The Anomaly's Path-Chapter 44: The Weight of Living

The sound of wooden training swords clashing echoed across the training grounds.

Clack—clack—CLACK!

It was early morning, the sun barely cresting over the walls of the Nightshade estate, but the training yard was already alive with movement.

Soldiers drilled in formation near the far end, their boots stomping in unison against the frozen ground. Servants hurried past with towels and water, careful not to get too close to the sparring rings.

And in the center ring, two figures moved against each other like they’d been doing this their whole lives.

Arthur Vale stepped back, reset his stance, and came at his opponent again.

His wooden sword cut through the air in a wide arc—feinting high, making the older man raise his guard, before dropping low at the last second to sweep at his legs.

The man across from him, a senior soldier named Varek with fifteen years of experience and scars to prove it, saw the feint coming and jumped back just in time. The wooden blade whistled past his shins, missing by inches.

"Good," Varek grunted, already moving forward. "But you’re too obvious with your feints. I saw that coming."

Arthur didn’t respond. Varek’s sword was already swinging toward his ribs.

He twisted, letting the blade glance off his side instead of taking the hit directly, and came back with a counter. He thrust toward Varek’s chest. Varek knocked it aside. He followed with a slash at his shoulder.

Varek raised his sword to block, wood meeting wood with a sharp crack. Arthur spun away before Varek could counter, creating distance, then came in again with another thrust—faster this time, aiming for center mass.

Varek blocked the first. Dodged the second by stepping sideways. The third caught him off guard—Arthur had aimed lower, toward his hip, and Varek barely got his blade down in time. The impact shuddered up his arm, and for a second his grip loosened.

But Varek was experienced. He recovered fast, caught Arthur’s fourth strike on his blade, and twisted hard, trying to wrench the sword away.

Arthur held on. His knuckles went white, but he held on. Instead of fighting the twist, he went with it—used the momentum to spin around, complete a full circle, and come at Varek from the other side.

Clack!

His wooden sword caught Varek right between the shoulder blades. A solid hit.

Varek stumbled forward, catching himself on one knee. For a second he just stayed there, breathing hard. Then he laughed—a loud, genuine sound that echoed across the yard.

"Damn it, kid." He pushed himself up and turned around, still grinning despite the sweat dripping down his face. "When did you get that fast?"

Arthur lowered his sword, breathing hard but steady. "About three seconds ago."

"You’re a menace." Varek walked to the edge of the ring and grabbed a towel, wiping his face and neck. "I’ve been training for fifteen years. Fifteen. I’ve fought in actual incursions, killed real monsters, survived things that would make most men quit. I’m an Elite-rank soldier, almost at Expert. And you—"

He pointed at Arthur with the towel.

"You’re what, seventeen? Eighteen? And you’re already pushing me to my limit like it’s nothing."

Arthur followed him to the benches, picking up his own towel and a water flask. "You let me win."

"The hell I did." Varek tossed the towel aside and took a long drink. When he came up for air, he was still shaking his head. "I wasn’t going easy on you, kid. Not today. I gave you everything I had, and you still caught me."

He paused, studying Arthur with something softer in his eyes. "I remember when you first came here, you know. Skinny little thing, couldn’t even hold a sword right. Look at you now."

Arthur didn’t respond. He just drank his water and stared at the ground. His gaze was distant. Unfocused. Somewhere else entirely.

Varek noticed.

He watched Arthur for a long moment—the way his jaw was set too tight, the way his eyes didn’t quite see what was in front of him. With a quiet sigh, he sat down on the bench.

"...You know," he said quietly, "you’ve got that look again."

Arthur blinked. "...What look?"

"The one you get when you’re somewhere else." His voice was calm, steady. Like he’d said this before. Like he’d noticed this before. "Figured I’d sit with you for a bit. Make sure you didn’t drift too far."

Arthur’s grip on the water flask loosened slightly. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t pull away either.

They sat in silence for a while. The training yard noise filled the space around them—shouted orders, clashing wood, boots on frozen ground. Normal sounds. Alive sounds.

Varek stared out at the soldiers, his expression thoughtful. "I’ve been watching you train for nine years now, kid. Nine years. You know that?"

Arthur glanced at him.

"I was there that day." Varek’s voice was quieter now, but not heavy. Just matter-of-fact. "When we found you. When we pulled you out of that bunker."

Arthur’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away.

Varek still didn’t look at him. Just kept staring at the soldiers, at the life happening around them. "I was barely nineteen. Green as grass. First real incursion I’d ever seen." He shook his head slowly. "Bodies everywhere. So many I stopped counting. And then we found that storage room."

