The Anomaly's Path

”What is your purpose for wielding a sword?”

I stared at him. My mind went blank.

Purpose?

Theron’s aura pressed down harder on me. My knees wanted to buckle.

”What is your purpose? What’s driving you to use a sword?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

...I don’t know.

The question hung in the air between us, heavy and waiting.

Purpose.

The word echoed in my head, bouncing around, demanding an answer I didn’t have.

Why did I want to wield a sword?

I thought about Earth. About my old life. About the guy who spent years running from everything—expectations, responsibilities, people who cared about him. The guy who let his parents’ texts go unanswered, who hid in a small apartment, who told himself it was easier to not try than to try and fail.

That guy didn’t have a purpose. He had... excuses.

I thought about the alley. About the girl with hope in her eyes. About the knife that ended my first life. I didn’t run that time. For the first time in years, I didn’t run. And it killed me.

But I still did it.

Why?

Because she looked at me like I could save her.

I thought about Mom. The way her tears fell when she hugged me. The years she spent hoping her son would come back, and the guilt in her eyes when she thought she’d failed. How she kissed my forehead and called me her boy even after everything the old Leo put her through.

Then there was Dad. The quiet way he trusted me. The hand on my shoulder, heavy with years of disappointment that he was finally letting go. The way he said ”come back alive, I need a son not a hero” like it was the only thing that mattered.

Mia came to mind next. Her pinkie promises and her frog stories, the way she looked at me like I was the greatest thing in the world. Sir Hops-a-Lot in his tiny sweater. Her voice saying ”Love you, Leo” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Lyra came to mind next. Twelve hours in a chair, waiting for me to wake up. The years she stayed when everyone else left. The way she said ”wherever you go, I’ll follow” like it wasn’t even a question.

And Nova. Naming him, giving him something no one else had. The quiet way he checked on me, worried in his own annoying way. The first time he called me Leo instead of Host.

Memories kept flooding my mind—good ones, bad ones, all of them mixing together until I couldn’t tell where one ended and another began.

From my happy days as a kid to the disappointments that followed, all the way to now, standing here in this training hall with a wooden sword in my hand and a question I couldn’t answer.

Why do I want to wield a sword?

Because I’m tired of running.

Because every time I’ve run, people got hurt. My parents. Lyra. The original Leo’s ghost still haunting this body.

And if I run now, if I give up now, what happens to them?

What about Mia when the Abyss King’s army comes?

What about Mom when she loses her son again?

What about Lyra, who’s already lost everyone once?

What about everyone who actually cares about me?

I can’t let that happen.

I won’t.

However... it was more than that.

It’s not just about protecting them. It’s about... me. About the guy who spent his whole life believing he was nothing, that trying was pointless, that failure was the only outcome.

I want to prove that guy wrong.

I want to stand on my own two feet and face whatever comes without running. I want to look in the mirror and see someone who didn’t quit. Someone who kept going even when it hurt, even when it was hard, even when staying down would have been easier.

I want to surpass myself.

Every day.

Every fight.

Every moment.

I want to be better than I was yesterday. Not because I have to, but because I choose to. Because stopping means proving everyone right. Because giving up means admitting the old Leo won.

And fuck that.

I thought about the sword in my hand. The wooden katana, light and balanced. A tool for speed and precision, Theron said. A weapon that rewards skill over strength.

But a tool is just a tool. It’s the person holding it that matters.

What am I holding it for?

To protect. To survive. To keep moving forward when everything tells me to stop. To be the person Mia believes I am. To give Mom a reason to smile. To show Lyra her hope wasn’t wasted. To prove to myself that I’m not the failure everyone used to call me.

I’m holding it for all of them.

...And for me.

_

[Theron’s POV]

I watched him stand there, lost in his own head, and I didn’t rush him.

The boy had been through a lot in the past few weeks—more than most people go through in years. Coming up north, training with Vex, that brutal spar with Kael.

And now here he was, standing in my training hall with a wooden katana in his hands, trying to answer a question that most grown men couldn’t answer.

I remembered being his age. Remembered my own master asking me the same question, and how long it took me to find the answer. Some people never found it at all.

His face shifted through so many emotions I lost count. Confusion, pain, anger, determination. All of it playing out across his features like he was fighting a war inside his own head. In a way, I suppose he was.

The aura I’d been holding pressed down on him, but he barely seemed to notice anymore. That was good. Meant he was focusing on what mattered.

Then finally, after what felt like minutes but could have been longer, he looked up and met my eyes.

_

[Leo’s POV]

”I want to protect them,” I said. My voice was rough but steady. ”My family. Everyone that mattered to me when I didn’t deserve it. I want to be strong enough that they never have to cry because of me again.”

I paused and swallowed.

”But it’s not just that.” I gripped the wooden sword tighter.

