The Anomaly's Path

The jungle was alive with morning light.

Sunbeams pierced through the canopy, painting golden patterns on the forest floor. Birds called in the distance. Insects hummed their endless songs.

...And somewhere nearby, water flowed over smooth stones, a peaceful sound that carried through the trees.

A girl walked through the undergrowth, humming softly to herself.

She was maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen—hard to tell. Her black hair fell past her shoulders in waves that caught the dappled sunlight. Her eyes were a warm amber, almost golden in certain light, focused and alert as she scanned her surroundings.

She wore a simple dress, practical and patched in a few places, with a small pouch at her waist and a larger basket woven from vines hanging from her arm.

Despite her age, there was something in the way she moved that spoke of someone who had grown up fast.

Someone who had learned to be careful, to be aware, to survive.

She’d been coming to this part of the jungle for as long as she could remember. She knew which berries were safe, which roots could be eaten, which plants could heal. She knew the ones that soothed fever, the ones that stopped bleeding, the ones that helped wounds close faster.

She had to know. The little ones were counting on her.

She knelt beside a cluster of plants with broad green leaves and tiny white flowers. Her fingers traced the edges of the petals, checking for the right texture.

”Perfect,” she whispered, a small smile tugging at her lips. ”These are ready.”

She pulled a small, worn knife from her pouch and began cutting the leaves with quick, steady strokes. She worked with the kind of focus that only comes from years of practice.

She worked her way through the rest of the clearing, gathering herbs and plants with the same careful attention she’d learned from her mother. Fever root here, woundleaf there, and some painwort—the old folks were always complaining about their aches.

Her basket was almost too heavy to carry by the time she stopped to wipe her face.

”Almost done,” she murmured to herself. ”Just need some fever root and then—”

Grrrr!

Her stomach interrupted with a loud, insistent growl that seemed to echo off the trees.

She froze. Her cheeks flushed a deep red, and she glanced around quickly, even though she knew no one was there. It was just her and the jungle, but she still felt caught somehow, like the birds in the canopy above were laughing at her.

Her eyes landed on a bush heavy with dark purple berries nearby.

”...Okay.” She cleared her throat, trying to recover whatever dignity she had left. ”Maybe berries first.”

She popped one into her mouth, the sweetness exploding across her tongue. She took a second to close her eyes and just breathe in the morning air. She filled a small corner of her bag with the fruit, already picturing the look on her siblings’ faces when she brought them home.

When her basket and pouches were finally full enough, she stood and stretched, her small frame casting a long shadow in the morning light.

”...Enough for today,” she said. ”Time to head back.”

She turned and made her way toward the stream. It was a short walk—she knew this path by heart—and soon she could see water glinting through the trees.

The stream was clear and cool, running over smooth stones and fallen branches. She set her basket down carefully, then knelt at the edge, cupped her hands, and brought water to her lips.

Cold and perfect.

She drank deeply, then sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. For a moment, she just watched the water flow past, listening to the sounds of the jungle.

Then she noticed something.

At first, it was just a dark shape drifting below the surface. She frowned, leaning closer, thinking it might be a fallen log. But the shape grew larger as the current pushed it toward the bank.

Then she saw the hand.

It was pale and limp, the fingers trailing through the water like dead weeds. Her heart stopped. The hand was attached to an arm, and the arm was attached to a body. It was floating face-down, bobbing uselessly against the rocks at the water’s edge.

For a long, frozen moment, she couldn’t move. She just stared as the body drifted closer and closer, until it bumped gently against the rocks at the edge of the stream.

Then, the ”corpse” moved.

A violent spasm shook the body. Water erupted from his mouth in a ragged cough. He rolled onto his side, gasping.

She screamed, scrambling backward into the mud. Her heart pounded. The body kept coughing, gasping—sounds that were almost words but not quite.

It was a boy.

Young, maybe seventeen or eighteen. His skin was pale, almost white, and his hair was black and matted with blood and water. His chest was a mess—deep gashes across his skin, raw and red and terrible.

