Pushing himself off the ground, he rocketed toward the deer with large antlers. Before he reached the ground, he drove more mana into his already-saturated sword, creating a long astral edge that scraped the ceiling.

As he swung downward, he met resistance. A large barrier of water appeared, but he continued to push. The lightning within his sword sizzled as it made contact with the barrier. After an agonizing second, the two titanic forces crashed against each other, and one broke. He crashed through the barrier and sliced through the deer—blood splattered from the divided carcass, landing all over his hands and legs. As the tang of iron hit his lungs, the red that was at the corner of his vision rushed forward.

The first thing he felt was the air. He then felt his feet standing upon a soft, squishy surface, his arms felt leden, and his grip was tight against his sword. He felt wounds scattered throughout his body; his back felt as if he had been sentenced to 20 lashes. Finally, his vision returned, and he saw. He was coated in blood; he was standing upon a mountain of corpses. They were all ripped to bloody shreds. But there were more antlers than there ought to have been from the five initial deers that he had faced.

In front of him was a large cerulean stone door. He trembled with fear and exhaustion. He had….he had just l ost himself. His rage took over him for who knows how long. That sort of anger was not unknown. It happened before, and he remembered.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________He’d just come out to the playground after using the bathroom. It was late autumn. A gust of wind ruffled his long black hair. He looked around for Raphael. He was pretty hard to miss being the only black student in the entirety of the school.

To his confusion, Raphael was neither on the field nor on the court. Emmanuel decided to go walk around; hopefully, Raphael would turn up quickly. As he walked into the field, he heard strange noises behind the cops of trees that bordered the fence of the playground.

He decided to go look; maybe Raphael was hiding in there and was going to try and surprise him. As he walked through the trees, he saw large figures. They were probably 7th or 8th graders. He didn't have that much interaction with other students, let alone upperclassmen.

“Your little friend's gone; he's not coming back to save you.”

“Yeah, we can finally have a private chat with you.”

Emmanuel didn't recognize the voices, but he assumed they came from the two older boys. As he looked through the undergrowth of the trees, he saw one more figure, a tall, lanky girl. She was silent, but she held herself as the leader of the little group.

“So are we going to do this the easy way or the hard way?”

Emmanuel scoffed at the corny line but realized the upperclassmen were serious.

“Now, guys, I'm sure we can sort this out civilly." Raphael fleshed a charming smile.

"No, I don't think we can now pass over your money.”

Raphael reached into his pocket to pull up his wallet. Before he could, one of the older boys grabbed his wrist and threw him to the ground.

The girl walked forward, placing her foot on his friend's chest.

"First, I want your money; second, I want you to go home and cry to your mama and make her transfer you. Since nobody wants you here. Your little friend is not here because he doesn't want you here. Your teachers are not here because they don't want you here; you are not welcome here.

Emmanuel's blood boiled; he always had a temper; everybody knew that. Not only did they hurt his friend, but they also insulted him for being different. It felt like his veins were filled with red-hot rage. Red crept into his vision, and he stepped forward.

The next few minutes were a blur. He saw lost teeth and pieces of flesh and, of course, blood everywhere. But the next thing he truly remembered was Raphael pulling him off the unconscious body of the girl.

“Hay man, you've got to calm down. You got to come down, please, man. please" Raphael looked, scared. Not of the upperclassman, but of him. He took a breath.

His grandfather came to pick him up immediately. According to the principal, the only reason he wasn't immediately expelled was because he was defending his friend, and the group that was antagonizing Raphael had a long history of violent actions.

Instead, he had a two-week home suspension.

He sat there in the backseat curled around his backpack.

“Sigh, you know, boy, I'm not sure if I should be proud or disappointed in you.”

“I'm proud you stood up for your friend. I'm proud you put those bullies into their place. But I'm disappointed you lost your cool.” His grandfather turned around in the seat. “More than anything, I'm…”

He didn't remember what his grandfather said. He was isolated in his inner world, curled around his bag alone. Worse than being alone, the only other person was himself, and he couldn't even trust that.

The cage that his grandfather had slowly helped build and more recently held him slowly open slammed shut, likely to never open again.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________That day was likely one of the major reasons he suppressed who he was. Now that he thought about it, ever since he had reawakened his Legacy, his emotions had been more vibrant. Heck, ever since the initialization, he had been more erratic and hopeful.

He was quicker to anger, happiness, and fear. He was less level; he was more real. A lot of it was amazing, but it was also terrifying. With his legacy and likely his class amplifying his emotions, he would lose himself.

It was hard to describe how it felt to not have full control of one's body. But he just couldn't deal with that. Not only for the risks of the people around him like Raphael. But for himself. He could never forgive himself if something happened while he was not in control.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

As much as he'd love to fight. As much as he loved to grow, he would prefer.. to end it before he could become a threat.

Tears sprang from his eyes. He was scared and confused. He didn't know if he could function within a societal structure. That promise of isolation and loneliness crushed him. He knew what it was like to be alone.

Besides Raphael, he never truly had any other friends. To be honest, Raphael only started hanging out with him because he was different. They were inseparable during their school days, even after the fight. That changed when he went to university, but… when was even the last time he talked to Raphael?

Did he tell him that his grandfather died? What kind of friend was he? What kind of quiet, rude and anger-prone person was he? And now he was strong, devastatingly strong. What could he do? What would he do if he lost control?