”It’s for me too. I’ve spent my whole life running. From expectations, from responsibility, from myself. Every time things got hard, I found a way to escape.” I took a breath. ”I’m done running. I want to keep going. I want to keep moving forward. I want to surpass myself—every single day, no matter how hard it gets.”

Theron’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes shifted.

”And when everything falls apart?” he asked quietly. ”When you’re bleeding and broken and everyone you’re trying to protect is already gone? What then?”

The question hit hard, but I didn’t look away.

”Then I keep going anyway.” My voice didn’t waver. ”Because stopping means giving up. And I’m done giving up.”

Silence.

Then slowly the pressure lifted. My knees almost gave out with relief, but I stayed standing.

Theron studied me for a long moment, then sighed—not the annoyed sigh from before, but something heavier. Something almost like understanding.

”You still don’t fully understand,” he said quietly. ”But you’re closer than most people ever get.”

I frowned. ”What do you mean?”

He walked to the weapon rack and picked up a real katana. Not a practice one—a real blade, curved and deadly, light glinting off its edge.

”Purpose,” he said, holding the sword horizontally in front of him, ”is the foundation of everything. Not just your stance or your footwork or your techniques. Your purpose is what you come back to when everything else fails.”

He looked at the blade.

”A sword is a tool. It’s shaped and sharpened, forged with a single purpose—to cut, to kill. That’s what it was made for. At its most basic level, that’s all it is.”

He turned the sword, watching the light run along its edge.

”But you’re not metal. You’re not a tool. You have to care. You have to know why you’re fighting. Because when you’re exhausted, when you’re scared, when you’re facing something that should kill you—that’s all that’s left. That’s what gets you through.”

He looked at me.

”Your techniques will fail. Your body will fail. Your mana will run out. But if your purpose is strong enough, if you know deep down why you’re still standing, you can push past all of that.”

I let his words sink in.

”And that purpose,” he continued, ”will also shape everything you learn. The techniques you choose. The way you fight. The weapon arts that fit you. If you try to learn something that goes against your purpose, it’ll never feel right. It’ll always be awkward, always be weak. But if it aligns with who you are and why you fight? It becomes part of you.”

I looked down at the wooden sword in my hands.

My purpose...

It felt right. Felt true. But also felt like there was more to it—something I hadn’t fully grasped yet. Something I’d have to figure out along the way.

Theron must have seen something in my expression because he nodded slowly.

”You’ll understand better with time and practice.” He set the katana back on the rack. ”But for now, knowing what you just told me is enough. It’s a start.”

I nodded. ”Okay.”

He turned back to me. ”One more question. You know what a weapon really is, right?”

I blinked, then nodded slowly. ”A tool. Something used to fight.”

”Correct.” Theron’s voice was calm. ”At its most basic level, a weapon is a tool. Nothing more, nothing less. It can be used to kill, yes—that’s one of its functions. But it can also be used to defend, to protect, to train, to grow. A weapon in the hands of a murderer is different from a weapon in the hands of a guardian, even if it’s the same blade.”

He paused.

”The sword doesn’t choose what it becomes. You do. Every time you swing it, every time you train with it, every time you fight with it—you’re giving it meaning. You’re shaping what it represents.”

I thought about that. About the weight of it.

”So it’s not about the sword,” I said slowly. ”It’s about me.”

”Yes.” Theron nodded. ”The sword is your partner, your tool, your weapon. It’ll grow with you, learn from you, become whatever you need it to be. But you’re the one who decides what that is. Never forget that.”

I looked at the wooden katana in my hands. A training tool. A practice weapon. But someday it would be real. Someday I’d hold a blade that could actually take a life.

Would I be ready for that? I don’t know. But one thing is sure—I have to be.

”Your path trial is coming soon, right?”

I nodded. ”...Yes.”

”Then you should know this—a path is based on what you’ve experienced. Your life, your goals, your beliefs, your purpose.” He looked at me pointedly. ”So your purpose and beliefs behind wielding a weapon? They won’t just shape how you fight. They’ll shape your path itself.”

The weight of that hit me harder than his aura ever did.

So my purpose, my beliefs—they’re going to shape my actual path?

I looked down at the wooden sword in my hands, trying to process that.

Then another question rose up. One I hadn’t thought to ask before.

”...Uncle.” I looked at him. ”What’s your purpose? For wielding a sword?”

Theron stared at me for a moment, like he was deciding something. Then slowly, almost reluctantly, his lips curved into a small smile.

”Why don’t you ask your father about it sometime?”

I blinked. ”Dad?”

But he didn’t explain. He just turned away and walked toward the training mats.

I stood there confused, turning his words over in my head.

Dad? What does Dad have to do with this?

I thought about Father. About the way he carried himself. About the quiet strength in his eyes. About how he never talked about his fighting days, never mentioned why he picked up a sword in the first place.

