The Anomaly's Path

The walk back to Wayford felt different this time.

Usually, my return from the jungle was marked by the heavy silence of exhaustion and the metallic tang of monster blood clinging to my skin.

But as the sun began to dip below the horizon, the air itself seemed to change.

The scent of damp earth was replaced by the drifting aroma of woodsmoke, sweet incense, and something savory—roast meats and spices I had not smelled in months.

I adjusted the strap of Tempest at my hip. The matte black scabbard felt right against my leg, a silent reminder of the days of hell I had just survived.

Elder Martha had explained the Festival of Echoes to me a few days ago.

To me, a kid from Earth, the idea of a ”Memorial Festival” seemed like a contradiction. Back home, people wore black clothes and spoke in low voices and visited graves. They did not hang lanterns and roast meat and play music.

”Why the banquet, Martha?” I had asked her. ”If it’s for the dead, shouldn’t it be... quiet?”

She had smiled that patient, knowing smile of hers, her eyes softening.

”Leo, we do not just mourn the space they left behind. We celebrate the warmth they gave us while they were here. We eat the food they loved, we tell the stories they told, and we laugh at the jokes they once cracked. The banquet is not for the ghosts. It is for us. To remind us that even though they are echoes now, their voices still resonate in our lives.”

She paused, stirring her tea even though it had gone cold.

”We light the lanterns so they can find their way back. Just for one night to see us. To know we are okay.”

I did not say anything to that. I just nodded and finished my bread.

But her words stayed with me.

It was a strange philosophy, but as I saw the first flickers of torchlight at the village gates, it started to make sense.

I reached the orphanage just as the sky was turning a bruised purple. The moment I stepped through the door, I was nearly tackled by a flurry of small bodies. The kids were dressed in their best tunics, their faces scrubbed clean and glowing with excitement.

”Leo! You’re back! You’re back!”

”Are you going to the river with us?”

”I’m going to prepare first,” I said, laughing as I ruffled a few heads. ”Go on with the others. I’ll meet you at the square.”

Mia was by the door, adjusting the strap of her sandal. She looked up at me, her blue eyes sharp.

”You are always training,” she said.

”I am always alive,” I replied.

She did not smile. But she did not argue either. That’s a win, I guess.

I headed to my room, the familiar creak of the floorboards under my boots feeling like a welcome home.

I stripped off my tattered, blood-stained training clothes and stepped into a hot bath. The water stung the fresh cuts on my arms, but the heat seeped into my bones, washing away the tension of the Adept Mid breakthrough.

Black hair, longer now than it had been when I first arrived. Blue eyes that seemed sharper than they used to be. Scars on my arms, on my chest, on my hands. My body had changed and become hardened.

I did not look like the boy who had come here clueless.

After drying off, I changed into a simple black tunic and clean pants. Nothing fancy. But it felt good to wear something that was not torn or stained with blood.

I hesitated for a moment, looking at Tempest. It was not exactly festival attire. But after the massacre I had seen in the jungle, I was not going anywhere without him.

I strapped the katana to my hip and headed back out.

_

The village was transformed.

Lanterns hung from every post and doorframe, their paper shells glowing soft yellow in the fading light. Children ran between the legs of adults, carrying bundles of flowers and sticks of incense.

The smell of roasting meat drifted from every kitchen, and the sound of off-key singing came from the tavern where the men were already drunk even though the sun had not fully set.

It was chaos. Beautiful chaos.

People moved in a steady stream toward the center of the village—adults carrying baskets of offerings, children running with small paper lanterns, old men leaning on canes, their faces lit with memories.

I reached the village square and spotted Roran.

For once, he wasn’t slumped over a gambling table or clutching a bottle of cheap ale. He was standing straight, looking uncharacteristically sober, though he still had that lazy, irritating smirk as he watched the crowd.

”Look at you,” he grunted as I approached. ”Actually cleaned the mud off your ears for once.”

”I try,” I shot back. ”You are not drunk.”

”The night is young.”

The Gambling King was standing nearby, holding a cup of something that smelled strong. He waved at me when he saw me looking. I nodded back.

Before we could trade any more barbs, a hush fell over the crowd.

An old man with a silver beard and a heavy ceremonial cloak stepped onto the central platform. He moved slowly, leaning on a wooden cane, but his eyes were sharp and clear.

The Village Head.

A man we rarely saw unless something important was happening.

”Friends, brothers, sisters,” he began, his voice surprisingly deep and resonant. ”We gather once more at the edge of the year. We have all lost someone—a parent, a child, a friend. We carry their echoes in our hearts every day.”

