The Anomaly's Path

[Arthur’s POV]

The training yard was empty when I arrived.

That was how I preferred it. No soldiers running their drills, no officers barking orders across the open space, no one watching me with those curious eyes that always wondered what made the Duke’s ward so special.

Just me, the cold morning air, and the familiar weight of a sword in my hand.

I walked past the outdoor rings and headed for the indoor hall—a smaller building near the back of the estate, reserved for private training sessions. The door opened with a soft hiss as I approached, and the mana-lamps flickered to life one by one, illuminating the space I’d come to know better than almost anywhere else.

The hall was simple in its design.

Reinforced walls that could withstand stray strikes, a smooth floor that allowed for quick footwork, weapon racks lined up neatly along one side, and in the corner, a sleek console that controlled the training simulations.

I’d spent countless hours here over the years, pushing myself past limits that would have broken most people, fighting shadows that couldn’t bleed or scream or haunt me afterward.

...Today felt different.

I could still feel the dream lingering at the edges of my consciousness, those images burned into my memory that no amount of time could erase.

My mother’s smile as she fell kept playing behind my eyes. My father’s back as he turned to face certain death. Lilia’s hand in mine, warm and alive one moment, cold and still the next.

I pushed the thoughts away and focused on what I came here to do.

I walked to the console and pressed my palm against the scanner. Blue light flickered across my skin, reading my mana signature, confirming my identity like it always did.

{Good morning, Arthur Vale.}The AI’s voice was calm and neutral, the same voice I’d heard every time I’d stepped into this hall. {What training parameters would you like to set today?}

”Combat simulation. Sword opponent.”

{Acknowledged. Please specify difficulty rank.}

The training dummy was usually set to Elite Low—my own rank, more or less. We’d fought hundreds of times over the years, and I’d won most of those encounters. But today, I needed something more. Something that would push me past the thoughts I couldn’t escape.

”Set it to Expert Low.”

The AI was silent for a moment, processing the request.

{...Arthur Vale, Expert Low is a full rank above your current level. This is not recommended for standard training. The risk of injury increases significantly.}

”I didn’t ask for a recommendation.” My voice came out harder than I intended, sharper, carrying an edge I couldn’t quite control. ”Just set it.”

Another pause, longer this time.

{Acknowledged. Expert Low simulation activated. Combat dummy will be equipped with a live blade. Do you wish to proceed?}

I walked to the weapon rack and grabbed a real sword—not wood, not practice steel, but a blade that could actually cut. It felt heavy in my hand, familiar in a way that few things in my life were anymore.

”...Yes. Proceed.”

The floor hissed as a panel slid open, and the training dummy rose from below. It was humanoid in shape, built from reinforced materials meant to take a beating, its joints clicking softly as it powered up for combat. In its hand, it held a sword identical to mine—real, sharp, deadly.

Its eyes glowed red as they locked onto me, tracking my every movement with mechanical precision.

{Combat simulation beginning in three... two... one...}

It came at me fast.

Not just fast—relentless. The first strike was aimed at my head, and I barely got my sword up in time to block it.

The impact shuddered through my arms, rattled my teeth, sent a jolt of pain through my shoulders that I hadn’t expected. I stumbled back, trying to find my footing, trying to adjust to the increased speed and power.

It didn’t let up for even a moment. The second strike came immediately after the first, then a third, then a fourth.

Each one was harder than the last, each one driving me further back across the training floor. I blocked, dodged, blocked again, but I was already on the defensive, already struggling to keep up with an opponent that didn’t tire or hesitate or feel pain.

This is different, I realized. This is way above what I’m used to.

I gritted my teeth and pushed back against the onslaught.

I feinted high, then dropped low, swinging for its leg in a move that had worked against the lower-ranked dummies dozens of times.

But this one anticipated it—of course it did—and brought its blade down to deflect my strike with mechanical precision. I used the momentum from the block to spin around and come at it from the other side, aiming for the vulnerable joint between its torso and arm.

It caught that one too. The blades locked together, and for a moment we stood there, me grunting with effort, it completely still and completely unfeeling, its red eyes staring through me like I was nothing.

{Good form,} the AI commented, its voice echoing from somewhere above.

{But you’re making your spins too obvious. The dummy reads your weight shift before you even move.}

I ignored the commentary and pushed off, resetting my stance for another exchange.

We went at it for a while.

I lost track of time completely—it didn’t really matter how long I’d been fighting. What mattered was the rhythm of combat, the clash of steel against steel, the burn in my muscles as I pushed them past their limits, the way my mind went blissfully blank when I focused entirely on surviving.

I was holding my own, but just barely.

The dummy was faster than me, stronger than me, more precise in every movement.

Every exchange pushed me closer to my breaking point. My arms ached with the effort of blocking strikes that would have shattered a lesser blade. My lungs burned with each desperate breath. Sweat dripped into my eyes and blurred my vision until I could barely see my opponent.

However... I kept fighting.

Because when I fought, I didn’t have to think. When I fought, the memories stayed buried somewhere deep where they couldn’t reach me. When I fought, I was just a body in motion, a sword swinging, nothing more and nothing less.

I thrust toward its chest. It knocked the blade aside with contemptuous ease. I followed with a slash at its neck. It ducked under the strike and came up swinging. I spun away and brought my sword around in a horizontal arc aimed at its midsection.

It caught the blade on its own and shoved me back hard enough that I nearly lost my footing. I stumbled, caught myself at the last second, and raised my sword again.

{Your stamina is dropping rapidly,} the AI informed me. {I recommend tactical retreat and reassessment before continuing.}

”Shut up,” I muttered through gritted teeth, and came at it again.