What’s his purpose? And why won’t Theron just tell me?

I filed the question away. Something to ask when I got home. If I got home.

_

[Theron’s POV]

I watched him stand there, processing everything I’d said, and I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Hope, maybe. Or just the quiet satisfaction of seeing someone actually listen.

Most people who came to me wanted quick results. They wanted techniques, skills, shortcuts to power. They didn’t want to think about why they fought or what it meant. They just wanted to be stronger.

But this kid—my nephew, the one I’d written off years ago—he was different. He actually thought about it. Actually let the questions sink in and do their work.

When he asked about my purpose, I almost told him. Almost opened up about things I’d never shared with anyone. But some things aren’t mine to tell. Some things he needed to hear from his father.

I turned away before he could see the expression on my face.

”Enough standing around,” I called out. ”We’re not done yet. You still have hours before I let you collapse.”

_

[Leo’s POV]

I blinked. ”Wait—we’re still training? I thought—”

”You thought what? That we’d have one conversation and call it a day?” He shook his head. ”Your trial is in ten days. You don’t have time to waste. Now get over here and show me that stance again. And this time, try not to look like a dying crab.”

I almost laughed.

I moved to the center of the training hall and raised the wooden katana, trying to remember everything I’d seen in movies and games. Trying to look like I knew what I was doing.

Theron walked around me slowly, studying my stance from every angle.

”Alright, let’s start with the basics. Your feet should be shoulder-width apart. Not too wide, not too close. Right now you’re standing like you’re about to fall over.”

I adjusted my stance.

”Better. Now your grip. You’re holding that sword like you’re trying to strangle it. Loosen up. Your hands should be firm but relaxed. If you’re tense, you’re slow.”

I loosened my grip, feeling the difference immediately.

”Good. Now your shoulders. Drop them. You’re carrying all your tension up there. Relax.”

I let my shoulders drop.

”Your elbows. They’re locked. Bend them slightly. You need flexibility, not rigidity.”

I adjusted.

”Your eyes. Stop looking at your feet. The sword isn’t going anywhere. Look forward. Pick a spot and focus on it.”

I picked a point on the wall and kept my eyes there.

”Now slowly raise the sword. No, not like that. Smooth, controlled. Think of it as an extension of your arm, not a separate object.”

I tried again.

”Better. Now lower it. Same smooth motion.”

Again and again we went through it. Raise. Lower. Raise. Lower. Each time he corrected something small—the angle of my wrist, the position of my thumb, the way I was breathing.

”Again.”

”Again.”

”Again.”

By the end of the first hour, my arms were shaking and I was pretty sure I’d never done anything right in my entire life. But somewhere in all that repetition, something started to click.

The sword didn’t feel quite so foreign anymore. The movements didn’t feel quite so awkward. I wasn’t good—not even close—but I was starting to understand.

”Now let’s try a basic swing,” Theron said. ”Step forward with your left foot as you bring the sword down. The motion should be one fluid movement, not two separate ones.”

I tried.

”No. You’re hesitating between the step and the swing. They need to happen together.”

I tried again.

”Better. But you’re still thinking too much. Your body knows what to do. Stop getting in its way.”

I tried again and again, each swing slightly better than the last. The wooden blade cut through the air with a sound I was starting to recognize—a soft whistle that meant I was doing something right.

”Good. Now from the other side.”

We went through the same process over and over. Step and swing. Step and swing. By the time we moved on to the next exercise, my arms felt like they were going to fall off, but I was actually doing it. Actually swinging a sword like it was supposed to be swung.

The sun had shifted outside by the time we finished. Hours had passed. My body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder and then put together wrong.

But I was standing. Still standing.

Theron walked to the wall and pressed something. A panel slid open, revealing towels and water. He tossed one of each at me.

”Drink it and rest for five minutes.”

I caught them—barely—and collapsed against the wall. The water was cold and perfect. The towel soaked up enough sweat to fill a small bucket.

For a few minutes, we just sat there in silence. Me against the wall. Theron leaning against the weapon rack. Both of us breathing.

Then—

”Leo.”

I looked up.

Theron’s expression was serious again. But not harsh. Just focused.

”What you said earlier. About your purpose.” He paused. ”Hold onto that. No matter what happens in the trial, no matter what comes after. Hold onto it.”

I stared at him.

”Why?”

”Because there will be moments when everything else falls away. When you’re alone, scared, convinced you can’t win. In those moments, your purpose is all you’ll have.” He met my eyes. ”If it’s strong enough, you’ll survive. If it’s not...”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

I nodded slowly. ”I understand.”

He studied me for another moment. Then he pushed off the rack and walked toward the center of the room.

”Okay. So now it’s time for your technique. The one I promised you.” He turned to face me. ”I’m going to teach you a technique.”