The Anomaly's Path

The village of Wayford had been dead for seven days.

The fires had burned themselves out by the third morning, leaving nothing behind but blackened timber and walls that leaned at angles no builder would ever trust.

The smoke had lingered for two more days after that, a thick grey blanket that clung to the treetops and refused to leave, as if the village itself was still trying to exhale.

By the fifth day, the smell had become unbearable—not the sharp bite of smoke anymore, but something heavier, sweeter, the kind of scent that made your stomach turn and your throat close up.

The Royal Knights had arrived on the sixth day.

A squad of twelve, dispatched from the nearest garrison after a merchant caravan had stumbled upon the edge of the destruction and refused to go any further. The merchants had seen the smoke first, rising in thin grey pillars against a pale morning sky.

Then they had seen the bodies, lying in the fields outside the village gates, their faces frozen in expressions that the merchants would carry with them for the rest of their lives. Then they had seen the silence—the terrible, complete silence of a place where no one was left to scream.

Now, on the seventh day, the knights were searching.

"By the gods," one of them muttered, pulling his collar up over his nose. The gesture did little to block out the smell. Nothing could block out the smell at this point. "What happened here?"

"Monsters," another said, kneeling beside a body to examine the wounds. The man’s chest had been torn open, the ribs snapped outward like the petals of a grotesque flower. "Look at the claws. The teeth."

"But the bodies with the clean cuts?" a third knight asked, pointing to a woman who lay slumped against a wall. Her throat had been cut with something sharp—a blade, not a claw. The wound was too clean, too precise.

No one answered that question.

They had heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had heard the rumors by now.

A monster wave had swept through the eastern territories, tearing through villages like a scythe through wheat. Whole towns wiped out overnight. No survivors. No witnesses. Just... bodies and ash and the lingering smell of death.

That was the official story, the one that would go into the reports, that would be told to the families who would never see their loved ones again.

But the rumors had said nothing about blades.

The knights spread out across the ruins, moving in pairs, swords drawn, eyes scanning the shadows for anything that might still be alive. Their boots crunched on broken glass and charred wood, and the sound echoed off the crumbling walls like footsteps in a tomb.

At the edge of the group, a young knight walked alone.

His name was Ren.

His name was Ren. He had joined the Royal Knights three months ago, fresh from the academy, still carrying the scent of ink and parchment on his fingers. His uniform was still new, the creases still sharp, the leather still stiff. He had never seen a dead body before this assignment. He had certainly never seen anything like this.

His hands were shaking, and he could not make them stop.

"First time?" an older knight asked, falling into step beside him. The man’s name was Corin. His face was weathered and scarred, his eyes tired but kind. He had been a knight for longer than Ren had been alive.

Ren nodded.

Corin clapped him on the shoulder, a heavy, friendly gesture that nearly made Ren stumble. "It gets easier."

"...Does it?" Ren asked, his voice coming out smaller than he intended.

Corin’s smile faded. "No...," he said. "It gets worse, but you learn to pretend."

He reached out and ruffled Ren’s hair with a gloved hand, messing up the careful neatness that Ren had spent so long perfecting. The other knights nearby laughed—a low, rumbling sound that echoed off the ruined walls and faded into the grey morning air.

"Come on, rookie," Corin said, grinning. "Stick with me. I will not let the ghosts get you."

Ren forced a smile. "Ghosts are not real."

"That is what I said," Corin replied, his eyes glinting with dark humor. "...Then I saw a man take an arrow to the chest and keep fighting for ten more steps. Tell me that was not a ghost."

The other knights laughed again. Ren tried to laugh too, but the sound came out hollow and weak, swallowed by the heavy silence of the dead village.

He did not realize he had wandered away from the group until he turned around and saw no one.

The ruins stretched out around him in every direction, empty and silent, the houses leaning at drunken angles, their roofs collapsed, their doors hanging open like mouths frozen mid-scream.

The morning sun was pale and weak, barely penetrating the grey haze that hung over the village, and the shadows between the buildings were deep and dark and full of things that Ren did not want to think about.

"...Sir?" he called out, his voice trembling. "Captain?"

No answer.

The wind had died. The birds had stopped singing. Even the distant sounds of the other knights had faded, swallowed by the oppressive stillness of the place. The only sound was the soft crunch of his own boots on the ash-covered ground.

