyes full of pity and helplessness, completely different from their nervous glances in the courtyard. The oldest—a thin twelve-year-old boy—sighed and muttered quietly:
"Hah… how long are we going to watch? Look, the food is getting cold."
He then turned to go inside, ignoring the scene. The other children quickly followed, leaving only two behind: a six-year-old boy with messy dark brown hair, wide eyes full of shock, trembling slightly but carrying a clear inner defiance, his hands clenched tightly; and a seven-year-old girl with short dark hair, wide eyes reflecting deep worry while trying to appear brave with a straight back.
The boy said, staring at Lyria enduring the blows:
"Damn… why does Sister Lyria have to take the beating again today? Didn't we agree it's not her turn?"
The girl sighed as she watched Lyria with worried eyes and replied:
"Hah… you know her personality. There's no way she would ever stick to the promise."
Crack!
Another strike hit Lyria, stronger than before, but she remained steadfast. Her leg muscles were tense like wire, her blue eyes never leaving the supervisor, and inside her, a spark of anger blazed ever more fiercely.
The boy tried to speak, reaching his hand toward the window:
"T-this is enough, I-I'm—"
But the girl quickly pulled him back, her strong grip tugging his arm:
"Enough. Stop thinking such foolish thoughts! The food will get cold," she said sharply, her eyes gleaming with warning.
He looked at her for a moment, then withdrew under her stern gaze, slowly pulling his feet away.
After a few minutes, when the sounds of the beating finally subsided, the supervisor whispered with strange delight as he wiped sweat from his brow:
"Ah… what a wonderful feeling. Thank you, Lyria."
"Hah… just wait. Soon, you won't find any bags to vent your anger on. Believe me… hah," Lyria replied in a low but sharp voice, her eyes glowing with suppressed hatred.
She then left the courtyard slowly, her steps heavy but her head held high. She didn't enter the house—her place wasn't there. Cold winds blew around her, carrying the whispers of the distant forest.