The Anomaly's Path

A Few Hours Earlier...

The jungle was burning.

Roran stood at the edge of the village with his sword in his hand and his eyes fixed on the creature that had been tearing through Wayford like a scythe through wheat.

The Hollow King. A Grade 7 monster.

It was not stable. It did not understand its own power. Its movements were jerky and uncoordinated, and it kept looking at its own hands like it did not recognize them.

But it was still strong enough to kill him.

Roran had been fighting for hours.

His arms were heavy, weighted down by exhaustion and the sheer number of swings he had thrown. His chest ached with every breath, and he could feel blood trickling down his side from a wound he did not remember receiving.

His mana was low, the pool in his core feeling shallower than it had in years.

He had cut the creature a dozen times, maybe more. Shallow wounds, mostly. Flesh wounds that bled but did not slow it down. He had dodged its strikes by inches, feeling the wind of its claws against his skin.

He had parried blows that would have killed any normal man.

But he was not making progress.

The Hollow King turned its hollow pits toward him. Its skeletal arms twitched, and the air around it grew cold. The temperature dropped so suddenly that Roran could see his breath misting in front of his face.

”I will kill you,” Roran muttered, more to himself than to the creature. ”...I will kill you, and then I will go back to the village, and I will save the rest of them.”

He lunged.

The creature’s skeletal limb blurred, catching Roran in the chest. The impact drove the air from his lungs, and he flew backward through the air.

He hit the ground hard, the impact cracking the cobblestones beneath him, and rolled until he came to a stop. His sword was still in his hand. His ribs screamed with every breath. His left arm hung at a strange angle.

He pushed himself up.

The Hollow King was already moving toward him, its skeletal arms reaching out like the branches of a dead tree, its hollow pits fixed on his face. It opened its mouth, and that horrible sound came out, that made Roran’s teeth ache.

”Kill...” it whispered. ”Kill... all...”

...I cannot do this, he thought, coughing up a mouthful of dark blood. Not like this.

If this continued, the monster would kill everyone. Roran knew that with a certainty that settled into his heart like cold iron. The creature was not slowing down. It was not tiring. Every time he cut it, it kept coming.

Every time he knocked it back, it stood up again.

He could not win like this. Not at his current rank.

He looked at the village again. The flames consuming the homes of people he had known his whole life and the smoke rising into the sky, thick and black, blotting out the stars.

He thought about Marta, sitting on her porch with her cup of tea. He thought about the children, laughing and running through the streets. He thought about Leo, out there somewhere, fighting alone.

....If I die here, they die too.

He clenched his jaw. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword until the leather creaked.

I will not let that happen...

He closed his eyes and forced his breathing to slow. The chaos around him faded. The screams, the crackle of flames, the wet grinding of the monster’s breath—all of it became distant, muffled, like sounds heard from underwater.

He reached deep into his core.

He had done this many times before. Reaching into his core was as natural as breathing, as natural as swinging his sword. But this time was different. This time, he was not looking for mana.

He was looking for the wall.

He found it.

The barrier that separated Grandmaster Mid from Grandmaster High was not a physical thing. It was not made of stone or steel or anything he could touch.

It was a sensation.

A weight.

A pressure that had been pressing down on his soul for years, telling him that he had reached his limit, that he could go no further.

He had accepted that weight for a long time. He had told himself that Grandmaster Mid was enough, that he did not need to be stronger, that he had no reason to push further.

But that was before.

That was when he was drowning in grief, numbing himself with cheap ale, waiting to die.

He was not that man anymore.

I have a reason now, he thought. I.... have people to protect again.

He pushed against the barrier.

It did not move. It was thick and solid, built from years of training and experience, reinforced by the limits he had placed on himself. It resisted him. It told him to stop. It told him he was not ready.

However.... he pushed harder.

A crack appeared. Small at first, barely there. But it was there.

He pushed harder again.

The crack spread. It grew longer, wider, branching out in every direction. The barrier groaned under the pressure, and Roran felt something shift inside him. Something that had been sleeping for a long time.

He pushed with everything he had.

The barrier shattered...

The pain hit him like a physical blow. It exploded through his body, white-hot and blinding, burning through his veins, his muscles, his bones. His core expanded, stretching and growing, filling with more mana than it had ever held before.

The power rushed through him like a flood, and he could not hold back the scream that tore from his throat. The pain, the heat, the pressure. He thought his body would tear apart. He thought his soul would shatter.

But then it stopped.

He opened his eyes.

