Amira of Ironclad Empire

The sunlight poured into my chambers, brushing against my skin but doing nothing to melt the cold weight in my chest. I stared at my reflection in the rippling water of the basin. My fiery red hair framed sharp, unyielding eyes. I had grown accustomed to this face, one that betrayed nothing, but I didn't know if it truly belonged to me. Was it a mask forged by survival, or was this who I had always been?

Alexios' voice echoed in my mind, soft and insistent: "Do you remember me?"

__________

I didn't, and yet I couldn't shake the feeling that I should. His question felt like a thread tugging at something buried deep within me. I splashed cold water on my face, hoping to drown the unease rising in my chest. But it didn't help. The shadows of my past lingered, their edges blurred and distorted, refusing to fade.

I couldn't remember why I went to Claude Davis. All I can remember were the stories he and Eleanor had crafted for me—a narrative I could neither confirm nor deny.

Remembering that day, I was clueless after waking up from a deep slumber. I felt the pain all over my body, and much more intense pain around my head as I searched for someone inside the room. I saw two unfamiliar figures. They immediately walked near me and one of the nurses was doing her rounds at that time.

Eleanor and Claude held my hand as the nurse helped me to sit. I looked at them and still can't recall who they are. And even, who I am.

"You're Katherine Davis," The lady who was around her 50s named Eleanor had said, her voice clipped and impatient. "Our daughter."

They told me I'd fallen from a balcony, suffered head trauma, and lost my memories. Claude had found me, nursed me back to health, and brought me home. Eleanor had shown me photographs of a life I was supposed to have lived—family vacations, milestones, smiling faces. None of it felt real. But the void in my mind was too terrifying to confront, so I accepted their version of events.

Claude's charm was convincing at first. His words were warm, but his eyes always carried a predatory gleam. "You're extraordinary," he told me often. Your potential is limitless."

I didn't know what he meant at the time, but I would soon find out.

Claude didn't know the full extent of what I was—how could he? He wasn't from the Ironclad Empire and had no knowledge of the divine power Adira had shielded from the world. But he believed I was special, that there was something inside me he could exploit. That belief became his obsession.

He began with experiments, locking me in a sterile room lined with cameras. He would give me impossible tasks, like creating something from nothing.

"Focus," he would command, his voice steady but cold. "You can do this."

When I failed, his patience wore thin. His mask of charm cracked, revealing the man beneath. "Do you enjoy wasting my time?" he snapped. "Try harder."

The experiments escalated. He introduced pain—small shocks at first, increasing in intensity. His logic was cruelly simple: pain would push me to the edge, and desperation might unlock whatever power he believed I had. The more I resisted, the harsher the punishments became.

I began to dread the sterile room and the sharp smell of antiseptic that always preceded the sessions. But there was no escape. Claude's determination was unrelenting.

When my aura first appeared, he became euphoric. It happened during one of the more brutal sessions. He had introduced a live subject—a man bound and terrified. "End him," Claude ordered, his voice devoid of emotion.

I shook my head, horrified. "I can't."

His hand struck my cheek, sharp and sudden. "You can," he said coldly. "You will."

The man begged for his life, his voice trembling, but Claude's cold gaze bore into me. He continued to persuade me that these people don't deserve to live as they are branded as the facility's test subjects. Fear, rage, and desperation boiled over inside me. I didn't know how it happened, but my power surged—a golden lightning-like energy crackling around me. The man fell lifeless to the floor.

I collapsed beside him, trembling and horrified. Claude knelt next to me, his expression triumphant. "Fascinating," he murmured. "This is only the beginning."

After that, his methods grew harsher. He hired skilled opponents—mercenaries, soldiers, even assassins—and forced me to fight them. The sessions were grueling. They didn't hold back, and neither could I. Bruises, broken bones, and exhaustion became my constant companions.

"Get up," Claude barked whenever I faltered, his voice a whip cracking through my pain. "Again."

I adapted. My body grew stronger, my reflexes sharper. He had me trained in every combat discipline imaginable—jujitsu, Muay Thai, krav maga. Each new skill became a survival mechanism. I didn't fight to win; I fought to endure.