He swallowed hard and kept walking.

The air grew colder with every step.

It was not the cold of winter, the kind that seeped through your coat and made you shiver and curse. It was a different cold.

A wrong... cold.

The kind of cold that came from something missing, something absent, something that should have been there but was not.

A thin mist began to curl around his ankles.

It was black.

Dark as ink. It rose from the ground like smoke from a fire that had been burning for a very long time, and it did not smell like smoke or ash or anything he had ever smelled before. It smelled like old grief.

Like tears shed too many years ago, wounds that had never healed.

Ren stopped.

The mist rose higher, wrapping around his legs, his waist, his chest. It was not cold. It was not warm. It was nothing. Just absence, emptiness. The feeling of something that should have been there but was not.

He wanted to run. His legs would not move.

Ahead of him, the mist thickened, coalescing into a shape.

A figure.

A man, kneeling on the ground, his body shrouded in black mist that clung to him like it did not want to let go. Black flames flickered at the edges of the figure’s form, dark as the mist itself, crawling up his arms and his shoulders and his back like vines climbing a wall.

They did not burn or crackle. They just existed, feeding on nothing, consuming nothing, burning nothing.

The figure’s clothes were torn and bloodstained, hanging off his body in ragged strips. His body was surprisingly intact—no missing limbs, no gaping wounds, no signs of the violence that must have happened here.

Beneath the torn fabric, Ren could see the lean, defined muscles of someone who had trained relentlessly, the body of a fighter.

But his face was pale, drained of color, as if all the blood had been pulled out of him. Dark circles ringed his closed eyes, and his lips were cracked and dry.

Yet despite the paleness, despite the exhaustion etched into every line of his features, there was something striking about him. His face was beautiful in the way that a blade was beautiful—sharp, angular, and dangerous even in stillness.

He was breathing. Ren could see the faint rise and fall of his chest, the shallow movement of his shoulders.

He is alive

, Ren thought. How is he alive? How did he survive this carnage? Who is he? The black mist curled around the figure’s face, caressing his cheeks like a lover, and the black flames flickered once, twice, then settled back into their slow, silent dance.

They gave no heat and made no sound. They just existed, clinging to him like a second skin, wrapping around his body as if they were protecting him from the world—or perhaps keeping the world away from him.

Ren’s breath caught in his throat.

Is he a ghost...?, he thought. A real ghost. The dead come back to haunt the living.

He turned and ran.

His feet slipped on the ash-covered ground, and he fell, his hands scraping against the broken cobblestones. He scrambled back up, his heart pounding, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps, and ran again. He did not look back.

He crashed into someone.

They both stumbled. Ren fell to the ground, his palms stinging, his knees aching, his breath gone. He looked up.

A woman stood over him.

She was tall, with long black hair that fell down her back like a river of ink, straight and shining even in the pale grey light. Her eyes were a deep, electric blue, sharp and clear, and they were looking at him with an expression that was not quite concern and not quite curiosity.

Her uniform marked her as a Captain of the Royal Knights—a rank that Ren had only ever seen from a distance, at ceremonies and briefings, never up close like this.

She was beautiful in the way that a blade was beautiful. Cold, sharp and dangerous.

"C-Captain! A ghost," Ren gasped, his voice high and trembling. "I saw a ghost. Back there. In the mist."

The Captain tilted her head. She did not tell him he was being foolish. She just looked at him with those cold blue eyes and waited.

"...Where?" she asked.

Ren pointed toward the mist, toward the place where the figure still knelt, shrouded in black flames and darker shadows.

The Captain walked past him.

She did not draw her sword. She just walked, her boots silent on the ash, her long black hair swaying gently behind her. The mist parted around her as she walked, as if it recognized her and chose to let her through. The black flames flickered, dimmed, then flared again, casting strange shadows across her face.

The Captain stopped in front of the figure.

She stood there for a long moment, her blue eyes fixed on the kneeling man, her expression unreadable. The black mist curled around her boots, and the black flames reflected in her eyes, and she did not move.

Then she turned to Ren.

"He is not a ghost," she said. Her voice was calm, steady, the voice of someone who had seen too much to be surprised by anything anymore.

Ren stared at her.