The world looked different. Sharper and clearer. He could see the mana flowing through the creature’s body like rivers of light. He could see the weak points in its armor, the places where the bone plates did not quite meet.

He had broken through. No, that was not the right word. He forced his way past the wall and became Grandmaster High.

But his body was not ready for this.

He could feel it breaking apart, piece by piece. His left arm hung useless at his side, the bones shattered beyond repair. His chest was on fire, and blood was pouring from his wounds. His left eye had gone dark, blinded by a strike he had not been fast enough to block.

...It does not matter, he told himself. I just need to kill it. Then I can rest.

He raised his sword at the monster. The Hollow King charged. The fight that followed was the longest of Roran’s life.

He moved faster than he ever had before.

His feet carried him across the burning street in a blur, and his blade followed, cutting through the air with a sound like tearing silk. The Sundering Blade. First form. Gale-Force Pivot. He twisted his body at the last moment, letting the creature’s claw pass by his face, and brought his sword down on its arm.

The blade bit deep into the bone, and black blood sprayed across his face.

The Hollow King shrieked and tried to pull away, but Roran held on. He twisted his sword and pulled it free, then swung again.

Second form. Earth-Binder’s Girdle.

He slammed the pommel of his sword into the ground, and a wave of brown energy erupted from the impact point, slamming into the creature’s legs.

The Hollow King stumbled, its skeletal arms flailing, but it did not fall.

Roran pressed forward. Third form. Sundering Sky-Fall.

He leaped into the air, his sword raised above his head, and brought it down on the creature’s chest. The blade cut through its armor, through its flesh, through the dark veins that pulsed beneath its pale skin.

Black blood exploded from the wound, and the Hollow King screamed.

But it did not fall.

The creature’s skeletal arm shot out faster than Roran could react. The claws caught him across the face—not a swipe, but a grab. One of the claws hooked into his left eye socket, and the creature ripped.

Roran felt the claw tear through his eyelid. His eye left his skull and the empty socket filled with blood. The pain was beyond anything he had ever experienced—white-hot, blinding, overwhelming.

”GAAAAH—!”

He screamed.

The creature tossed the eye aside. It landed in the dirt somewhere with a soft, wet sound, and Roran did not look for it. He could not see it anyway. The left side of his world was gone—not dark, not blurred, just gone.

An absence where sight used to be.

He staggered back, his hand flying to his face. His fingers touched the empty socket, and he felt the torn edges of his eyelid, the raw flesh beneath, the blood that poured down his cheek in a hot, steady stream.

The pain was immense, but he did not fall. He just stood there, breathing hard, his remaining eye fixed on the creature.

Keep... fighting, he told himself.

He raised his sword with his right hand. His left arm was still working for now, but he could not see out of his left eye. The world was half gone, and the missing half made everything feel wrong.

The Hollow King swung its other arm.

Roran saw it coming. He tried to dodge, but his body was too slow. The claws caught him across the chest—not a glancing blow, not a shallow cut. The creature’s talons punched through his coat like it was paper.

They punched through his skin like it was wet cloth.

He felt each claw enter his body. The claws slid between his ribs, tear through the muscle and tissue beneath. One of them went all the way through—in through his chest and out through his back. He looked down and saw the tip of the claw protruding from his spine, dark and wet with his own blood.

The creature paused for a moment, as if admiring its work. Then it pulled its claw back.

The sound was wet and horrible. The claw came out slowly, scraping against his ribs on the way, and Roran felt every inch of it. When it finally came free, the hole remained.

It was not a cut. It was not a wound that could be stitched closed. It was a hole.

He looked down at his chest. The hole was just below his collarbone, on the left side, near where his heart lay. Blood poured from the hole in thick, pulsing waves. It soaked his coat, his pants, the ground beneath his feet. He could feel himself growing weaker with every heartbeat.

I am already dead. I... just have not fallen yet.

He looked at the creature. It was bleeding from a dozen wounds. Its movements were slower now, more desperate.

But it was still coming.

Roran gripped his sword with both hands—his right hand and his left hand, which was still working despite the pain in his face and the hole in his chest.

”One more hit,” he whispered. ”Just one more.”

He lunged.

He swung at its neck. The creature blocked with one of its skeletal arms, and the blade bit deep into the bone. The Hollow King screamed and tried to pull away, but Roran held on. He twisted his sword, and the arm came off.

Black blood sprayed across his face, mixing with the blood from his empty eye socket.

The Hollow King staggered back, its remaining arms flailing. Roran pressed forward, driving his sword into its chest, its stomach, its throat. He did not stop. He could not stop.

