"Kiome's perspective"
When I was younger, I thought I was… special.
Not in the arrogant, "I'm destined to save the world" way—more like… I believed that if people needed someone steady, that someone was obviously going to be me.
I was the kid who never picked fights, who could smooth over arguments, who knew just the right thing to say so no one left with hurt feelings. Teachers liked me. Friends relied on me. I was… reliable.
And I liked that. It felt like it was my purpose.
Because if people depended on me, then I mattered.
So I made it my job to be the calm one. The mediator. The anchor.
And for a while… it worked. Everyone smiled, no one fought, and I could pretend the world was a place where tragedy just didn't happen if you played your cards right.
But somewhere along the way, I stopped being the best at it.
What was my "best" grew smaller and smaller, shrinking like a blanket you can't quite pull over yourself anymore.
The fights got messier. The smiles faded faster. And every time I failed to stop something from breaking—be it a friendship, a promise, or a person—I felt something in myself splinter too.
And then came the day it wasn't a fight I failed to stop.
It was a raid. Flames instead of words. Screams instead of arguments.
I wasn't fast enough. I wasn't strong enough. And the people I'd promised—sworn—to protect… were gone.
I was just a kid, I think fifteen at the time. Maybe deep down I knew they just played along because of my age.
The world didn't care that I'd been the "anchor." The people didn't care care that I used to be good at keeping things together. Their selfishness desires destroyed the harmony between them, in the end, all that mattered was that when the storm came, I couldn't hold.
After the fire, there wasn't much left.
Not of the village. Not of the people. Not of me.
I left because… well, there wasn't anything worth staying for, and I couldn't stomach the idea of being "that guy" — the one who hangs around the ruins, telling himself there was nothing he could have done. If I stayed, I'd keep replaying that night until it killed me. So I walked.
Days blurred into weeks. The road wasn't kind. Bandits, beasts, hunger—they all took their turns. And every close call just confirmed the same truth: I wasn't enough to keep anyone safe, not even myself.
Somewhere along the way, I heard a rumor. Not the kind you find in taverns with drunken laughter, but the kind whispered between travelers when the fire burns low—about a place where warriors trained to protect, not just to kill. The Swordsman Corps.
I wasn't looking for glory. I wasn't even looking for revenge. I was looking for a way to stop failing. If there was a technique, a mindset, a blade—anything—that could turn me into the kind of person who wouldn't watch the people he loved burn… then I had to learn it.
The gates of the Corps loomed like a challenge when I finally reached them. I remember standing there, travel-worn and exhausted, staring up at the towering archway painted in deep vermilion, its wooden beams carved with prayers for strength and protection.
Part of me wanted to turn around. I could already hear the whispers—He's too soft. Too hesitant. Too slow to swing the blade. And maybe they'd be right. Maybe I didn't belong here.
But the other part of me—the stubborn part, the part that refused to let my "best" keep shrinking—told me that if I walked away now, then the fire that destroyed my village would have taken everything. Not just the people. Not just the homes. But the anchor I was supposed to be.
So I stepped forward.
The guards at the gate eyed me, clearly weighing if this quiet, road-worn stranger had any business standing here. I bowed low, voice steady despite the knots in my stomach.
"My name is Kiome," I said. "I've come to learn how to protect."
They let me in.
And from that day forward, every swing of the sword, every drop of sweat, every bruise and scar—I've carried the same thought in the back of my mind:
I will not fail them again.
Even if the only way to be an anchor is to learn how to fight like a storm.
Part 2
The Swordsman Corps was nothing like I imagined.
I thought it would be… disciplined. Orderly. A place where every step had purpose and every word carried weight. And, sure, it was that. But it was also loud.
Loud in the way people training for survival are—shouts of exertion, clanging steel, the bark of instructors whose patience ran thinner than paper.
I arrived with a pack half-full and a heart heavy enough to sink me on the spot. Most of the recruits looked like they'd been born swinging blades. Some laughed together like they'd already been friends for years. I didn't fit. I knew I didn't fit.
But I kept my head down.
If I couldn't outmatch them in skill, I'd make sure no one could question my effort. That was my silent promise to myself.
The first weeks were a blur of bruises. My hands blistered from the wooden practice swords before the first day ended. My forearms throbbed from blocking blows I had no business blocking. My calves burned every night from drills that seemed designed to break the weak.
And yet, I stayed quiet. Not because I had nothing to say, but because saying anything felt like stealing air I hadn't earned yet.
It was during one of those endless drills that I met her.
Chika.
I didn't know her name at first—just that she moved differently from everyone else. There was a warmth in her presence, even when she was sweating under the midday sun like the rest of us. When I stumbled, my stance breaking under a poorly timed parry, she was the one who stepped in, catching the strike that should've flattened me.
"You alright?" she asked, her voice light, carrying a note of genuine concern that didn't belong in a place built to harden people.
I only nodded. Words felt… dangerous. The more you let people in, the more chances you had to fail them.
Still, she smiled, as if my silence wasn't a wall but an open door.
Over the next weeks, we crossed paths more often—sometimes training side by side, sometimes sharing the shade during short breaks. She talked, I listened. I learned she had a knack for caring about people whether they wanted her to or not.
And slowly, I realized something.
For the first time since the fire, someone was close enough that I could hear their heartbeat—not literally, but in the way that counts. And it scared me. Because anchors aren't supposed to drift toward people like that. Anchors are supposed to hold still, unshaken, no matter what storms pass by.
