The Anomaly's Path

[Leo’s POV]

I stood there with my sword raised, scanning the shadows where the sound had come from.

”Who is there? Come out.”

Nothing.

The darkness between the trees was empty. The leaves had stopped moving. Whatever I had heard—whatever I had felt—was already gone.

I leveled the blade at the thicket of ferns, my heart slamming against my ribs. The black lightning had faded from the sword, leaving only thin smoke and the sharp smell of metal in the air.

Then I heard it again.

A rustle.

I tensed, ready to strike. But instead of something deadly, a small brown rabbit hopped out from the ferns. It paused, twitched its nose at the massive, smoking corpse of the Razor-Back Ravager, then scurried away into the dark.

”...Just a rabbit?” I lowered the sword, my shoulders sagging. ”Get it together, Leo. You are getting jumpy.”

But I could not shake the feeling. Someone had been there. Watching. I had sensed it—a presence at the edge of my awareness, heavy and still. Not hostile, but not friendly either.

Just... watching.

I shook my head and turned back to the monster’s body.

The Razor-Back Ravager lay in a pool of black blood, its yellow eyes still open, staring at nothing. The bone plates on its side were cracked, scorched black where my lightning had hit. The wound under its jaw was clean—the blade had gone in deep, finding the soft spot between the armor.

I had killed it.

I had actually killed it.

A grin spread across my face, wide and manic. ”HAHAHA! I finally killed you, you bastard!”

My voice echoed through the trees, and for a moment, I just stood there, laughing at a dead monster like a complete idiot.

I had done it.

Two weeks.

Two weeks of waking up before the sun, of dragging my bruised body into this clearing, of failing to channel mana until my nose bled. It had been a brutal stretch. Every muscle in my body felt like it had been chewed up and sewn back together wrong, but I could feel the difference. I was getting stronger.

I had to be...

About seven days ago, I first felt it—something heavy and cold lurking just beyond the treeline. Something watching me.

At first, I thought maybe it was Roran, the old drunk, finally curious enough to see if I was actually training or just waving a stick at the air. But whatever was staring at me from the dark was not human.

There was no judgment in those eyes. Just... hunger.

Three days later, I found its tracks. Deep, wide prints pressed into the mud by something built with heavy bones and thick muscle. A Razor-Back Ravager. Grade 2—Minor rank. A level or two above me, but not so far out of reach that I could not close the gap if I played it smart.

The bastard had been stalking me. Studying my rhythm. Watching me train until I was gasping for air, waiting for the exact moment my guard dropped.

So I gave it exactly what it wanted.

For days, I kept everything the same. Same path. Same clumsy stances. Same predictable routine. I made myself look like easy prey.

But while it was learning my patterns, I was learning its habits. I found its hiding spots. Timed its movements. Waited for that flicker of impatience to take over its animal brain.

Today, it finally snapped and came for me.

And I was ready.

I looked down at the body. There was a jagged hole right under its jaw where my sword had gone in. My first real kill of a monster.

The grin slid off my face.

Honestly? It was sickening.

The copper smell of blood. The way those hungry yellow eyes had gone flat and empty. The final, pathetic twitch of its legs before the life drained into the dirt. My stomach turned.

I knew this was coming. I knew eventually I would have to kill something that could hunt me back. But knowing and doing were two different things.

I backed away from the body, my throat tightening. ”Fuck,” I hissed, turning my back on the clearing. ”Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I stumbled to the edge of the trees and pressed my forehead against the rough bark of a cedar, breathing hard through my mouth, trying not to throw up. It took a few minutes for the world to stop spinning and the sickness to settle.

When it finally passed, I wiped my sweaty face with my sleeve, took one last shaky breath, and headed toward the stream to wash the blood off my hands.

I spent the next hour scrubbing my skin until it was red, trying to get the scent of the Ravager’s blood out of my pores.

By the time I started heading back, the sun had long since dipped below the horizon. The jungle was a sea of shifting shadows.

I stopped by Roran’s shack, ready to deliver my daily dose of persistence. I was going to brag. I was going to tell that stubborn old man that I had soloed a Minor-rank without a scratch.

”Roran!” I shouted, leaning over the fence. ”Hey, old man! Come out and see what a genius looks like!”

No answer.

The home was empty. No whittled wood shavings, no half-empty bottle. The door was shut tight, but there was no light flickering through the cracks.

”Ignoring me again?” I sighed, rolling my eyes. ”Fine. Be that way. I will just come back tomorrow and be even more annoying.”

I made my way back to the orphanage, my stomach growling loud enough to rival the jungle predators.

The moment I stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted.

”Ugh! What died in here?” Lily scrunched up her face, holding her nose. ”Smells like burnt hair and old blood. Gross.”

”The Handsome Demon returns from the pits of hell!” Tobin cheered, though he stayed at a safe distance.

Mia marched out of the kitchen, a wooden spoon held like a mace. She stopped five feet away and wrinkled her nose. ”Leo? Why do you reek of monster blood and sweat? I thought I told you to stay near the village.”