"He is human," she continued. "...And he is alive."

_

Darkness.

It was all I could see.

It pressed against my eyes from every direction, thick and heavy, like a blanket made of lead. There was no up and no down, no left and no right, no beginning and no end.

Just... darkness. Endless, suffocating, eternal darkness.

I tried to move. I could not feel my limbs.

I tried to speak. I could not feel my mouth.

I tried to breathe. I could not feel my lungs.

...Am I dead?

The thought came to me soft and small, like a whisper in a storm. I did not know if I wanted the answer to be yes or no. Both options felt like failures. Both options felt like endings.

Is this what death feels like a second time?

Nothing?

Just darkness?

No pain?

No fear?

Just... nothing?

I floated there for a long time. Or maybe it was a short time. I could not tell. Time did not exist in the darkness. There was only the darkness and me and the question that would not leave, scratching at the inside of my skull like a trapped animal.

Is this death?

A sound.

Laughter.

Not the cruel laughter of the demons. This was different. This was bright and warm.

The darkness flickered.

A face appeared in front of me. Then another. Then another.

Lily. Tobin. Sera.

The other children from the orphanage. They were smiling, their cheeks flushed, their eyes bright with the joy of being alive. They were wearing the same clothes they had worn on the night of the festival—bright colors, clean fabrics, ribbons in their hair.

"Demon King Leo!" Lily grabbed my hand, her small fingers warm and sticky with honey. "Demon King Leo, come on! They are selling honey cakes!"

"...Slow down," I said. My voice sounded strange. Far away. Like it was coming from the other end of a long tunnel. "I am coming."

Tobin grabbed my other hand. "You are too slow, old man!"

Sera did not say anything. She just walked beside me, she was smiling too.

The street was full of people.

Lanterns hung from every post, their paper shells glowing soft yellow in the fading light. The smell of roasting meat and fresh bread filled the air, warm and inviting. Music played somewhere in the distance—a lute, maybe, or a flute—and children ran between the legs of adults, chasing each other with sticks and laughter.

The festival.

...Of course, I thought. The festival. I almost forgot.

Mia was standing by the door of the orphanage, her arms crossed, her blue eyes watching me with that familiar sharpness. She was wearing a simple blue dress, and her hair was pulled back from her face.

"What are you staring at, you fool?" she said.

I opened my mouth to answer. but, a hand clapped me on the shoulder.

"Hey there, kid."

I turned.

Roran stood behind me.

He looked exactly as I remembered him—messy hair, wrinkled clothes, a lazy grin on his face that said he knew something I did not. His eyes were clear and alive, and there was color in his cheeks, and his left arm was whole and his left eye was bright and there was no blood on his coat.

"...Master," I said.

Roran’s eyebrow rose. "Master? Since when do you call me that?"

I did not say anything.

He laughed and ruffled my hair, the way he always did, rough and affectionate. "Well, do not get used to it. I am still the same old drunk you love to hate."

Elder Marta was sitting on the porch of the orphanage, a cup of tea in her hands, watching the children play. Her white dress was clean and white, unstained, and her eyes were warm and kind, and she smiled at me when she saw me looking.

...This is a dream, I thought. It has to be a dream.

But it felt so... real.

"Come on, Leo!" Lily tugged at my hand. "Let us go buy honey cakes!"

"Yeah!" Tobin tugged at my other hand. "Before they sell out!"

I laughed. "Okay, okay. I am... coming."

We walked through the festival together. The kids laughed and ran ahead, and I followed, and for a moment, everything felt right. Everything felt normal. The lanterns glowed. The music played. The smell of honey cakes filled the air.

Maybe it is not a dream, I thought. Maybe... everything that happened was the dream. I am still in the festival, maybe I never left...

I bought honey cakes for everyone. The kids ate them with sticky fingers and messy faces, laughing and shoving each other. Mia took a small bite and pretended she did not like it, but I saw her go back for a second piece when she thought no one was looking.

I turned to say something to Roran.

He was not there.

I looked around.

The street was empty.

The lanterns had gone dark, their paper shells cold and grey. The music had stopped, leaving behind a silence that was louder than any sound. The smell of honey cakes had faded, replaced by something else.

"Tobin?" I called out. "Lily? Sera?"

No answer.

