Evening settled over the village like a fragile truce.
Lanterns flickered to life one by one, their warm glow spilling into the streets as laughter and quiet conversation drifted through the air. The scent of cooked meals lingered, mixing with woodsmoke and summer grass. To anyone watching, it looked peaceful. Earned.
Leon stood at the edge of it all, hands clasped behind his back, posture straight—controlled. Anyone who glanced his way would see a calm leader surveying the village he had protected. A man with purpose. Stability.
That was the image he needed them to see.
Inside, he was splintering.
Every sound felt too sharp. Every laugh carried an echo of something he might lose. His thoughts churned beneath the practiced stillness, circling the same question over and over until it hollowed him out.
What happens next?
He smiled and nodded when villagers passed him. Returned greetings. Offered encouragement. He had learned how to perform normalcy frighteningly well.
But the future refused to stay quiet.
It pressed against his mind in fractured visions—cities burning beneath unfamiliar skies, gods screaming as they fell, children crying with voices that sounded too much like Mina's. He saw himself standing at the center of it all, unchanged while everything else broke.
Leon tightened his grip behind his back until his knuckles ached.
Not now.
The War Mark stirred beneath his sleeve, a slow, eager pulse. The Death Mark loomed behind every thought, patient and inevitable. Lou's Death Mark gnawed at him constantly, whispering that no matter how much he did, it would never be enough.
He did not react.
He had learned that reacting only made it worse.
"Leon?"
Rebecca's voice.
He turned smoothly, the practiced smile already in place. "Everything okay?"
She studied him for a moment too long. "You disappeared after dinner."
"Just needed air," he replied easily. "Long day."
A lie. Not a big one. Not enough to feel guilty over.
Rebecca nodded, though uncertainty lingered in her eyes. "Don't stay out too late."
"I won't."
She left, and Leon exhaled only after she was gone.
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and dying gold. Shadows lengthened. The village noise softened into a distant murmur.
That was when the pressure began.
At first, Leon thought it was his imagination—another symptom of exhaustion. Then the air thickened, heavy and playful, as if reality itself were leaning closer to inspect him.
He froze.
The stars above shimmered, subtly rearranging themselves. Not violently. Casually. Like pieces being nudged across a board.
Leon did not draw his weapon.
He couldn't risk anyone noticing.
A figure stepped out of nothing several paces away, as though they had always been there and Leon had simply failed to notice. Tall. Slender. Draped in robes that shifted color depending on how the lantern light touched them.
They were smiling.
"Well," the god said lightly, glancing toward the village. "You hide it better than most."
Leon's heart slammed against his ribs, but his face remained impassive. "Leave," he said quietly. "You're not welcome here."
The god chuckled. "Relax. If I meant harm, your people would already be screaming."
Leon swallowed. "Who are you?"
"Vaelith," the god replied, bowing slightly in mock courtesy. "And I'm only visiting because you're… interesting."
Leon felt exposed—not physically, but internally, as if every carefully suppressed thought were being gently peeled open.
"I don't have time for gods who are bored," Leon said.
Vaelith's smile widened. "That's unfortunate. Because you're becoming quite the spectacle."
The War Mark pulsed in warning.
Vaelith noticed immediately. "Ah. There it is. Krieg's influence burns loudly in you." Their gaze sharpened. "And Death's Mark… how intimate."
Leon's jaw tightened. "Stay out of my head."
"Oh, I'm not inside," Vaelith said pleasantly. "I'm watching the cracks form from the outside."
Silence stretched between them, filled with distant laughter from the village Leon refused to turn away from.
"You're terrified of the future," Vaelith continued conversationally. "Not because you'll lose—but because you might win."
Leon's composure wavered for half a heartbeat.
Vaelith caught it.
"You already feel it, don't you?" the god said softly. "That moment when restraint becomes optional."
Leon's voice was low. "Say what you want and leave."
Vaelith studied him with open fascination. "You're not a chosen hero, Leon. You're an anomaly. A variable no one planned for."
The Death Mark throbbed painfully.
"And that," Vaelith continued, "is why some gods fear you. Others hate you." Their smile turned sharp. "Me? I find you amusing."
