The Anomaly's Path-Chapter 78: The Art of the Self

The morning sun hung low, piercing the dense jungle canopy in sharp, pale green shafts of light. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and crushed ferns as Roran led the way.

He walked with a newfound lightness, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, but there was an edge to his stride that hadn’t been there before. He looked like a blade that had finally been wiped clean of rust.

"So," he said, not bothering to turn around. "You’re a katana user, right?"

"I am."

"I’ve spent my life with a long-sword. Different steel, different philosophies." He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing. "I will explain everything later. But first, you need to understand how a commoner like me reached the realm of a Grandmaster."

He stopped walking and turned to face me. A grin spread across his face, it was not a friendly grin, but a predator’s smile. It made my skin prickle; every instinct I had began to scream.

"The fastest way to grow stronger," Roran said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly tone, "...is to face death. Not just once. Not just twice. Over and over again. You push yourself to the edge, and then you push harder. You stare into the abyss until the abyss blinks."

Before I could process the words, he reached into his weathered coat and tossed a wooden practice sword at me. I caught it out of the air, noting it felt expertly balanced—far better than the cheap trainers I had used before.

"What—"

Roran didn’t give me the luxury of a question.

He closed the distance between us in a heartbeat, his wooden sword swinging toward my head. I did not have time to think or make a plan. My body moved on its own, spinning to the side, bringing my blade up to block.

Clack!

The impact shuddered through my arms. I stumbled back, my heart pounding.

"What the hell...?!" I shouted. "At least give me a warning!"

Roran’s grin only widened. "Your enemies won’t send you a letter before they slit your throat, kid."

He came at me again.

This time, I was ready. I met his strike head-on, our wooden blades clashing with a sharp crack. He was strong—stronger than me—but I did not try to match his strength. I let his blade slide off mine, redirecting the force, just like Theron had taught me.

Roran’s eyes flickered with something that might have been surprise. "Not bad. You’ve been paying attention."

He didn’t slow down. He pressed forward, his strikes becoming a blurred rhythm of violence. I dodged, parried, and countered, my body moving on instinct. The weeks of training had not been wasted. My footwork was smoother, my reflexes sharper.

I could feel Flash Instinct humming in the back of my mind, guiding my movements.

But Roran was a relentless tide.

He did not give me a moment to breathe. Each strike was harder than the last, each feint more deceptive. He was not just testing my skills—he was pushing me to my limit.

"Use your mana, you idiot!" he shouted.

I gritted my teeth and reached for my core. The mana surged through my veins, flooding my limbs with warmth. I pushed it into my legs, into my arms, into the blade.

My next strike was faster. Roran blocked it, but I saw his eyes widen slightly. Good.

I pressed my advantage, swinging low, then high, then low again. The black lightning crackled along the edge of my wooden blade, leaving trails of dark energy in the air. Roran danced around my strikes, his movements fluid and precise, but he was not attacking anymore.

He was watching.

"Better," he grunted. "But you’re still thinking too much. A sword isn’t a tool for logic, Leo. It is a physical manifestation of your will."

He moved again—faster than my eyes could follow. A shadow appeared at my side, the tip of his blade aimed squarely at my ribs. I twisted violently, the wood grazing my tunic as I lunged away.

"Huff... huff..."

"You’re still breathing," Roran noted, stepping back and lowering his weapon. "That’s a start."

I leaned against a tree, gasping for air. Sweat dripped down my face, and my arms were shaking. My mana reserves were nearly empty.

"You... you are a demon," I wheezed. "Who attacks someone like that?"

Roran shrugged. "Someone who wants you to survive."

He gestured to a fallen log and sat down. I collapsed onto the roots of a tree, trying to convince my heart to slow down.

"Do you know the essence of battle?" he asked, looking up at the green ceiling above us.

I looked at him. "What?"

"The essence of battle," he repeated. "What do you think it is?"

I thought about it. "...Winning?"

"Winning is the result. The essence is death." He leaned back, his expression turning solemn. "Not the act of killing—the acceptance of it. The moment you draw steel and you step onto a battlefield, you are walking into the arms of death. You can fight it. You can rage against it. But you cannot escape it."

