The Anomaly's P Chapter 42: One Last Lesson

Chapter 42: One Last Lesson

I woke up to gray light filtering through the window and the strange sensation that sothing was different. Not bad different.

Just... different.

I lay there for a mont, staring at the ceiling, letting my body slowly rember how to move. Every muscle ached from yesterday’s training, but underneath that familiar pain, there was sothing else.

A quiet hum of energy that hadn’t been there before. The breakthrough last night had changed sothing fundantal, and I could still feel it pulsing beneath my skin.

Today was the day.

In a few hours, I’d board that jet with Mom and Mia and leave Frosthollow behind. Go ho, spend one last night in my own bed, and then face the Path Awakening trial.

I pushed myself out of bed, washed up quickly, and made my way through the quiet corridors toward the training hall. The fortress was still asleep, only a few soldiers moving through the halls with quiet purpose. My footsteps echoed off the stone walls, counting down the minutes until everything changed.

When I reached the training hall and pushed open the heavy door, I stopped.

Theron was already there.

He stood in the center of the hall with his back to , a wooden sword in each hand. Just standing there, motionless, like he’d been waiting for a while. The mana-lamps cast long shadows across the floor, and for a mont he looked less like my uncle and more like so statue carved from ice and stone.

"...You’re early," I said.

He turned to face

slowly. "I never left. Figured you might want one last session before you go."

I blinked at that. "We’re leaving in a few hours."

"I know." He tossed

a wooden katana, and I caught it—barely, the handle slapping against my palm. "That’s plenty of ti."

I looked at the sword in my hand, then back at him, trying to read whatever plan he had in mind. Theron wasn’t the type to do anything without a reason.

Every lesson, every correction, every mont of training had purpose behind it. So what was this?

"What kind of session?" I asked.

"The kind where you actually try to hit ." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a mana suppressor, fastening it around his wrist with practiced ease. "I’ll fight at your level—sa rank, sa physical limits. No techniques, no fancy skills. Just pure swordsmanship."

"You’ll use your mana. Your footwork. That skill of yours if you need it." He stepped back into a ready stance, wooden sword held loose and easy in his grip. "Show

what you’ve learned."

I raised my sword and rolled my shoulders, settling into the stance he’d drilled into

over these past weeks. Feet positioned better than before. Grip looser, more relaxed. Weight distributed evenly, ready to move in any direction.

"Ready when you are."

He moved.

Not fast. Not like before when he’d blitz

before I could react, moving faster than my eyes could track. He was matching my speed, my rank, my physical limits. But even slowed down, even holding back to my level, he moved like water—smooth and effortless and impossible to predict.

His first strike ca as a simple overhead cut, straightforward and clean. I raised my blade to block, tracking the arc of his swing, ready to et it head-on.

At the last heartbeat, his sword seed to slide off mine.

I felt the impact, felt our blades et, and then his edge was traveling along mine, redirecting, slipping past my guard until it tapped my shoulder.

I blinked. Stared at the spot where he’d hit .

"Too stiff." He pulled back and reset his stance, watching

with those pale eyes. "You’re fighting against the blade instead of letting it work with you. A sword isn’t a club—it’s supposed to be an extension of your arm, not sothing you’re wrestling with. Relax."

I reset my stance and took a breath, letting his words sink in. Then I attacked.

High cut, low cut, thrust—a combination I’d practiced hundreds of tis over these past weeks. Each movent flowed into the next, powered by muscle mory and repetition. I thought I’d gotten it right.

He flowed around each strike like I was swinging through water instead of air. His sword t mine, guided it, sent it wide without any apparent effort. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

"...Better." He circled

slowly, watching my feet, my shoulders, the way I held the blade. "But you’re still thinking in straight lines. Swords don’t move in straight lines, and neither should you."

I lunged forward, putting all my weight behind a thrust aid at his chest.

He sidestepped—not far, just a few inches. My blade passed close enough to graze his shirt.

Then I activated Starlight Steps.

I pushed off my back foot and let Starlight Steps take over. The world blurred as I moved—forward, then angling around him in a smooth diagonal that brought

to his side before he could fully turn. Another step carried

behind him, and I was already swinging before my feet finished settling.

He wasn’t there.

Sohow—I didn’t see how, didn’t track the movent—he’d turned with , matched my montum, flowed with it like we were dancing instead of fighting. My swing cut through empty air where his ribs should have been.

"Good," he said, not even breathing hard despite the exchange. "You actually moved like you ant it that ti. But you’re still thinking about the steps instead of letting them happen."