The sight of it made her stomach clench, and she had to look away for a moment, pressing her hand to her mouth.

When she looked back, she forced herself to really see him. He was shirtless, and she could see every wound, every cut, every bruise covering his body like a map of suffering.

He coughed again, and more water spilled from his lips. His eyes—ocean blue, she could see now—flickered open for just a moment, unfocused and glassy.

His lips moved to say something.

”H... h...”

No sound came out. Just a whisper. Then his eyes rolled back and he went still.

The girl stared at the broken body that had washed up from the water.

Her hands were still trembling. Her whole body was shaking. She’d never seen anything like this, never seen anyone so broken, so close to death. He should be dead with wounds like that.

But he was alive.

Maybe it was his stubborn will to live, or something deeper. She didn’t know. But one thing was certain: he needed help.

That boy had been asking for help even when he was almost unconscious.

She clenched her jaw and took a deep breath.

You can do this. You have to do this. Otherwise, he’ll die.

She crawled back to him, her movements shaky but determined. Up close, the wounds on his body looked even worse—deep claw marks across his chest, more on his back, cuts and bruises everywhere.

He’d lost so much blood.

How is he even alive...? She asked herself again.

”Okay,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. ”First... first stop the bleeding.”

She tore strips of fabric from her dress, her hands working quickly despite the trembling. She wrapped them around his chest, his arms, the worst of the wounds. It wasn’t perfect. But it was more than anyone could expect from a girl her age.

Then she sat back, closed her eyes, and focused.

She wasn’t a master healer—not completely. She’d learned healing from her mother and father, from the books and things they’d left behind. She knew the basics, the theory. But she had never handled something this extreme.

”Please work,” she breathed. ”Mom... Dad... help me.”

She placed her hands over the worst of the wounds, the deep gashes across his chest.

She pulled in a deep breath, reaching for the mana in the air. It was thin here, weak and stubborn, but she gathered it anyway. She shaped it with her will, focusing every ounce of her energy on the boy’s torn flesh.

Her palms began to glow with a soft, pale light.

She pushed the mana into his body, focusing on the torn flesh, the damaged tissue, the places where blood still seeped through her makeshift bandages. She felt the wounds pulling together under her fingers, felt the bleeding slow, felt his body begin to stabilize.

However...

It was also burning her.

The heat crept up her arms and settled in her chest, squeezing her ribs until breathing felt like work. Her head started throbbing, a dull ache at first that quickly sharpened into something worse, spreading from the base of her skull to her temples.

Then her nose began to drip—warm, wet, and when she tasted copper on her lips, she knew it was blood.

But she kept going.

She felt the gash on his stomach finally close. Not healed, but sealed. The bleeding had stopped. His breathing, still shallow, had evened out.

She pulled her hands back, gasping for air. Her whole body was shaking. Sweat poured down her face, mixing with the blood dripping from her nose. Her vision blurred at the edges, and for a moment she thought she might collapse right there in the mud.

...Huff... Huff...

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, breathing in ragged gasps. The world spun around her, the trees and sky blurring together.

Stupid, she thought. You know better than to push that hard.

But she looked at the boy’s face—still pale, still unconscious, but alive—and she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

She forced herself to stand. Her legs nearly gave out—she had to grab a branch to steady herself. The basket felt twice as heavy as before, the herbs she’d gathered suddenly weighing on her like stones.

She took a breath, then another. The world was still spinning, but she didn’t have time to wait for it to stop.

”...Stay alive,” she whispered. ”Please stay alive. I’ll be back. I promise.”

Then she turned toward the village and ran.

_

[Leo’s POV]

Coming back to life felt like being pulled through a keyhole.

Everything was dark. Then, everything was heavy. I felt like I was floating in a vat of warm syrup, and every time I tried to reach the surface, I just sank deeper.

Then, I heard voices. They were muffled, like people talking through a thick wall.

