They call me the Princess of White Spear.
It sounds like something important. Something powerful.
It isn't.
It's just a name they gave me after training.
Training started long before I understood what was happening. At the time, I thought it was normal. The early mornings, the endless repetition, the constant pressure to improve.
"Again," they would say.
That word never stopped following me.
I remember the first time I held the spear. It felt heavier than I expected, cold and unbalanced in my hands. I couldn't keep it steady. My grip kept slipping, and every movement felt awkward.
They watched.
They didn't help.
They just let me struggle.
"Again."
So I tried again.
And again.
And again.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. My hands stopped shaking eventually. My movements became sharper, more controlled. I started to understand how to move with it instead of against it.
But it still wasn't enough.
It was never enough.
The first time I hit the target perfectly, I thought something would change. I thought they would finally say something different.
They didn't.
No reaction. No praise.
Just a simple nod.
"Again."
That's when I realised something important.
It didn't matter how good I became.
There was always something more they wanted.
Something better.
Something closer to perfection.
And perfection…
is something you never actually reach.