He tapped his temple with two fingers. "Your feet know the pattern by now. Trust them. Get your brain out of the way."

I reset my stance, breathing hard already, and thought about what he’d said.

He was right—I could feel it. Every ti I hesitated, every ti I thought about where my foot should go instead of just moving, I lost half a heartbeat. And in a fight, half a heartbeat was all it took to lose.

I attacked again, this ti letting Starlight Steps guide

without thinking.

My body moved on its own—pushing forward, cutting diagonally, spinning to change direction, slipping sideways out of reach. The world blurred around

as I stopped trying to control every movent and just let it happen.

For a few heartbeats, it actually worked. I was faster than before, harder to track. My strikes ca from angles he hadn’t anticipated, and my feet carried

through patterns that finally felt natural instead of forced.

I was—

He caught my blade between two fingers.

Just stopped it. Like it was nothing. Like I was a child swinging a toy.

I stared at him, frozen mid-strike, my sword trapped in his grip.

"You’re getting it." He pushed my blade aside gently, releasing it. "That’s what it should feel like."

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "You’re starting to understand."

I was breathing hard, sweat dripping down my face and stinging my eyes. But underneath the exhaustion, underneath the frustration of being caught so easily, sothing was clicking into place. The way he’d moved—the way he’d anticipated —wasn’t about speed or strength. It was about reading.

...About understanding.

He knew where I’d be before I got there because he was paying attention to the right things.

I reset my stance and ca at him again, this ti trying to do what he’d been telling

all along—stop thinking and just move. My feet found their own rhythm across the hall, pushing forward, angling around, slipping sideways, turning back without any conscious thought.

Theron tracked

the whole ti, his eyes never leaving, but I noticed sothing I hadn’t seen before. A tiny pause when I changed directions. A fraction of a second where he had to adjust.

I took advantage imdiately, circling to his blind side and driving my sword toward his ribs with everything I had.

He barely got his blade across in ti. The impact vibrated up my arms, and for once I felt real force behind his block instead of that effortless redirection he always used.

"Good!"

The word pushed

forward. I stopped thinking altogether and just let it happen. My strikes ca faster, flowing from angles I’d never tried before. He blocked, dodged, countered, and I kept coming—ducking under a swing, driving my elbow toward his chest.

He caught my arm and twisted, spinning

off balance. I used the montum to swing my blade back around toward his ribs.

This ti he knocked it aside hard enough to make

stumble. I caught myself and reset, breathing hard.

"You’re overextending when you get excited." He didn’t sound disappointed—just matter-of-fact. "You see an opening and you commit everything to it. That works against people who panic. Against soone who keeps their head, it leaves you vulnerable."

I reset my stance and breathed, letting his words sink in. He was right. Every ti I’d gotten excited, every ti I’d thought I had him, I’d overcommitted and left myself open.

I ca at him again, but this ti I held sothing back. Feinted high, then dropped low. He blocked the high strike, adjusted for the low, and I was already sowhere else, circling, looking for a real opening instead of the ones he wanted

to see.

I used Flash Instinct once.

Just once. I knew better than to push it twice, especially hours before leaving for the trial. The migraine from last ti was still a fresh mory, and I didn’t need to explain to Mom why her son couldn’t string two words together.

The mont I activated it, everything changed.

The world sharpened. Colors burned brighter, sounds clarified, and everything slowed down just enough for

to read the small tells I’d been missing before.

The tension in Theron’s shoulders told

when he was about to move. The angle of his feet showed

which direction he’d step. The slight shift in his grip gave away where his blade was going.

It felt like instinct—like I could sense where his next move would be before he made it.

I slipped under his first strike, feeling the air where it passed. When his second ca, my blade t his and slid off the way he’d taught . Before he could recover from the deflection, I drove my sword toward his shoulder and felt it connect.

His eyes widened. Just a fraction.

Then he moved.

Not fast—the suppressor kept him at my level—but precise in a way I couldn’t match. His sword ca from an angle I hadn’t anticipated, because he’d set it up three exchanges ago, building toward this mont while I was focused on the present.

In one smooth motion, he twisted my blade out of my hands.

It clattered against the stone floor, spinning to a stop sowhere in the corner, the sound echoing off the walls like a verdict.

I stood there, empty-handed, gasping for air, sweat dripping off my chin. Every muscle scread. Every joint ached. But underneath all that, sothing else was humming—the satisfaction of having actually touched him. Of having made him try.

He lowered his sword.

"That skill of yours—it’s useful." He walked over and picked up my fallen blade, holding it out to . "But you used it at the right mont, and you didn’t rely on it. You used it to create an opening, not to win the fight. That’s the difference between soone who has a tool and soone who lets the tool have them."