Walking out of the walls, a figure appeared. It was tall, around 190 cm, with long black hair and a wild beard. As he looked at the figure, he realized it was him. A disheveled and aged him, but still him. The figure was carrying two swords. He looked manic as if everything in the world needed to be culled.

Another figure appeared. The man was dressed in pristine armor; his hair was cut short on the top and he was clean-shaven. His eyes were sharp and focused. He had a great tower shield belted to his wrist, and in his other hand was a long sword.

In that moment he had to choose: To become a blight and destroyer, or to suppress himself and become a protector. He had to choose. He wanted to protect people, but he was unwilling to sacrifice his individuality to do so. He had to choose. To suppress that part of him would be to suppress all of him. So he chose the only option he had left.

He raised his sword into his throat and pushed. As the first inch of the blade tour to his throat, blood began to pour out, and then time froze.

“Stop”

The voice was odd, so foreign and alien, yet eerily familiar.

“Why?" He responded.

The voice did not respond; the only thing Emanual heard was the echoing of his voice reverberating off the stony walls.

“Why!!” He screamed.

“Why, why, why did you stop me?”

The voice yet again did not respond, as if it were a specter. Emmanuel's pause was long enough for him to question if he did hear another voice. Until his hopes, as if they were an aunt, were crushed underneath the iron heel of a giant.

“Because you must make a choice.”

When he heard the final syllables, his surroundings slowly vanished, leaving the black void. The word absent was too real to describe his surroundings. From the nothingness appeared two marble statues.

The first was far closer and depicted a tall man with a broken world in the palm of his hands. The second was Far Far Away, almost out of sight. Its details gave a sense of serenity and control.

When the sense of control and peace hit his consciousness, he froze. Not for the relief it provided but because of its aura. When he felt it on him, he realized it was his aura. An aura devoid of everything he recognized in himself. The aura felt forgiving, patient, and calm.

In contrast, the second statue's aura was far more recognizable; it was almost identical to his own. The only difference was the power and chaotic nature. It seemed like it was a storm stuffed inside a small bottle waiting to burst out and shatter its surroundings.

He didn't particularly like the feeling the statue emanated; he didn't like either of the statues. but although the closer one was far similar and more familiar, and what he wanted, he wouldn't pick it. It was simply too chaotic, too violent. So with his resolve firmed, he began to march towards the second statue. When he arrived, the figure was revealed and far greater detail.

It was, of course, a statue of himself. or rather himself dressed head to toe in full plate armor like the apparition in the tunnel. His hands rested on a blade that was buried in the ground. The face of the statue, although he looked utterly alien, had an expression of peace and serenity carved into its hard edges.

Both of the choices were not what he wanted. However, he remembered a third choice the choice that had landed him in this strange situation. He once again brought his blade up to his neck and pushed. And his blade stopped, and he remembered

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He had been invited to the Crossed Blades Youth Tournament. It was no Backwater tournament; it was the equivalent of the Olympics for mixmaster swordsmen. The tournament boosted all types and all kinds of different users and weapons. From the Western and Eastern styles of swordsmanship. He, or rather his grandfather, had been invited directly by the chair of the tournament.

So against his hopes, and futile attempts to stop his grandfather from going, they of course went to his grandfather's utter delight. He didn't mind participating in the tournament; he in fact was looking forward to it. Nor did he mind the ramp in the intensity of training hours his grandfather subjected him to?

The reason he didn't want to go to the tournament was far more mundane. He just didn't want to take a plane. As far back as he could remember, he had always hated heights. It was a completely irrational fear. But it's hard to tell the rational side of your brain that. It was trapped in a metal tube suspended several kilometers above ground level.

But after what felt like an eternity to his 15-year-old self, they finally landed and began preparations for the tournament. He had done excellent in the first round, absolutely trouncing his opponent. The second was the same as well as the third. This pattern of decisive victories continued until the semifinals. In the end, he barely beat out a younger woman from Japan, but that's not what he remembered.

What he remembered was his grandfather's lecture after the fact.

"Boy, sit.” his grandfather said in a rough tone. "Boy, tell me why you almost lost that match.?”

"Uhhh, because my form was sloppy,?” He asked in a questioning tone.

His grandfather, in response, gave him the look.

"Okay, fine, jeez." Instead of trying another answer, he reflected on his recent fight, and he actually came up with what he would hoped to be a satisfactory answer. “Because my movements were too uniform, too regular.”

“You got the half boy. When you finally ran into a half-decent wielder, you choked. You leaned on your simplest forms and your basics.”

“The problem is there is good enough, and not enough. So any idiot would realize what you were doing. In fact the only reason you won that fuking fight was that when you were finally backed up into a corner, you snapped.”

“Your blade went from the unsure, calculating thing it was, to the lashings of a caged beast, Your sudden switch put the girl in an unexpected position, which allowed you to pull out the win.”

“So what you're saying is that I should go full random moves.”

His grandfather through an unidentified object at his head. He meant the old man's glare.

“That's not what I'm saying you imbecile. What I'm saying is you have to find the line.” Yes, randomness and chaoticness have their place in fighting. They allow you to not be pinned, and to find openings to win a fight. But without the foundation of technique and without the ability to analyze and understand, you cannot win.”

He didn’t fully understand what his grandfather was saying and cocked his head.

“**Shigh**, what I'm saying is you got to find the middle; you got to be both regimented and flexible, both chaotic and immovable.”.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________With only the voice, the void, the statues, and himself as witnesses. He smiled. Finally coming to a decision.

“I choose neither.”