I listened.

"Most people spend their lives running from that truth. But the survivors? They are the ones who have made peace with it. The people who survive are not the strongest," he continued. "They are not the fastest or the most skilled. They are the ones who have made peace with death. They do not fear it. They do not run from it. They embrace it."

He looked at me. "That is the path of killing, Leo. It is not a path for the faint of heart. It is not a path for people who want to be heroes. It is a path for people who are willing to sacrifice everything—including themselves—for the sake of their purpose."

"Is that why you quit?" I asked softly. "Because you lost your purpose?"

Roran went quiet. The jungle seemed to grow silent with him. "I stopped because I let my grief become my master. I forgot why I picked up a sword in the first place I became... nothing."

He looked at me.

"Do not make the same mistake, kid. Find your purpose. Hold onto it. Let it guide you. Otherwise, you will end up like me."

I did not know what to say to that.

He stood up and stretched, the heavy atmosphere breaking. "Come on. We are not done yet."

I groaned but pushed myself to my feet.

"One more thing," Roran said, turning to face me. "You asked about my sword art."

I looked at him. "The one you used back then?"

"I made it myself."

I stared at him. "You... what?"

"I made it myself," he repeated, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. "I carved it out of the blood of my enemies and the bodies of my brothers. My sword art is rough and ugly. It was made for killing, not for show. I call it the Bloody Hound’s Fang."

I stared at him in disbelief. "You created your own art? From scratch?"

"I had to. And that’s what I want for you."

I shook my head. "I cannot do that. I am not—"

"You are." Roran cut me off. "I am a commoner, Leo. I had no family name, no noble blood, no inherited techniques. I created my art through trial and error, through blood and sweat and tears. And you are a noble. You have talent. You have resources. You have potential."

He stepped closer, his shadow falling over me. "A sword art should be a mirror of its owner. I chose the path of killing, and my art reflects that. It is rough, unpredictable, and deadly. It is not beautiful. It is not elegant. It is functional."

He pointed at me. "What do you want your sword to do? Do you want it to protect? To slaughter? To seek truth?"

I opened my mouth, but no sound came. I realized I didn’t have an answer yet.

"You can inherit someone else’s art," Roran continued. "You can learn their techniques and copy their movements. But that will never be truly yours. It will always be borrowed. It will never fit you perfectly."

He crossed his arms.

"I want you to create an art for yourself. One that suits your body, your mind, your affinities. One that no one else can use."

I thought about his words. I remembered my uncle Theron, who had created the Starlight Steps, and the way he had looked at me when he asked about my purpose. He had told me something similar—to hold onto my purpose and find my own path.

"...How do I even start?" I argued. "I do not know anything. I have only been training for a few months. I barely know how to hold a sword properly."

Roran nodded slowly. "That is true. But you have something that cannot be taught."

"...What?"

"Will," he said. "You have the will to keep going, even when everything is against you. That is the foundation of any great sword art."

"Here is what you need to do. Watch other fighters. Learn from them. Fight them. Understand their patterns, their rhythms, their weaknesses. Absorb what works for you and discard what does not. And then, when you have gathered enough experience, look inside yourself."

He tapped his chest. "Find out what you want. What do you want your sword to do? What do you want it to represent? What is your purpose?" 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

I thought about my purpose.

He headed deeper into the brush, his wooden sword resting on his shoulder. "Don’t expect it to happen tonight. It took me a decade of war to find the Fang. But keep your eyes open. The world is a library of techniques if you know how to read it."

I took a deep breath, gripped the wooden katana, and pushed myself to my feet. The sun was rising, burning away the mist of the jungle, and for the first time, the path ahead didn’t look like a maze.

It looked like a challenge.

"Wait up, old man!" I shouted, jogging after him.

_

Author’s Note:

Hey everyone. I know some of you might not have enjoyed the backstory, and I understand that. Honestly, I do not want my readers to pay money just to read something that feels like a waste of time.

I will make sure something like this does not happen again in the future. There will be no more long backstories for a while.

Now is Leo’s time to progress. The pacing will be a bit faster from here on, and things will get more interesting. Some lore will be dropped too.

Thank you for sticking with the story.