He cut and cut and cut until his arms were numb and his vision was blurry and his lungs were burning. Blood poured from the hole in his chest with every swing. His left eye socket throbbed with every heartbeat. His left arm was starting to go numb, the bones grinding together.

...And then, finally, the creature fell.

Its body crumpled to the ground, its hollow pits going dark, its skeletal arms falling still. Black blood pooled around it, mixing with the ash and the dirt. The temperature returned to normal, and the cold that had been pressing down on Roran’s shoulders lifted.

Roran stood over the corpse, his chest heaving, his body breaking.

...I am dying, he realized.

But he was not dead yet.

He felt Leo’s mana signature in the distance. It was low and fading. He could feel the boy’s pain, his fear, his desperation.

Hold on, kid, he thought. I am coming!

He ran toward the orphanage.

_

The blade that was meant to end Leo’s life stopped an inch from his face.

It stopped because another blade had met it in mid-air, the impact sending sparks flying through the ruined orphanage. The sound of steel striking steel echoed off the broken walls like a thunderclap, and for a moment, everyone froze.

Roran stood between Leo and Kael.

His body was a map of agony. His left arm hung at his side, shattered and useless, the bones broken in so many places that the limb looked more like a rope than an arm.

Blood dripped from the tips of his fingers and splattered against the floor in a steady, rhythmic pattern. His chest was torn open, a hole the size of a fist gaping just below his collarbone, and with every breath he took, fresh blood bubbled up from the wound and ran down his stomach.

His left eye was gone—not closed, but gone, the socket empty and dark, the skin around it burned and blackened.

But he was... standing.

His right hand gripped his sword with a strength that should not have been possible, and his remaining eye was fixed on Kael with an intensity that made the younger man take a step back.

Leo stared at the broad back in front of him. The worn leather coat stained with smoke and blood.

”...Roran,” he whispered. The name came out broken, barely audible, but Roran heard it.

”Stay down, Leo,” Roran said without turning around. His voice was rough, scraped raw from screaming, but it was steady. ”...You have done enough.”

Kael’s hollow eyes widened. His sword trembled in his hand. ”How?” His voice was barely a whisper, thick with disbelief. ”How are you alive? You should be dead. That thing—the Hollow King—you could not have defeated it alone. You should be dead.”

Roran’s remaining eye flickered. His lips curved into a grin. ”How else do you think I am alive?” he said. ”I killed that monster. That is how I am alive.”

Kael shook his head slowly, his dark hair falling across his scarred cheek. ”No. That is not possible. It was Grade 7. You could not have—”

”Yet here I am...”

Kael’s hollow eyes narrowed. His sword trembled in his hand, but he did not lower it. He stared at Roran’s broken body.

Then his expression flickered.

His head tilted slightly, as if he was listening to something that no one else could hear. His lips pressed together, and his eyes widened just a fraction. Morana’s voice was in his mind, cold and sharp, whispering words that made his blood run cold.

He forced a breakthrough, she said. Look at him. His body is falling apart and his core cannot handle the power. He is using his life force just to stand.

Kael’s jaw tightened.

He looked at Roran again, and this time, he saw what Morana was telling him. The way Roran’s stand their, he was in pain and barely standing.

”...You forced a breakthrough,” Kael said, his voice low. ”You pushed yourself past your limit. That is the only way you could have killed that thing.”

Roran’s grin did not waver. ”Took you long enough to figure it out.”

”Do you know what that means?” Kael’s voice rose, trembling with something that might have been anger or fear.

”A forced breakthrough is not a gift. It is a death sentence. Your body cannot handle the power. You will die if you don’t make that power yours. You are burning through your life force just to stay standing. Every second you remain at this rank, your body breaks apart a little more. Your organs are failing. Your core is cracking. You are killing yourself.”

Roran shrugged with his one good shoulder. ”I know, but who cares?”

Kael stared at him. ”You know? You know and you still did it?”

Roran gave him an annoyed look. ”Don’t act like you care for me. Its all because of you, I had to do. I had to force a breakthrough just to kill that bastard monster. Otherwise, That thing was going to kill everyone I care about. Everyone I have left. So I made a choice. I traded my life for theirs.”

Kael’s face twisted. ”You are insane but your body is falling. Do you think you can kill us?”

”Maybe, you are right my body is dying,” Roran raised his sword. ”But I have enough left to finish all of you.”

Kael’s hands trembled. ”You are bluffing.”

”Try me,” Roran challenged, his presence expanding until the shadow minions were pressed into the floorboards by sheer pressure.