But it wasn't enough for Claude. He wanted to see more of my power. He pushed me to my limits, creating scenarios designed to provoke my anger. Pain was his favorite tool. He would isolate me, starve me, deprive me of sleep—anything to force a reaction.

One day, the breaking point came. He introduced three opponents at once, all skilled fighters, all determined to beat me into submission as Claude will reward them not just with money, but with my body as their trophy. The room blurred with movement, my muscles screaming with every strike I dodged or blocked. I could feel my strength waning, the edges of my vision darkening.

And then, my aura surged.

Golden lightning crackled around me, wild and uncontrollable. The room lit up with its brilliance, and the three fighters were thrown back, crashing into the walls with bone-crushing force. The silence that followed was deafening.

Claude's laughter filled the room, cold and triumphant. "There it is," he said, his eyes gleaming with greed. "You're finally starting to understand."

I became his weapon after that. He used me to crush his enemies, to intimidate his rivals, to expand his empire. My position as Assistant Vice President was nothing more than a façade. I was his enforcer, his insurance policy. My emotions dulled, replaced by a numb efficiency. It was easier that way.

But there was one memory—blurry and distorted—that refused to leave me.

I remembered bursting out of Claude's office, my cheek stinging from his slap. His words echoed in my mind: "You're nothing without me." I stormed through the streets, my vision blurred with unshed tears.

But then, the memory shifted.

In my mind, I didn't stop. I didn't encounter anyone. Instead, I got into my car and drove. My hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as I sped away from the city, my anger boiling over. I drove aimlessly, the road stretching endlessly ahead of me.

Somehow, I ended up on a remote island. I wandered the rocky shore, the salty breeze stinging my face. My aura crackled around me, golden and erratic, but there was no one to witness it. No one to stop me.

The memory didn't make sense. It felt real, but it didn't explain anything. Why had I run? What had I been running from? And why did it feel like something—or someone—was missing?

I didn't remember how I died in Korea. That part of my life was a void, as though the memories had been plucked from my mind. I tried to piece it together, but the edges of my thoughts blurred, resisting my efforts.

It felt like something had been taken from me, something important. But what? And why?

__________

Today as I lived as Amira, the Ironclad Empire had given me a new life, but the shadows of my past refused to stay buried. They lingered at the edges of my mind, twisting and distorting, leaving me to wonder what was real and what was fabricated.

"Captain!" Cedric's voice rang out as I stepped onto the training field. "Looking radiant as ever. Did you finally take a vacation, or is that just your natural glow?"

The younger knights snickered, and I rolled my eyes. "Do you want to test that theory, Cedric?" I asked, my voice sharp.

Cedric raised his hands in mock surrender. "No need, Captain. I like my limbs intact."

The drills began, and I channeled my frustration into the training. Today, it was Krav Maga. I demonstrated a disarm against a knife attack, the move swift and brutal. The knights exchanged surprised glances.

"Captain, what is this… Krav Maga?" Gareth asked, his brow furrowed. "Where did it come from? I've never seen such techniques before even on the nearby Empires."

I hesitated, a familiar tightness in my chest. How could I explain a fighting style born in another world, a world I couldn't even remember clearly?

"It's a... specialized form of combat," I said slowly, choosing my words carefully. "Passed down through my grandmother's friends. Focus on the techniques, not the origins."

They seemed to accept that, though I saw curiosity lingering in their eyes. I continued the demonstration, showing them a counter against a chokehold. Cedric let out an exaggerated gasp when his partner, a burly knight named Gregor, inadvertently tightened his grip.

"Captain," he wheezed, "are you trying to kill us?"

"Just you," I replied dryly, a faint smile tugging at my lips. The others burst into laughter, and for a moment, the shadows of my past receded.

As the yard emptied, I lingered, my thoughts drifting back to that hazy memory. The long drive, the empty shore, the feeling of something missing. And then, there was the name Alexios had called me – Amira. It wasn't just a name; it was a whisper of a life I couldn't quite grasp.

Closing my eyes, I exhaled slowly. The shadows of my past still loomed, but here, in the Ironclad Empire, I had found a foothold. For now, that would have to be enough.