The silence between them grew heavy.

"You were sitting against the wall." Varek’s voice dropped lower. "Covered in blood. Holding your sister’s hand like you were waiting for her to wake up."

Arthur’s hands curled into fists on his knees.

"I looked at you that day and thought..." Varek finally turned to face him. His eyes were wet. Just a little. "I thought there’s no way this kid makes it. No way he comes back from something like this."

Arthur stared back at him. Those gold eyes—usually so empty, so controlled—flickered with something raw.

"But you know what, Arthur?" Varek leaned forward. His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. "You proved me wrong."

Arthur’s breath caught.

"Every single day for nine years." Varek’s hand came up and gripped Arthur’s shoulder—firm, warm, anchoring. "Every time you got up. Every time you trained. Every time you kept going when anyone else would have stopped. You proved me wrong."

"..."

"You’re still here." Varek’s grip tightened. "Still standing. Still fighting. Nine years, and you haven’t let that day destroy you."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to barely a whisper.

"That’s not strength, Arthur. That’s something else. Something bigger. Something most people never find."

Arthur’s eyes burned. He blinked rapidly, jaw clenched tight.

Varek said nothing. Just sat there, solid and steady, like he’d been doing for nine years. He let go and leaned back, giving him space. Giving him time.

The training yard noise filled the silence again—shouted orders, clashing wood, boots on frozen ground. Life. Moving forward. Always moving forward.

Arthur stared at the ground for a long moment.

Then, quietly: "...Thank you, Varek."

"Anytime, kid. Anytime."

_

The mess hall was loud and warm and full of life.

Soldiers crowded around long wooden tables, talking and laughing and shoveling food into their mouths like they hadn’t eaten in days. The smell of bread and meat and something sweet filled the air, mixing with the warmth from the massive fireplace at the far end.

Arthur grabbed a tray and scanned the room.

Before he could find a spot, an arm slung around his neck from behind.

"There he is! The man of the hour!"

Arthur stumbled slightly as a grinning soldier pulled him into a rough half-hug. Rikard—one of the younger squad leaders, maybe twenty-five, with a scar across his eyebrow and an easy smile.

"Let go of me," Arthur muttered, but he didn’t actually try to pull away.

"Never!" Rikard declared, dragging him toward a table packed with soldiers. "Boys, look who finally decided to join the living!"

A chorus of greetings erupted as Arthur was deposited onto a bench. Varek was already there, halfway through his eggs, shaking his head with amusement.

"You eat like you haven’t seen food in weeks," Arthur observed, trying to recover some dignity.

Varek pointed at him with his fork, a piece of sausage impaled on the end. "Training makes you hungry. You’d know that if you actually ate more than birds do."

Arthur looked down at his modest portion. "This is plenty."

"This is what birds eat." Varek shook his head, genuinely disappointed. "Monsters need fuel, kid. Eat."

Before Arthur could respond, a woman’s voice cut in from across the table.

"Leave him alone, Varek. Not everyone needs to eat like a starving bear."

The speaker was Rina—one of the few female squad leaders, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, with close-cropped dark hair and a fighter’s build. She was smirking at Varek.

"Slander. Pure slander," Varek shot back.

"It’s not slander if it’s true."

The table erupted in laughter. Even Arthur’s lips twitched.

Rikard leaned forward, his grin turning mischievous. "So, Arthur. You’re what, seventeen now? Eighteen?"

"...Seventeen."

"Seventeen!" Rikard slapped the table. "Prime age, my friend. Prime age. You should be out there living, not just swinging a sword all day."

Arthur shrugged. "I like swinging a sword."

"We know you do." Rina rolled her eyes. "It’s basically all you do. Train, eat, sleep. Train, eat, sleep. Don’t you ever get bored?"

"No."

"You’re impossible." She shook her head, but she was smiling.

Rikard leaned in closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Look, kid. I’m saying this as a friend. You’re young. You’re talented. You’ve got that whole mysterious, brooding thing going on."

He gestured at Arthur’s face. "Girls eat that up. You should take advantage of it."

Arthur stared at him blankly. "Take advantage of what?"

"Oh, he’s clueless," someone muttered.

"Completely clueless," another agreed.

Rina snorted. "Rikard, he doesn’t even notice when the servants stare at him during training. You think he’s going to suddenly start chasing girls?"

Arthur blinked. "They stare at me?"

The table lost it.

Rikard was laughing so hard he had to grip the table to stay upright. Even Varek, usually more reserved, was chuckling.

"You’re hopeless," Rina said, wiping her eyes. "Absolutely hopeless."

Arthur frowned. "I don’t see what’s funny."