But… maybe anchors also need someone to hold onto them.
I didn't say it out loud, of course. I just tightened the wraps on my sword hilt and went back to training. But I knew.
Somewhere between the blisters and the bruises, I'd found someone worth holding fast for again.
If Chika was the warmth that made me remember why I wanted to protect people… then Micah was the one who reminded me I didn't have to carry everything alone.
We met during the second month of training. I was in the practice yard late at night—not because I was eager to train more, but because the quiet made it easier to breathe. Fewer eyes meant fewer chances to see pity or judgment in them.
Micah walked in like he owned the place. Which, technically, he didn't—but the way he carried himself made it feel like maybe he should.
"You swing like someone trying not to make noise," he said. No introduction. No warning. Just that.
I told him I was trying to focus on control. He said control was good, but I looked like I was afraid the sword might get mad at me if I swung too hard.
And just like that, I hated him. Or thought I did.
The thing about Micah was… he didn't leave you space to retreat into your head. He'd needle you with questions, poke at the cracks in your composure, and grin like he was daring you to prove him wrong.
I didn't tell people about my past. Not Chika. Not anyone. But Micah… he didn't ask for the details. He just noticed the weight I carried and made it his personal mission to pry it out of me, piece by piece.
It started small. A joke during drills that made me laugh when I didn't want to. A casual "you look like hell" after sparring, followed by shoving a waterskin into my hands. Then one night, we were sitting under the eaves after a rainstorm, and he told me about his dream to leave the Corps someday—not because he was weak, but because he wanted to write stories instead of just live through battles.
Something about the way he said it… like it was the most natural thing in the world to admit a vulnerability without apologizing for it—
That cracked something open in me.
I told him about the raid. About the village. About standing in front of the Swordsman Corps gates wondering if I'd just be wasting their time. I didn't tell it well. I stumbled over the words, skipped details, stared at the ground the whole time.
But Micah listened like it mattered. Not like I was confessing a sin, but like I was sharing something worth holding onto.
After that, it became easier. Not easy, but easier.
Micah didn't try to "fix" me. He didn't give grand speeches or promise I'd never fail again. He just stood there, steady in a way that made my own steadiness feel less lonely.
That's why I valued him. That's why I still do.
Because for the first time since I decided to be an anchor… I realized anchors don't work alone. They're only worth anything if they're tied to something worth holding.
And Micah? He became one of those things.
Part 3
The first thing I felt when I woke was warmth.
Not the scratchy warmth of a blanket, or the fevered heat of a wound—this was softer.
When my eyes opened, the light was dim, filtered through paper screens, painting the room in shades of early dawn. Or rather shades of early evening. My cheek rested against something firm yet gentle.
Chika's arm.
Her other arm was curled under her head, her breathing slow and even, strands of hair spilling across her face in a way that made her seem far too peaceful for the world we lived in.
I didn't remember falling asleep here. Maybe she'd pulled me here herself. But… the why didn't matter.
For a moment, I just stayed there, letting myself pretend that this—this quiet, this closeness—was normal. That the world outside wasn't waiting to remind me of everything I'd lost and everything I could still fail to protect.
But my mind didn't drift toward the village. Or the fire. Or even the Corps.
It drifted to her.
To the way she'd been there since those early days, smiling past my silence, giving warmth without asking for anything in return.
To the way she'd stood in front of me once, shielding me from a blow I should have been the one to take.
To the way she somehow made me forget the weight on my shoulders—if only for moments at a time.
My throat tightened. The words felt clumsy before they even left my mouth.
"…Chika."
She didn't stir.
I swallowed, keeping my voice low, like if I spoke too loud it might shatter the moment.
"Thank you… for being my anchor."
The room stayed quiet. She didn't answer, didn't even shift in her sleep. But I wasn't really expecting her to. The words weren't for her to hear—they were for me to finally say.
I let my eyes close again, the warmth of her arm grounding me in a way no sword, no training, ever could.
For once, I didn't feel like I had to hold the whole world together.
Part 4
I woke again to the sound of movement—light, careful, like someone trying not to wake me.
Which, ironically, was exactly what woke me.
When I cracked one eye open, I found Chika sitting up beside me, her arm stretching in a slow arc before she rubbed at her shoulder.
"You're heavier than you look," she murmured, catching sight of me awake. "I think my arm's numb."
I pushed myself up instantly, guilt prickling at the back of my neck.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to—"
She cut me off with a small smile. "Relax. I'm not complaining. Just making sure you know that next time you fall asleep on me, you owe me tea."
A laugh—small, but real—slipped out before I could stop it. "That's a dangerous promise to make. You'll drink me out of coin."
"That's the plan," she said, feigning a serious nod before brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face.
For a moment, I caught myself just… looking at her. The faint red mark on her arm where I'd been laying, the way the morning light softened her features.
She noticed, of course. She always noticed.
"What?"
"Nothing," I said quickly, glancing away.
She tilted her head, still smiling. "If you're going to keep secrets, at least make them good ones."
I almost said it then—told her that last night, I'd thanked her in her sleep for being my anchor. But… no. Not yet. Some things felt better held close, like a flame in cold weather.
Instead, I stood and offered her my hand. "Come on. Tea's on me."
Her fingers slipped into mine without hesitation. "Good. I take it sweet."
As we stepped into the evening light, the world felt… a little less heavy. And I let myself believe I didn't have to carry it alone.