”...still alive? How is he still alive after...”

”...lost so much blood... big sis said he was barely breathing...”

”...wake up soon? She said he opened his eyes once...”

”...big sis said his heart almost stopped twice...”

”...do you think he’s a monster in disguise?”

I tried to focus, to make sense of the words. But everything was fuzzy, disconnected, like my brain was wrapped in cotton.

Where am I...?

I tried to open my eyes. My eyelids felt like they weighed a thousand pounds each. I forced them open anyway.

Pain hit me like a wave. I squeezed my eyes shut, groaned, tried again. This time, they stayed open.

I was lying on something soft—not a bed, too rough. A pile of furs and blankets, maybe. Above me, a wooden ceiling. Around me, the sounds of people—movement, whispers, the crackle of a fire.

I turned my head slowly, painfully, and froze.

Six wide, unblinking eyes were staring directly at me.

Three kids were huddled together near the far wall. They looked like they were between six and ten years old, and they were watching me like I was a bomb about to go off.

I stared at them. They stared at me.

”...”

Nobody said a word for a long, awkward minute. I looked down at myself and saw that I was wrapped in more bandages than a mummy. My chest was a dull, throbbing map of pain.

The smallest one—a little girl with braids that looked like they’d survived a hurricane—slowly pointed a tiny finger at me.

”...He moved,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

”I saw it too,” the oldest boy whispered back. ”The ghost moved.”

”Is he a ghost?” the third one asked. ”He’s too pale.”

”Ghosts don’t bleed, stupid,” the girl replied. ”Maybe he’s a demon. A forest demon.”

The little girl squinted at me, leaning forward just an inch. She studied my face with a look of pure intensity. Then, her eyes went wide.

”He’s a handsome demon,” she whispered.

I felt my lip twitch. Handsome demon? I mean, I’ve always known I was a solid ten out of ten—practically a gift to the world—but calling me a demon was a bit much.

The other two gasped, their mouths falling open.

”A handsome demon?” the boy asked. ”Do demons have hair like that?”

”Look at his face! It’s too pretty,” the girl added. ”Maybe he lures people into the river by being cute.”

I opened my mouth to set the record straight, but my throat felt like I’d swallowed a handful of dry sand. I managed a rough, raspy sound that was somewhere between a cough and a sigh.

The kids suddenly lost it.

They screamed in unison, scrambling backward like I’d just grown a second head. They tripped over each other, falling into a pile of tangled limbs and dirty tunics, before crawling back against the wall.

I couldn’t help it. My lip twitched into a weak, shaky smile.

”He smiled!” the girl shrieked. ”The handsome demon is going to eat us!”

”I’m... not a demon,” I croaked. My voice was so thin I barely recognized it.

The room went dead silent again.

”It talked,” the oldest boy whispered, his eyes dinner-plate wide.

”Yes, I can talk,” I muttered, trying to find my rhythm. ”And I’m not—”

”The handsome demon speaks our language!”

”That’s way worse! That means he knows our secrets!”

I let my head fall back onto the furs with a groan. My body hurt too much for this. ”I’m not a demon... I’m a human. And an extremely divine, handsome, noble person at that. You should be honored.”

The kids exchanged a long look.

”Maybe he’s a narcissistic handsome demon?” the boy suggested.

”Yeah,” the little girl nodded solemnly. ”Normal people aren’t that full of themselves when they’re dying.”

I let out a weak laugh. It hurt.

”He laughed again!” the girl shrieked. ”He’s going to eat us!”

”I’m not a—” I cut myself off. There was no winning this. I took a slow breath, trying to ignore the fire in my ribs. ”Look kids, Tell me where am I? Who brought me here?”

The oldest boy puffed out his chest, trying to look brave even though his knees were shaking. ”You’re in our house. Big sis found you in the river. She said you were a mess. Why were you out there? Are you a spy? Are you here to steal our berries?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but before I could get a word out—

The front door burst open.