Anay's Inner Realm – Echoing Plains of the Infinite
The light of the Infinite Mirror faded behind him, the last reflection vanishing into stillness.he di some training with zettai anant But Anay didn't leave the Inner Realm.
He wasn't done.
The air shifted.
Before him stretched a vast, glowing field—a wide circular plane floating amidst the stars. Spiraling rings of light danced across the surface like ripples on water. The sky above held no sun or moon, only the slow orbit of constellations—silent, eternal.
Anay stood in the center. His breath was calm. His eyes clear.
Zettai Anant floated before him, not in weapon form—but pure energy. A dark violet flame wrapped in threads of white and gold, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"Let's begin," Anay whispered.
The energy surged forward.
In a flash, it solidified—not as a sword, nor a spear—but a long, curved sickle blade, jagged and swift.
Anay didn't hesitate.
He lunged.
The weapon responded instantly to his intent, curving through the air as if it had been an extension of his hand forever. The motion was sharp, wide, fluid.
Then—
Before the slash even landed, the blade shimmered—and became a twin-bladed staff, light and balanced.
Anay pivoted with the change, flipping into a wide spinning strike that cut through a summoned illusion target.
Zettai Anant shifted again—this time, into a short dagger—sleek, made for precision. Anay narrowed his stance, darted forward, and struck a perfect blow across the heart of the illusion that appeared before him.
It wasn't just battle.
It was instinct.
Every form flowed into the next. A chakram for mid-air combat. A warhammer for crushing defense. A thin whip-blade for overwhelming control. A bow of curved spirit energy, forming arrows from Anay's own aura.
He breathed deeper.
Faster.
Each motion more natural than the last.
"Why does this feel so... familiar?"
Zettai Anant didn't answer—but the pulse of its energy deepened. The field responded, spawning multi-directional illusions: beasts, shadow-warriors, clones of Anay himself.
He moved on reflex.
Dodging a strike, forming a chain-blade to entangle. Evading a beam, switching to a katana to slice through it. Striking from the air, summoning a halberd mid-fall for the final blow.
Every weapon came to him not through thought… but will.
It was not learned.
It was remembered.
No—it was chosen.
Not one form.
But infinite forms.
Weapons without limit, born not from the past… but from his potential.
"Zettai Anant," he said, panting, turning in the stillness of the aftermath. "You respond not to technique… but to purpose."
The energy hovered again before him, silent but alive.
And as he stared into it, his fingers gently reaching toward the light, Anay whispered:
"Then I'll make every strike… with meaning."
He took a meditative stance again.
But this time, the energy didn't transform.
It flowed into him.
Not fusion. Not unity. Just presence.
A bond between the spirit and its wielder.
Around him, the field faded back into stars.
The silence returned.
The next phase of training had begun.
But Anay no longer questioned it.
He had chosen.
He was ready.