Leon felt sick.
"What happens if I break?" he asked quietly.
Vaelith tilted their head. "Then the world learns how thin its hope really was."
The god stepped back, their form beginning to unravel. "One last thing," Vaelith added, voice echoing softly. "The future you're trying so hard not to think about?"
They laughed.
"It's already watching you."
Leon felt it before he saw anything change—the way sound dulled, the way the firelight near the edge of the village bent as if embarrassed to exist in the presence that had settled beside him. Vaelith did not announce himself again. He simply stood there, half-lit by lantern glow, expression faintly amused.
"You hide it well," the god said softly. "The shaking. The counting. The way you measure tomorrow like a blade at your own throat."
Leon did not turn. His hands were folded behind his back, knuckles white. "If you're here to mock me," he said, carefully steady, "you've already done enough."
Vaelith smiled.
"No," he replied. "I'm here to teach you."
The pressure snapped.
Leon moved on instinct—too fast for any human eye to follow. Power surged as he reached inward, dragging at the Marks like hooks in his spine. Death answered first. The world sharpened. Every heartbeat around him sounded loud enough to split stone.
He struck.
The blow would have shattered a city gate. Leon felt the impact travel up his arm—felt resistance—felt victory for exactly half a heartbeat.
Then Vaelith sighed.
Time folded.
Leon was suddenly on his knees.
Not thrown. Not blasted back. Simply placed there, as if the god had decided that was where he belonged. The ground cracked beneath Leon's weight, breath ripped from his lungs in a soundless gasp. His vision swam.
"Is that all?" Vaelith asked.
Leon roared and rose again, desperation bleeding through restraint. He reached deeper—too deep. Death screamed approval. His next strike tore the air itself, black-edged and final.
Vaelith lifted one finger.
The attack unraveled.
Not blocked. Not redirected. Unmade.
Leon felt it—felt his power peel apart like ash in water. The sensation hollowed him out. His knees buckled again, this time of their own accord. Blood ran warm from his nose, spattering the dirt.
Vaelith crouched, level with Leon's eyes. "This is the difference," he said gently. "You borrow inevitability. We are it."
Leon tried to stand. His body refused.
"You could kill kings," the god continued, almost kindly. "You could end wars. You could even wound lesser divinities if they were careless." Vaelith's eyes gleamed. "But against us?"
He flicked Leon's forehead.
The world went white.
Leon collapsed fully, senses tearing loose. For an endless moment, he was certain he had died—that Death had finally decided to collect what it owned.
Then warmth returned. Sound. Pain.
Vaelith was standing again, already fading into the dark. "Consider this mercy," the god said. "I wanted you afraid—but alive."
Leon lay in the dirt, trembling, staring at the evening sky as lantern light returned to normal around him. Laughter drifted from the village. Life continued, ignorant of how close the world had just come to learning how small it was.
Vaelith's final words echoed like a bruise on Leon's mind.
"Grow stronger, little anomaly. Or stop pretending you matter."
Silence followed.
Leon pushed himself up slowly, wiping the blood away before anyone could see. His hands would not stop shaking.
And for the first time since the war ended, he understood the truth with terrifying clarity:
No matter how much power he stole… he was still prey.
Leon did not return to the village right away.
He stayed at the edge of the lantern light, where the warmth of fire blurred into shadow, where the night insects sang loud enough to drown out his thoughts if he let them. He pressed his back against the rough bark of an old oak and slid down until he was sitting in the dirt, head bowed, breath shallow.
His hands were still shaking.
Stop.
The word echoed uselessly in his skull. He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms, grounding himself in pain. It helped—barely. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt it again: the effortless way Vaelith had folded reality around him, the casual cruelty of being placed on his knees.
Not defeated. Corrected.
Leon laughed under his breath, a dry, broken sound. "An amusing threat," he muttered. "That's all I am."
Death stirred.
It was not a voice. It never was. It was pressure behind his eyes, a quiet awareness that everything around him was temporary—especially him. After the fight, the Mark felt colder, heavier, as if it had noticed how easily Leon could be erased.