"That’s exactly what’s funny," someone called out.

More laughter.

Rikard finally composed himself, though his grin remained. "Alright, alright. Forget the servants. Let’s talk about someone closer to home."

He leaned forward, eyes glittering with mischief. "What about Lady Amelia?"

The table quieted slightly. All eyes turned to Arthur.

"She’s your friend, right? You two are always together." Rikard wiggled his eyebrows. "Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how beautiful she is."

Arthur’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. "She’s a... friend."

"Just a friend?" Rina pressed, her smirk returning.

"Yes."

"Uh-huh." Rikard nodded slowly, dragging out the word. "And that’s why you two are always in the gardens together? That’s why she comes to watch you train?"

"She’s a friend," Arthur repeated, but his voice was slightly tighter now.

Rikard pounced. "Ohhh, look at that! He’s tensing up!"

"I am not—"

"See? See?" Rikard pointed at Arthur’s face triumphantly. "He’s blushing! The monster of the training yard is actually blushing!"

Arthur’s cheeks were definitely warm now. "I’m not blushing."

"You’re totally blushing," Rina agreed, grinning.

The table erupted again.

Arthur sighed and buried his face in his hand. "...I hate all of you."

"No, you don’t," Varek said calmly, still eating his eggs.

The laughter softened into something warmer. For a moment, he just sat there, surrounded by people who—despite their teasing—actually seemed to care.

Then someone spoke up from the end of the table. A younger soldier, one Arthur didn’t know well.

"Hey, but isn’t Lady Amelia engaged? To that Celestial guy?"

The mood shifted. Arthur’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Oh yeah," another soldier added. "Leo von Celestial, right? I heard about that."

"Engaged?" Rikard’s eyebrows shot up. "I thought that fell through?"

"It did," Rina said quietly. Her eyes flicked to Arthur for just a second. "The engagement ended. A while ago."

"Good riddance," someone muttered. "That guy was a scumbag."

"Heard he tried to hit her," another added, voice lower now.

Rikard’s easy grin vanished. "That bastard actually raised his hand to Lady Amelia?"

Arthur’s hands had gone still on the table. His face was blank, controlled—but his knuckles were white.

"Didn’t Arthur step in?" someone asked. "I heard he fought him."

"He did," Rina confirmed. Her voice was careful. Measured. "Ended it pretty quickly too."

"Good." Rikard’s voice was hard. "Someone should have done it sooner. That guy’s been a disaster for years. Drinking, fighting, causing trouble everywhere. I don’t know how someone like him ended up engaged to someone like her."

"Bloodlines," Varek said flatly. "Noble politics. You know how it works."

"Yeah, well." Rikard shook his head. "Still. Lady Amelia deserves better. She’s—"

"She’s a friend," Arthur cut in. His voice was quiet, but it carried.

Everyone looked at him.

"She’s a friend," he repeated. "That’s all."

The silence stretched. Then Rina smiled—small, knowing, but not cruel.

"Sure, Arthur. Whatever you say."

Rikard opened his mouth, but Varek shot him a look that shut him up instantly.

The conversation shifted after that. Back to training, to upcoming missions, to rumors about incursions. Normal things.

But Arthur didn’t join in.

He sat there, eating mechanically, his mind somewhere else entirely.

...Leo von Celestial.

The name echoed in his head. Along with something else—a face he couldn’t quite remember. A laugh he hadn’t heard in years. Blue eyes that used to light up whenever they saw him.

They’d been friends once. The three of them. Leo, Amelia, and him. Running through the estate, getting into trouble, making promises about the future.

Then Leo awakened his core. B-rank. And everything fell apart.

Arthur pushed the thought away. Like he always did.

_

After breakfast, he walked through the estate alone.

The morning sun was warm on his face. Soldiers nodded as he passed. Servants bowed. Everyone knew who he was, even if they didn’t know why.

The Duke’s ward. The prodigy. The monster.

He’d heard all the names. Didn’t care about any of them.

His feet carried him to a familiar spot—a small garden near the back of the estate, quiet and secluded. He’d discovered it years ago, a place to escape when the memories got too loud.

He sat on a stone bench and stared at the sky.

Nine years.

Today marked nine years since that night. The night he lost everyone.

He didn’t talk about it. Didn’t think about it if he could help it. But some nights, the dreams still came—flashes of things he couldn’t quite see, sounds he couldn’t quite place, a weight in his chest he couldn’t shake.

For nine years, he’d been telling himself the same lie.

It was just a dream. Just... a bad dream.

He almost believed it sometimes.

He sighed and stood up. There was still work to do.