"Mia? Marta? Roran?"

Silence.

I looked down at my feet.

I was standing in a pool of blood.

It was everywhere. On the ground, splattered across the broken walls, pooled in cracks and craters like crimson water after a storm. The smell of iron filled my nose, thick and sweet, and I felt bile rise in my throat.

The bodies were everywhere.

Maya lay on the ground a few feet away, her small body crumpled, her arms and legs bent at angles that should not have been possible.

Her eyes were hollow—not closed, not empty, but hollow, as if something had reached inside her and scooped out everything that made her who she was. Blood poured from a wound in her chest, pooling beneath her, spreading across the cobblestones like spilled wine.

Save me, Leo...

Marta was on her knees, her white dress soaked red from her chest down to her knees. Her hands were still raised, as if in prayer, and her lips were parted, frozen in the middle of a word I would never hear.

You could have stopped them.

Torben was lying in the street, his chest torn open, his forge burning behind him. The flames reflected off his pale face, making him look like he was still alive, like he might sit up at any moment and say something gruff about lazy customers who did not appreciate good steel.

You should have died instead of us.

Roran stood at the edge of the carnage.

His left arm was gone. His left eye was gone. Blood poured from the hole in his chest, dark and thick, pooling at his feet. His remaining eye was fixed on me, and there was no warmth in it, no kindness, no affection.

...Just disappointment.

"Why?" he said. His voice was hollow, echoing, like it came from the bottom of a well. "...Why did you let me die?"

I tried to speak. No words came out.

"You were supposed to be stronger than me," he said. "You were supposed to save everyone. But... you could not even save yourself."

"...I am sorry," I whispered, my voice broke.

"Sorry is not enough."

The bodies began to move.

They crawled toward me, dragging themselves across the blood-soaked ground, their hollow eyes fixed on my face. Their hands reached for me, cold and pale, grabbing my legs, my arms, my chest.

"Why did you survive?" Maya asked. "Why did you live when we died?"

"You are weak," Marta said.

"You are worthless," Torben said.

"You are a failure," Roran said.

Their hands were cold. Their grips were tight. They pulled me down, down, down into the pool of blood, and I did not fight. I let them pull. I let them drag me under.

I am sorry.

I am sorry.

I am sorry.

The darkness swallowed me again.

I was floating.

The blood was everywhere. It filled my mouth and my nose and my lungs. I could not breathe. I could not see. I could only sink, deeper and deeper, into a darkness that had no bottom and no end.

This is what I deserve, I thought. This is what I deserve for failing everyone.

I should have died.

I should have died with them.

Why did I survive?

Why?

Why?

Why?

.

.

.

A voice cut through the darkness.

"Save me, Leo."

Mia.

"Save us, Leo."

The children.

"Please...."

I opened my eyes.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and wet, cutting tracks through the grime and dried blood. My chest heaved, and my lungs burned, and for a moment, I did not know where I was or how I had gotten there.

I was lying on my back, staring up at a ceiling that was grey and cracked. The bed beneath me was stiff and uncomfortable, the mattress thin, the sheets rough against my skin. I could hear voices somewhere in the distance, muffled and indistinct, like sounds heard from underwater.

"Mia," I whispered.

The name hung in the air like a prayer, soft and fragile, carried away by the wind.

I did not know if she could hear me. I did not know if she was still alive.

But I said her name anyway.

"Mia..."

_

Author’s Note:

Hi everyone! Author here.

We made it. One hundred Chapters.

I still remember writing Chapter 1, not knowing if anyone would even read past the first few pages. Back then, I was just a newbie writer with an idea and no idea how to execute it properly.

Looking back at those first 30 or 40 Chapters, I can see all the mistakes. The pacing was slow. The writing was rough. There were things I should have done better, scenes I should have written differently, moments that could have hit harder.

But that is how growth works. You look back at where you started, and you cringe a little. Then you keep moving forward.

With every Chapter, I have tried to do better than the last one. Some Chapters worked. Some did not. But I never stopped trying. I am still learning, still improving and still trying to become the writer I want to be.

Thank you for sticking with me through the slow parts, the rough parts, and the parts that made you want to throw your phone across the room.

Thank you for reading, for commenting, for pointing out my mistakes and laughing at my typos.

— Lost_Anomaly