For a terrifying moment, he wondered if the god had been right.
If all his struggle—every battle, every sacrifice—was nothing more than entertainment for beings too vast to care.
No.
Leon forced himself upright. Self-pity was dangerous. It slid too easily into resignation, and resignation was just surrender wearing a softer face. He could not afford either.
He adjusted his coat, wiped the remaining blood from his nose with the sleeve, and practiced his breathing the way Anna had once taught him—slow, measured, invisible. By the time he stepped back into the light, his face was calm. Steady. A leader's face.
"Leon!"
Mina's voice reached him before he saw her. She ran toward him, Yuki close behind, the puppy skidding slightly as he tried to keep up. The impact of her voice hit harder than any blow Vaelith had dealt him.
Leon straightened instinctively, shoulders squaring, expression smoothing into something familiar and safe. Mina skidded to a stop in front of him, slightly out of breath, Yuki circling her legs with a happy yip.
"There you are," she said, frowning up at him. "You disappeared."
"Just checking the perimeter," Leon replied easily. Too easily. "Couldn't sleep."
Mina's eyes narrowed. She was too observant for her own good. "You're bleeding."
Leon reached up automatically, fingers brushing his nose. Dry. Clean. He had missed it. "Old scrape," he said. "Already healed."
She didn't look convinced, but before she could press further, Yuki bounded forward and jumped up, paws landing against Leon's leg. The puppy's tail wagged furiously—then slowed.
Yuki growled.
Low. Uncertain. Not playful.
Leon stiffened.
The puppy's gaze wasn't on him—it was fixed on the darkness beyond the lantern light, ears pinned back. Mina noticed instantly, following the line of sight.
"There's nothing there," Leon said quickly, more sharply than intended.
Mina flinched.
He cursed himself inwardly and softened his tone. "Sorry. Just… tired."
Yuki's growl faded into a confused whine, but the pup didn't relax. Leon knelt, resting a hand on Yuki's head. The familiar warmth helped steady him, anchoring him to something real.
"You're safe," Leon murmured, unsure who he was reassuring.
Mina watched him closely. "You say that a lot."
He hesitated. "Someone has to."
She folded her arms, mirroring an adult far too well. "You didn't eat dinner."
Leon blinked. "I—"
"I noticed," she said. "Rebecca noticed too. She just didn't say anything."
Of course she had.
A dull ache settled behind Leon's ribs. He wondered how many people were quietly pretending not to see him fray at the edges. How many were trusting him not to break.
"I'm fine," he repeated.
Mina sighed, the sound far too heavy for a child. "That's the third time you've said that. People usually stop counting after two."
Leon let out a short breath that might have been a laugh. "You're exhausting."
"Good," she said immediately. "Then you won't think so much."
That… startled him.
Before he could respond, voices drifted toward them—Rebecca calling Mina's name, Carla's footsteps crunching against gravel. Leon rose quickly, instinctively putting distance between himself and the shadows.
"Mina!" Rebecca called. "It's late."
Mina glanced between Leon and the village, then stepped closer and lowered her voice. "You're not allowed to disappear again."
Leon met her gaze. For a moment, he considered lying.
"I'll try not to," he said instead.
It wasn't a promise.
Mina seemed to accept that. She nodded once, then turned and ran back toward the lights, Yuki bounding after her.
Leon watched them go until they disappeared into warmth and sound.
Only then did he sag.
The mask slipped—not fully, but enough that the effort of holding it in place became exhausting. He leaned against a fence post, staring up at the darkening sky.
Somewhere beyond it, Vaelith existed.
Watching.
Judging.
Leon's fingers twitched at his side, brushing against the faint ache where Death's Mark rested beneath his skin. It pulsed once, slow and heavy, like a reminder.
Prey, the god had implied.
Leon swallowed.
"No," he whispered to the empty air. "Not yet."
But the words rang hollow, even to him.
Because for the first time since arriving in this world, Leon was forced to confront a possibility far worse than death.
That no matter how hard he fought—
No matter how much he sacrificed—
The gods might never let him matter.
And that realization, more than any divine blow, threatened to tear him apart.