I took the sword from him, my hand shaking slightly.

"One more round." He stepped back into his stance. "No skill. Just you and the footwork."

I picked up my sword.

We went again—no skill, no tricks, just

and my blade and the footwork I’d been drilling for weeks.

I moved, and he moved with , the two of us flowing around each other like we were dancing to so rhythm only we could hear.

The ring of wood against wood filled the hall, steady and relentless. His blade t mine and sent it wide, but I adjusted and ca at him from another angle. He blocked and countered, forcing

back, but I kept moving, kept flowing, kept letting my feet carry

wherever they wanted to go.

I stopped thinking entirely. Stopped worrying about where my feet should land or what move should co next. I just let it happen.

And for the first ti, it felt right.

I was behind him before he finished turning. He swung where I’d been, but I was already gone. I attacked low from his left, and he blocked. I spun high to his right, and he deflected. I dropped low and swept at his legs, and he jumped over it, landing in a crouch before surging toward .

We t in the middle, blade to blade, step to step, neither of us giving ground. For one brief mont, we were equals.

Then he twisted his sword in a way I didn’t see coming, and mine shattered against the wall.

I stood there staring at the broken pieces on the floor, breathing hard, shaking with exhaustion. The two halves of the wooden blade lay at my feet like a verdict I couldn’t escape.

He wasn’t even breathing hard.

"...I lost."

"You did." He walked over and bent down, picking up the pieces. He held them out to , and I took them automatically. "But you moved like a swordsman for the first ti today. Not a fighter. A swordsman."

I looked at the broken halves in my hands. At the jagged edges where the wood had splintered.

"Your footwork finally clicked." He t my eyes, and for once there was no criticism in his gaze—just acknowledgnt. "You stopped wasting ti on thinking and hesitating. That’s the difference between soone who practices and soone who fights."

I closed my fingers around the broken wood.

"...Thank you."

He reached out and ruffled my hair—sa as before, that unexpected gentleness from soone who’d spent weeks tearing apart everything I did wrong. "Don’t die, kid."

_

I found everyone gathered near the jet an hour later, after I’d cleaned up and changed and tried to process everything that had happened in that training hall.

Mia was bouncing with energy, already bored of waiting, running circles around a patient-looking Lyra. Her voice carried across the platform, full of questions about the flight and ho.

Mom stood nearby, talking quietly with Seraphina.

The twins spotted

before anyone else.

"Leo!" Roran ca running over, Eira right behind him. "Are you really leaving now?"

I crouched down to their level. "Yeah. Got to go ho."

"But you’ll co back, right?" Eira’s eyes were wide, hopeful. "Promise?"

I looked at both of them. "Yeah. I’ll co back. Can’t have you two forgetting about ."

"We won’t!" Roran said firmly. "You’re our cousin."

Eira nodded seriously. "That ans you have to visit."

I laughed and pulled them both into a quick hug. They squeezed back, surprisingly strong for their size.

"...Take care of each other," I said as I stood up. "And don’t give your parents too much trouble."

"We won’t!" they said in unison, already sounding like they were lying.

Seraphina walked over and placed a hand on each of their shoulders, gently steering them back. "Let Leo go now. He has a long journey ahead."

She smiled at —warm and genuine, the sa smile that reminded

so much of Mom. "Safe travels, Leo."

"Thanks, Aunt Seraphina. For everything."

I turned and walked toward the jet, but stopped when I realized Theron wasn’t with the others. He stood at the edge of the platform, away from everyone, arms crossed, staring at the gray sky like it owed him sothing.

The wind pulled at his hair, but he didn’t seem to notice.

I walked over to him.

"We’re leaving now."

He nodded.

"Thanks. For everything these past weeks. For the training, for..." I trailed off, not sure how to put into words what I wanted to say. "Just... thanks."

He turned then. Looked at

for a long mont, his pale blue eyes searching my face for sothing I couldn’t na.

"...Rember what I told you. About purpose." His voice was quieter than usual, stripped of the edge he always carried. "When everything falls apart—and it will—that’s what you hold onto."

I nodded.

He reached out and ruffled my hair.

"Go on, kid. They’re waiting."

I walked toward the jet.

Behind , I heard his voice one last ti.

"Leo."

I turned. He was standing there with a small smile, the kind I’d rarely seen from him during these weeks.

"Make them proud."

I nodded, not sure what to say, and climbed aboard the jet. As we lifted into the gray sky, I watched him through the window until the clouds swallowed him whole.