He turned his head slightly, his remaining eye softening as it landed on Leo.

The boy was on the ground, his right arm gone, his body covered in blood. His face was pale, and his eyes were wide with shock and grief. Mia was there too, her face wet with tears.

The children were huddled in the corner, crying, shaking, their small bodies pressed together for comfort.

”Listen to me, Leo,” he said. ”...You have heard of the Arcane Realm, yes? The power that mages unlock when they reach a certain rank? A world of their own making, built from their affinities and their will.”

Leo nodded, not understanding where this was going.

”Swordsmen have something similar,” Roran continued. ”...It is called a Soul Dominion. It is not a spell or a technique. It is your soul, your will, your very existence projected into reality. It is a world inside yourself that you can bring out into the world.”

He raised his remaining hand and pointed at his chest.

”Not everyone can unlock it. It takes years or maybe longer. Some people never do. But I did. I built mine from the ashes of everything I lost. And today, I... will show it to you.”

He looked at Leo one last time.

”This is my last lesson, Leo. Watch me and learn and when you are ready, build your own. Do not make the same mistakes I did. Build it from the start and don’t wait until you reached the grandmaster rank. Make your soul and will stronger and build it. Let it grow with you. Do not wait until you have lost everything to finally understand what you have.”

Leo understand why he is saying this and his heart sank. He did know about the Soul Dominion. He had played the game but here that was not the problem but it was Roran.

He was... dying.

He had a forced breakthrough, means he used his body and lifespan as a sacrifice just to gain tempeoroary power.

Tears streamed down his face. ”Stop it you old bastard! You are dying... Master.”

Roran’s eyebrow rose. A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his bloody face, followed by a real, bittersweet smile. ”The first time you called me that,”

he said. ”...And probably the last.”

Leo’s voice broke. ”Stop it bastard! Please, I beg you. I will call you master as many times you want but stop doing it! You know you will die. Why? Just why are you doing this?”

Roran felt his heart clench but pressed his lips together and turned to face Kael and the demons. ”Watch me, Leo. This is your last lesson from your master.”

He raised his sword.

”Soul Dominion: The Broken Garden.”

The world changed.

The orphanage disappeared. The broken walls, the blood-soaked floor, the crackling flames—all of it faded away, replaced by something else.

Something... beautiful.

A field of wildflowers stretched out in every direction, as far as the eye could see. The flowers were not perfect. Some were broken, their petals torn and scattered across the ground.

Some were wilted, their stems bent and their colors faded. Some were growing from cracks in the earth, pushing through scars in the soil, reaching for a light that seemed just out of reach.

But they were there.

They were alive.

In the center of the field stood a single willow tree, its branches swaying gently in a wind that did not exist. The bark was scarred and weathered, and some of the branches were broken, hanging at odd angles.

But the tree still stood. It had not fallen.

Beneath the tree were two graves. The stones were smooth and grey, scrubbed clean of moss and dirt. Wildflowers grew around the base of each grave, their petals glowing faintly in the golden light that poured down from above.

The sky above was cracked. Not broken or falling.

Just... cracked.

Long, thin lines ran across the dome of the sky like the scars on Roran’s body, and through those cracks, golden light poured down, warm and soft, illuminating the field like a permanent sunset.

The ground beneath was scarred. There were craters and cracks and places where the earth had been torn open and never fully healed. But from those scars, flowers grew. From the cracks in the soil, life emerged.

It was not perfect. It was... broken.

But it was healing.

...And it was beautiful.

Kael stared at the field, his hollow eyes wide. His sword hung at his side, forgotten. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

Morana’s face had gone pale. ”He has a Soul Dominion,” she hissed. ”How? I don’t know about this.”

Roran stood in the center of his world, his sword in his hand, his body still broken, his blood still dripping onto the flowers. But he looked different now. Lighter. Freer. The weight that had been pressing down on his shoulders for years seemed to have lifted.

He raised his sword.

”One last strike,” he said. ”Everything I am!”

He gripped his sword with both hands, the bones grinding together, the pain etched on his face. He did not scream. He just held on.

”Forgive me, Clara...,” he whispered. ”I... will be with you soon.”

He swung his sword.

The world didn’t just explode, it collapsed into a single line of blinding, golden light.

Morana shrieked and moved faster than anyone could see.

Her hands flew up, and a barrier of dark energy erupted around her and the demons. The barrier crackled and hissed as Roran’s attack slammed into it, and for a moment, it looked like it might break. Cracks spread across its surface, and Morana screamed, pouring more power into it, forcing it to hold.

