Time passed, and the once quiet mountain peak was now filled with the low groans and ragged breathing of exhausted students. The wind did not stop blowing, but now it carried with it the scent of blood and sweat, the raw aftermath of a brutal lesson. The rocky ground that had once been clean and untouched was now marked by shallow cuts, footprints, and streaks of red.
At this moment, every student who had moved to attack Instructor Jane lay sprawled across the mountain floor, injuries marring their bodies, their limbs trembling or limp. Some clutched their arms, others their ribs or legs, each of them incapacitated in one way or another.
But despite the blood, despite the pain, not one of them bore a life-threatening wound. They were injured, yes, but bleeding to death? No. Jane had made sure of that. Every strike she delivered was controlled, precise, calculated to push them to the brink without crossing it.