It caught me with a strike to the ribs.

Crack!

Something gave way inside me—a sharp, tearing sensation that stole my breath and sent white-hot pain exploding through my side.

I gasped and stumbled, trying to recover my footing, but the dummy was already on me again, pressing its advantage with that cold mechanical efficiency it always had.

I managed to block the next strike, though the impact sent pain shooting through my already battered arms. I dodged the one after that, but only barely—I felt the blade whisper past my skin, close enough to leave a shallow cut. Then another came, and another, each one pushing me closer to my limit.

It kicked me square in the chest.

I flew backward, hit the wall hard, and slid down to the floor in a heap. The impact knocked the air from my lungs and sent fresh pain erupting through my back, my ribs, my skull. I coughed, and something warm and thick flooded my mouth.

Blood. I was coughing blood.

Huff... huff... huff...

I stayed there for a long moment, slumped against the wall, trying to breathe, trying to think, trying to remember where I was and what I was doing.

The dummy stood across the hall, its red eyes watching me with that same unfeeling stare, waiting for me to continue. It wouldn’t attack while I was down. The simulation had rules.

But the voices in my head didn’t follow any rules.

They started softly at first, barely there, like whispers from somewhere far away.

...Arthur.

My mother’s voice. Soft and sad, coming from somewhere behind me, somewhere I couldn’t see.

I didn’t turn around. I knew what I’d find if I did.

Arthur, why didn’t you help us?

”Shut up,” I whispered, my voice barely audible even to myself.

You ran, Arthur. My father’s voice now, harsher than I remembered it, carrying an edge of accusation. You left us to die.

”I said shut up.”

Artie...

Lilia.

I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my palms against them, trying to block out the sound, trying to force the voices back into whatever corner of my mind they’d crawled out from.

Artie, it hurts. It hurts so much. Why did you let go of my hand?

”Stop it. Please. Just stop.”

You could have saved me. You were right there. You were holding my hand and you let me go.

I couldn’t respond. There were no words for what I felt, no apology that would ever be enough, no explanation that could undo what had happened.

Artie, look at me.

”I can’t. I can’t look at you. You’re dead. You’re all dead and I couldn’t save you and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Artie.

The voice was softer now. Kinder. Almost like it used to be when she’d ruffle my hair and call me her annoying little brother.

Artie, it’s okay.

”It’s not okay. Nothing is okay. You’re dead and I’m here and I don’t know why—”

Artie.

”WHAT?”

I opened my eyes.

The training dummy stood across the hall, exactly where it had been. Red eyes glowing. Sword ready. Waiting for me to continue the fight.

But it wasn’t a dummy anymore.

Its metal surface rippled and twisted, reforming into something else entirely.

Something I recognized with a visceral certainty that turned my blood to ice. Black skin that seemed to drink the light around it. Too many limbs bending in directions that shouldn’t exist. A mouth that opened too wide, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth.

The monster from that night. The one that had killed my family.

”You,” I whispered.

I pushed myself up. My body screamed in protest. My ribs burned with every movement. Blood dripped from my mouth onto the floor, leaving dark spots on the polished surface. None of it mattered.

I grabbed my sword and raised it.

”You took everything from me.”

The monster tilted its head, a gesture that felt like mockery.

”I’m going to kill you.”

I charged.

The next few minutes existed only in fragments. I remember swinging my sword over and over, harder and harder, putting everything I had into every strike. The monster blocked and dodged and countered, faster than me, stronger than me, better than me in every conceivable way.

It should have killed me a dozen times over.

But I couldn’t stop.

My mother’s smile flickered behind every strike I threw. My father’s voice echoed with every block, telling me to run, telling me he was proud, telling me things I couldn’t hear back then but remembered now.

And whenever the monster’s blade came close, I felt it—Lilia’s hand in mine, that moment when her fingers went slack and I knew she was gone, the guilt crashing through me all over again.

Die. Die. Die.

I wasn’t thinking anymore. Wasn’t fighting with technique or strategy. I was just swinging.

The monster caught me with a slash across the chest. Pain flared hot and sharp, and I felt blood running down my torso. I didn’t slow down.

It kicked me back. I stumbled, recovered, came at it again.

It drove its sword into my shoulder. I felt the blade bite deep, felt my grip weakening. I switched hands and kept swinging.

I was losing. I knew I was losing. The monster was too strong, too fast. It was only a matter of time.

But I didn’t care anymore.

Let it kill me. Let it end everything. Let the darkness take me the way it had taken—

”...Arthur...”

I heard a voice, faint and distant, coming from somewhere far away.

I kept swinging.

”...Arthur.”

It was louder now, closer—a girl’s voice, young and frightened.

I couldn’t stop. The monster was right there, right in front of me, and I had to kill it, I had to—

”ARTHUR!”

The monster froze mid-movement, its form shimmering and twisting until it reformed back into the training dummy. Those red eyes dimmed and went dark, and the sword in its hand lowered slowly to its side.

I stood there, gasping for breath, my sword raised above my head, my whole body shaking. Blood dripped from my chest, from my shoulder, from my mouth. I couldn’t feel any of it.

Slowly, I turned toward the doorway.

She stood there, framed by the moonlight streaming in from behind her.

It painted her in silver and shadow, made her look like something from a dream. Her hair—deep midnight blue—fell loose around her shoulders. Her eyes—soft silver-violet—were wide with fear and wet with tears, fixed on me like she was seeing something she couldn’t understand.

Tears streamed down her face, catching the light.

I knew her. I’d known her for years. But I’d never seen anyone look at me like this.

”...Amelia?”