”That is because I killed something dead.” I grinned. ”A monster. A Razor-Back Ravager. Minor rank. I baited it, let it charge, and then—”

”I do not need the details.” She held up a hand. ”Just go take another bath.”

”I took a bath!” I protested, throwing my hands up. ”I scrubbed for an hour!”

”Scrub harder next time,” she snapped, pointing toward the back. ”Go. Wash. Again. Before you ruin the appetite of everyone in this house.”

_

After another bucket of cold water, I finally sat down at the table. The narcissist in me could not stay quiet.

”So,” I said, leaning back with a smug look. ”I killed a Razor-Back Ravager today. Grade 2. Solo.”

”A Minor-rank?” Sera looked up from her book, her eyes wide. ”By yourself?”

”With lightning,” I added, tapping my temple. ”It was a masterpiece of strategy. I baited the charge, used its momentum, and—boom. Dead lizard.”

The kids erupted into a flurry of questions and cheers. Even Mia looked a little impressed, though she tried to hide it by shoving a bowl of stew in front of me.

”Do not let it go to your head,” she muttered. ”You are still a mess.”

After a few minutes, I looked over at the empty seat at the head of the table. ”By the way, I stopped by Roran’s. He was not home. Is he usually out this late? I figured he would be passed out on his porch by now.”

”Probably at the Rusty Mug,” Mia said, though her voice lacked its usual bite. ”Gambling away whatever dignity he has left.”

I nodded, but something felt off. Roran was a drunk, but he was a consistent drunk. He did not like leaving his territory.

I glanced at Elder Marta. She was staring into her bowl, her fingers tightening around her spoon. Her expression flickered—just for a moment—before she smoothed it back into calm.

I did not say anything at the table. But I noticed.

After dinner, while the kids were cleaning up and Mia was barking orders, I slipped out the back door.

The garden was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the moon. Elder Marta was there, kneeling by the flower beds, her hands buried in the soil. She was watering the plants, her movements slow and deliberate.

I stood at the edge of the garden for a moment, watching her.

...”Elder Marta,” I said quietly.

She did not look up. ”I wondered when you would come.”

”You knew I would come?”

”I have been watching people for a long time, Leo.” She patted the dirt around a small herb and sat back on her heels.

I walked over and knelt beside her. ”You know where Roran is, do you not?”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she sighed. ”I knew you would notice. You are too sharp for your own good.”

She stood up slowly, brushing the dirt off her apron, and gestured to a wooden bench near the garden wall. ”Sit with me.”

We sat down together, the moon casting long shadows across the flowers.

”You remind me of him, you know,” she said finally.

I looked at her. ”Roran?”

She nodded. ”When he was your age, he was just like you. Full of passion. Full of youth. Stubborn as a mule.” A small smile touched her lips. ”He used to tell me, ’One day, I will be the strongest person in the world. I will spread my name so far that everyone will know who I am.’”

”...”

”He grew up in this orphanage,” she continued. ”Right here. I watched him take his first steps with a wooden sword. I watched him train until his hands bled. I watched him leave this village with nothing but a dream.”

”You knew him from the start?”

”I raised him.” She looked at me, her eyes soft. ”I watched him grow up here. I have seen generations of children come and go. But Roran...” She paused. ”He was special.”

I nodded slowly. ”I see... So that means Mia was right. You really are—”

She flicked my forehead.

”Ow!”

”Do not say it,” she said, though there was no real heat in her voice. ”Mind your manners, young man.”

I rubbed my forehead, grinning despite myself. ”...Sorry. Go on.”

She took a breath. ”He left when he was seventeen. Said he was going to make a name for himself. And he did. Soon enough, his name started spreading. He wrote me letters—told me about his mercenary group, about the people he was helping, about the life he was building.”

Her voice softened.

”Then, one day, the letters stopped.”

I waited.

”He lost his wife, Leo. And the child who never got the chance to breathe.” She stared at the flowers, her hands folded in her lap. ”He came back here broken. I had never seen him like that—not the boy who left, full of fire and dreams. Just... a shell.”

”Why did he not—”

”He blames himself.” She cut me off gently. ”He thinks he could not save anyone. Not his wife. Not his child. Not anyone he ever tried to protect. He has been drowning in that guilt for years—gambling, drinking, punishing himself.”

I looked down at my hands.

”But he still sends money to the orphanage,” she said. ”Every month. Why do you think this place is still running? Why do you think we have food on the table?”

She reached over and grabbed my hand. ”He is still here, Leo. He is just... buried.”

She squeezed my hand. ”I know he is stubborn. I know he is difficult. But he is not a bad person. I am tired of seeing him like this—isolated, pretending not to care, drowning in memories that will not let him go.”

She looked at me with those old, knowing eyes.

”He built a wall around himself. But you are just as stubborn as he is. If anyone can break through that wall, it is you.”

I stared at her.

”He is at the hill beyond the eastern ridge,” she said. ”The one with the willow tree. That is where they are buried.”

She looked at me, her eyes glistening. ”Help him, Leo. Please. He has been alone for too long.”

I looked at her weathered face, at the hope in her eyes, and I nodded.

”I... I will try.”

She let go of my hand and smiled. ”That is all I ask.”