Inner Realm – Arena of Stillness and Storm
The Infinite Mirror had shattered.
And in its wake… silence.
Anay stood beneath a pale sky, breath steady, soul clear. His aura—once dark purple—now shimmered with threads of gold, crimson, silver, and blue. Balanced. Whole. Alive.
Then—
"You're ready."
The voice of Zettai Anant echoed—not from outside, but from within. Not loud, but deep, woven into Anay's heartbeat.
A faint shimmer pulsed around him.
And from that shimmer… came a blade.
A sword of light and shadow. Its hilt shaped like a falling star, its edge like a whisper of dusk.
Anay took it instinctively—no hesitation now.
"So… we begin," he whispered.
The Arena Forms
The space shifted again. The flat ground beneath his feet reshaped into a vast, spiraling arena—a fusion of earth, wind, water, and flame. Crystal spires rose and fell around him like towers of memory.
"Zettai Anant," he whispered, raising the weapon, "Let's train."
The blade shimmered.
Then bent.
Curved.
Transformed.
In a blink—it became a glaive, then a short dagger, then a bow, then a chain-sickle, then back to pure energy.
Each form came not from choice, but from intent. The moment decided the shape. Zettai Anant flowed with Anay's instincts.
He took a stance—glaive in hand.
Slashed forward.
A shockwave burst outward—clean and wide.
He spun it into a spear, lunged forward—fluid and deadly.
Mid-motion, he released it—letting the weapon collapse into energy, only to reform in his palm as a sword just in time to parry a summoned spirit illusion.
The illusion shattered.
Anay's breathing was steady.
But something strange tickled his mind.
A familiarity.
"Why does this feel… known?"
Zettai Anant pulsed.
"Because this is you. Your will, your rhythm. We're not practicing—we're remembering."
Anay narrowed his eyes.
"Not memories… just instinct?"
The voice answered only with a soft hum.
"Call the next form."
Weapon After Weapon – The Flow of Will
He extended a hand.
The weapon shifted into a whipblade.
Then a chakram.
Then twin daggers.
He moved through a barrage of conjured constructs—illusions made by the realm itself to test him—dodging, deflecting, striking, and breathing in perfect motion.
Each time he hesitated, the weapon faltered.
Each time he focused on what was needed, it appeared instantly.
Intent equals form.
That was the law of Zettai Anant.
Not bound by steel or shape, only by purpose.
Moment of Stillness
After hours,
Anay stood, sweat on his brow, arms relaxed. The weapon hovered beside him—not needing to be held anymore. It responded now like a partner, a companion, a second heart.
He sat in the center of the field.
Zettai Anant floated before him, slowly spinning.
Anay placed his hand on it—not to command it, but to honor it.
He whispered you are reflecting what I want
The light pulsed warmly.
you… are infinity."