Chapter 11 : The Trailer's Secrets - Part 2
The warehouse I'd found for training was three blocks from the meatpacking plant where Monroe and I had nearly died. Different building, same industrial decay. Broken windows let in enough streetlight to see by. The concrete floor was scarred and stained, perfect for someone planning to make a mess.
I set up targets—wooden pallets propped against far walls, mannequin torsos salvaged from a closed retail store. The crossbow assembled in my hands, its mechanisms clicking into place with satisfying precision.
Then I tried to load it.
[COMBAT TRAINING: INITIATED]
[CURRENT PROFICIENCY: 12%]
The bolt slipped. Clattered to the floor. I retrieved it, tried again. This time I got it seated, but pulling back the string took longer than it should have—my shoulder, still healing from the Blutbad ambush, complained at the strain.
Forty seconds. That's how long it took me to ready a single shot.
In a fight, forty seconds was a lifetime. A Blutbad could cross fifty feet in under two seconds. By the time I'd loaded the crossbow, I'd be dead three times over.
"Start somewhere."
I aimed at the nearest target. Squeezed the trigger.
The bolt went wide by two feet, embedding itself in a support beam. The kickback rattled my injured shoulder hard enough to make my vision white out.
"Perfect."
The second shot was worse. Third was better. Fourth hit the edge of the target. By the tenth, my arms were shaking and sweat dripped down my spine despite the warehouse's chill.
[CROSSBOW PROFICIENCY: 14%]
[ACCURACY: 31% (STATIONARY TARGETS)]
[RELOAD TIME: 38 SECONDS AVERAGE]
The sword was next.
I drew it from the concealed sheath, feeling the weight settle into my grip. Daniel's body had some training—self-defense courses, basic knife work. But a short sword wasn't a knife. The balance was different. The reach was different. Everything I thought I knew was slightly wrong.
The first swing nearly took my own foot off.
The second was better. The third worse. I worked through basic forms I'd absorbed from the Bestiary's combat entries, but knowing what a technique looked like and executing it were entirely different skills.
[MELEE COMBAT ANALYSIS: ACTIVE]
[GRIP INEFFICIENT - CORRECTION SUGGESTED]
[STANCE TOO NARROW - STABILITY COMPROMISED]
[RECOMMEND: SLOWER REPETITION FOR MUSCLE MEMORY]
I adjusted my grip based on the System's feedback. Widened my stance. Started the form again, slower this time.
Cut. Recover. Block position. Reset.
Cut. Recover. Block position. Reset.
The movements became less awkward. Not smooth—nowhere close to smooth—but less likely to result in self-injury. My arms burned. My legs ached. The healing wounds across my shoulder pulled with each swing, reminding me that I wasn't fully recovered from the warehouse fight.
I kept going anyway.
Hour two. The crossbow accuracy improved to three hits out of five. The sword forms felt almost natural on the tenth repetition. My hands blistered, burst, and started bleeding.
Hour three. I wrapped the blisters in tape from my medical kit and continued. The System tracked minute improvements—angle adjustments, timing corrections, the gradual formation of new muscle memory.
[COMBAT TRAINING: PROFICIENCY 15%]
[NOTE: RATE OF IMPROVEMENT ABOVE BASELINE]
[GRIMM PHYSIOLOGY ENHANCES COMBAT LEARNING]
Small comfort. Fifteen percent proficiency wouldn't save me from Reapers who'd spent their lives learning to kill Grimms.
Hour four. A mannequin's head came off cleanly with a sword strike. Accidental—I'd been aiming for the shoulder—but the result was satisfying nonetheless.
"Progress."
By hour six, my body was screaming for rest. I sat against a concrete pillar, crossbow disassembled for cleaning, and switched to mental work.
The Bestiary entries spread across my consciousness like files in a cabinet. I could pull them up at will now—species names, behavioral patterns, known weaknesses. But the Reaper entry demanded the most attention.
Reapers traditionally operate in pairs. The senior member handles the kill; the junior observes and learns. Initiation into full membership requires personally decapitating a Grimm. Symbolic trophies (Grimm heads preserved through Hexenbiest alchemy) are displayed at Reaper gatherings.
My stomach turned. Not from the violence—I'd seen enough violence in the past week—but from the institutional nature of it. The Reapers weren't random killers. They were an organization with ranks, traditions, and training programs.
"I'm not fighting monsters. I'm fighting monster hunters."
The irony wasn't lost on me.
More entries. Reaper weapons—scythes, naturally, but also modernized versions. Curved blades designed for decapitation. Specialized hooks for restraining Grimms during the killing blow. Their armor was light, mobility-focused, designed for assassins rather than soldiers.
Over two hundred confirmed Grimm deaths in the last two centuries. Survivors are rare. Those who escape initial contact are typically hunted until elimination.
Escape wasn't an option. They'd made that clear with their phone call. Run, and they'd follow. Fight, and they'd kill everyone who'd helped me along the way.
"Then I make running impossible. Make fighting too expensive."
I closed the Bestiary entries and started planning.
The Reapers expected a young Grimm—scared, inexperienced, isolated. They'd sent their warning and assumed compliance. That assumption was my first advantage.
Twenty-eight days. Time to train, to build alliances, to acquire resources. Time to become something the Reapers hadn't planned for.
My hands throbbed. My arms trembled. Tomorrow, I'd train again—longer, harder, pushing past the limits of Daniel's borrowed body. The day after that, more of the same. Every hour spent with weapons in hand was an hour closer to survival.
[COMBAT TRAINING: SESSION COMPLETE]
[PROFICIENCY: 12% → 18%]
[ESTIMATED TIME TO BASIC COMPETENCY: 14 DAYS]
[WARNING: TIMELINE TIGHT - ACCELERATED TRAINING RECOMMENDED]
I packed up the weapons, cleaned my wounds, and headed for Daniel's apartment. Sleep was a necessity, not a luxury. The body needed recovery time for the training to stick.
Tomorrow, Adalind had finally agreed to meet. One more alliance to forge. One more piece of the puzzle to place.
The Reapers had given me a deadline.
I intended to make them regret it.
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