It held on but barely.

The shadow minions were not so lucky. Half of them were vaporized instantly, their bodies turning to ash and scattering on the wind. The others were thrown across the room, their bodies broken, their screams cut short.

Silla and Grog were knocked off their feet. Silla landed hard, her head striking the ground, blood pouring from her ears. Grog rolled across the ground, his arm bent in very bad angle.

Kael stumbled back, his hand clutching his chest, his face pale. Blood dripped from his nose and his ears, and his hollow eyes were wide with shock.

Morana screamed. Her left arm hung at a wrong angle, shattered by the force of the attack. Blood poured from her mouth and her nose and her ears, and her face was twisted with rage.

”You fool!” she spat at Roran. ”You could have killed us all!”

When the light faded, the Dominion was gone. They were back in the ruins of the orphanage.

Roran stood in the center of the destruction, his body barely holding together. His left arm was gone now—not shattered, but gone, severed at the shoulder by the force of his own attack. His chest was a ruin of blood and bone, and Leo could see his heart beating through the gaping wound.

His remaining eye was fading, the light in it dimming with every passing second.

The world around him was blurry at the edges, and sounds came to him as if from a great distance. He could hear the children crying. He could hear the crackle of flames outside.

But all of it felt far away, like he was already leaving.

He was still standing, but his body had given up. He could feel it in the way his legs trembled, in the way his remaining hand could barely hold his sword.

...And still, they were alive.

His eye drifted to the woman standing behind Kael. She was pale, with long black hair and purple eyes that glowed faintly in the dim light. Her left arm hung at a wrong angle, shattered by the force of his attack. Blood dripped from her nose and her ears and her mouth.

She stopped my attack, he thought. Who is she?

He had never seen her before. He did not know her name. But he could feel her power—cold and wrong, pressing against his senses like a weight he could not shake. She had thrown up a barrier of dark energy at the last moment, and it had held.

...I failed. I could not finish them.

He looked at Leo.

The boy was on the ground. His face was pale, and his eyes were wide with shock and grief.

Roran’s remaining eye softened.

”...Leo,” he said. His voice was barely a whisper now, thin and fragile, like paper about to crumble. ”...I am sorry. I could not protect everyone...”

Leo tried to speak, but the words would not come. His throat was tight, and his eyes were burning, and all he could do was stare at the man who had saved him, who had trained him, who had believed in him when no one else did.

”It is okay,” Roran said, a sad smile crossed his bloody face. ”...You will be stronger than me. You will become a stronger person and a good swordsman. I know it. So... forgive me.”

”Kill him!” Morana screamed, her voice high and panicked. ”He’s empty! Kill him now!”

Kael, Silla, and Grog lunged at once, driven by fear and fury. They fell upon Roran like wolves on a wounded deer.

Shink! Shink! Shink!

Kael’s sword drove through Roran’s chest, piercing his heart, the blade emerging from his back in a spray of blood. Silla’s blade cut across his back, opening a wound from his shoulder to his hip. Grog’s fist shattered his remaining ribs, and Leo heard them crack from where he sat.

Roran tried to swing, but his hand was gone. He tried to stand, but his legs failed. He fell to his knees, his blood pooling with the blood of the children he had died to save.

Kael stood over him, his sword still buried in Roran’s chest. He looked down at his former master, and for a moment, something flickered in his hollow eyes. Pain? Regret?

Something that might have been... love.

”...It did not have to be this way,” Kael said.

Roran looked up, his one eye dimming. ”Yes... it did.”

Kael pulled his sword free and raised it high.

”NO!” Leo screamed, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony.

The blade came down in a silver arc.

Roran’s head rolled across the floorboards. It stopped directly at Leo’s feet, the remaining eye still open, staring into Leo’s soul with a calm, silent expectation. His lips were slightly parted, frozen in the middle of a word Leo would never hear. Blood dripped from his severed neck and pooled on the floor.

A necklace slipped from his neck—a thin chain with a small, tarnished locket. The silver was darkened with age, and the surface was plain and unadorned. Inside, a faded portrait of Clara smiled at no one.

It fell to the floor beside his head, landing in the pool of blood with a soft splash.

Leo stared at Roran’s face.

He could not scream. He could not cry. He could not do anything except sit there, broken and helpless, and watch the blood of the man who had saved him pool at his feet.

...Roran?

The name echoed in his head, but his lips would not move.

The flames crackled outside. The children cried in the corner. The demons stood over the body of the man who had tried to save them all.

...And Leo sat in the blood of his master, and he did not make a sound.