He raised a torch high. ”But tonight, we give those echoes a light to follow. Tonight, we tell them they are not forgotten. I declare the Festival of Echoes open. Let the lights rise.”

The atmosphere shifted instantly.

People began to gather at the edge of the village stream and in the open fields. They picked up lanterns from the piles stacked around the square—small, delicate things made of thin paper, carrying a single candle inside.

Some had names written on the paper. Others had drawings or small messages. I saw a little girl carrying a lantern with a picture of a dog on it, her face wet with tears.

One by one, the lanterns were lit.

The flames caught the paper and spread, turning the lanterns into floating balls of light. People lifted them into the air, and the wind carried them up, up, up into the darkening sky.

It was... beautiful.

The sky started to fill. It wasn’t all at once, but a slow, rhythmic ascent. Dozens, then hundreds of tiny golden stars began to drift upward, caught in the gentle evening drafts. It was beautiful—terrifyingly beautiful. It made the world feel fragile and massive at the same time.

I stood off to the side, leaning against a wooden post, watching. I did not have a lantern. I did not have anyone to light one for.

...Or so I told myself.

”Why are you just standing here with your arms crossed like a statue?”

I turned.

Marta was standing beside me, holding two unlit lanterns in her hands. Her face was illuminated by the golden light reflecting off the clouds. Her old eyes were soft, watching the lanterns with the same distant look.

”...I don’t really have anyone to light one for,” I said, looking up at the sky.

”It is not just about who you have lost, Leo,” she said softly, stepping closer. ”It is about love. You can light a lantern for anyone. The living. The dead. Even yourself.”

I frowned. ”Myself?”

”Sometimes we lose pieces of ourselves along the way,” she said. ”The person we used to be. The person we wanted to become. You can light a lantern for them too. To say goodbye. Or to say hello.”

She pressed one of the lanterns into my hands.

”A wish is just a light you send into the future,” she said. ”For the people who are still out there. Or for yourself.”

I looked at the lantern in my hands. It felt heavier than it looked.

”Do you have a wish, Martha?” I asked.

She looked up at the lanterns, a small, sad smile on her face. ”...Every year. I wish for a world where my children don’t have to carry swords.”

She patted my arm and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

I stood there for a long time, holding the lantern.

The sky was full of lights now. Thousands of them, floating upward like a river of stars. The crowd had thinned as people moved to the food tables or found spots to sit and watch.

I thought about my parents back on Earth.

They were still alive. Or at least, they had been when I died. I did not know how time worked between worlds. Did they know I was gone? Did they think I had run away again? Did they leave my room untouched, waiting for me to come back?

I thought about the last message my mother had sent me. The one I never replied to.

”Are you coming tomorrow for your 22nd birthday? It has been years since we saw you. We do not want anything from you. Just... come back.”

I never went.

I never even replied.

...And now I never could.

The thought hit me with a sudden, sharp ache in my chest.

I’m sorry I left you. I’m sorry you have to remember me as a tragedy.

I felt a tear prick at the corner of my eye, but I blinked it away. I let go.

”I am sorry,” I whispered. ”...I am sorry I was not the son you deserved. I am sorry I ran...”

I looked at the lantern in my hands.

”I wish... I wish you are happy. I wish you are not crying. I wish you are not blaming yourselves. It was not your fault. It was never your fault.”

I knelt down, struck the spark, and watched the wick catch fire.

The flame spread, warm and bright. I held the lantern for a moment, feeling the heat on my fingers. Then I let it go.

The lantern lifted into the air.

It rose slowly, joining the river of lights. It spun once, twice, then straightened out and drifted upward. I watched it until I could not tell it apart from the others then I closed my eyes.

Mom. Dad. I... am sorry.

I love you.

I hope you are okay.

I opened my eyes and watched my lantern join the others. It drifted up, weaving through the sea of gold, becoming just another spark in the infinite. The entire sky was glowing now, the orange light reflecting in the ocean-blue of my eyes.

The village was silent, everyone looking up in a shared moment of hope and grief. I felt a strange sense of clarity. The training, the blood, the fear—it was all leading somewhere.

”Looking good, pup,” Roran muttered from behind me, though he was looking at the sky, not me.

I gripped the hilt of Tempest, the cool steel grounding me. I wasn’t just a boy who fell into a ravine anymore. I was a part of this world, for better or worse.

I looked at the horizon where the gold met the black of the night.

This is it, I thought. This is the beginning of everything.