The morning passed without Leon noticing.
He trained until his muscles screamed and his lungs burned, until the rhythm of breath and movement drowned out thought. Elyra watched from a distance but did not interrupt. Today, she understood, was not about instruction. It was about endurance.
When Leon finally stopped, sweat-soaked and trembling, he realized something unsettling: the panic that usually clawed at his thoughts had dulled. Not vanished—never that—but quieted, like a blade sheathed just enough not to cut.
Still, the questions waited.
Angelica. Mina. The remaining Marks.
He could feel them like thorns beneath his skin, problems circling endlessly with no answer that didn't end in blood. He clenched his fists, staring down at his arms where the Marks slept beneath the surface.
Not today.
Leon exhaled slowly. For once, he forced himself to step away from the future and back into the present.
"I'm shelving it," he muttered aloud. "Just for now."
Elyra raised an eyebrow from where she stood. "Wise," she said. "Obsession fractures the mind before power ever does."
Leon nodded, then hesitated. A thought surfaced—quiet, fragile, but insistent.
"I want to go somewhere," he said.
They walked together through the village, the five of them moving at an unhurried pace.
Leon led the way, hands tucked into his sleeves. Rebecca walked beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed now and then. Efil followed a step behind, her gaze distant and unreadable. Lynnette moved quietly, eyes lowered, while Carla brought up the rear, arms crossed and jaw set in her usual guarded scowl.
None of them needed to ask where they were going.
The burned house waited at the far edge of the village, half reclaimed by nature and time. Charred beams jutted upward like broken ribs, blackened stone marking where walls had once stood. New grass had begun to grow through the cracks, stubborn and green, but it only made the ruin feel more hollow.
This had been home.
Leon stopped at the edge of the foundation. For a moment, no one moved.
"I thought I'd be ready," Rebecca said softly. "I wasn't."
Leon swallowed. "Neither was I."
Memories pressed in uninvited—laughter echoing down the hall, shared meals, arguments that ended in reluctant smiles. Then the night Lou came. Fire. Screams. Silence.
And afterward… the belief that he had failed them all.
He stepped forward.
The floor had collapsed in places, ash crunching beneath his boots. Leon moved slowly, carefully, as though afraid the ruin might reject him. His gaze drifted to the corner where the table had once stood.
That was where he found it.
Half-buried beneath warped wood and soot lay a dull metal plate, scratched and scorched but unmistakable. Leon froze.
His breath caught.
"…My status plate."
Carla stiffened. "You left it here?"
Leon nodded numbly as he knelt, brushing away ash with shaking fingers. The plate came free with a soft scrape, heavier than he remembered.
"I dropped it," he said quietly. "That night. After the first fight with Lou."
His fingers tightened around the edges.
"I thought you were all dead."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Efil's eyes widened. Lynnette sucked in a sharp breath. Rebecca went still.
Leon stared down at the plate, memories flooding back with brutal clarity. Standing alone in the ruins. Blood on his hands. Power awakening in terror and rage. The world telling him, in cold etched letters, that he was alone.
"I didn't want to look at it," he continued. "Didn't want proof that I survived when you didn't. So I left it here."
He flipped the plate over.
The engraved letters shimmered faintly, reacting to his presence. Stats, titles, abilities—outdated now, pitiful compared to what he carried in his flesh.
But it mattered.
Rebecca knelt beside him, resting a hand over his. "You didn't fail us," she said firmly. "We were taken. You didn't abandon us."
Leon laughed weakly. "Tell that to the version of me that woke up here thinking the world had ended."
Carla turned away, jaw clenched tighter than ever. Lynnette wiped at her eyes, pretending not to. Efil said nothing, but her fists were balled so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
Leon rose slowly, the plate held against his chest.
"This place broke me," he said. "But it also reminds me why I can't stop."
Something stirred beneath his skin.
The Mark of War responded—not violently, not hungrily, but with weight. A steady pressure, like armor settling into place. Leon inhaled sharply, recognizing the sensation.
War did not demand destruction.
It demanded resolve.
"I don't want power to kill gods," Leon said. "I want power to end wars."
Elyra, who had watched silently from the edge of the ruin, finally spoke. "Then you are beginning to understand your Mark."
Leon looked down at his arm as faint lines of energy traced just beneath the skin. The Mark of War pulsed—not with rage, but with purpose.
He slipped the status plate into his pack.
"I'll master this first," he said quietly. "Before I even think about the others."
They stood together in the ruin for a while longer, letting the past breathe without suffocating them. The house would never be rebuilt. It didn't need to be.
Some things were meant to be carried forward—not restored.
As they turned back toward the village, Leon felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest.
Not peace.
But steadiness.
And for now, that was enough.
The walk back to the village was quieter than the walk there.
Ash still clung faintly to their clothes, the scent of old smoke refusing to fade. Leon walked at the front again, but his steps were slower now, heavier, as though the ground itself resisted him leaving that place behind.
Carla fell into step beside him.
She didn't speak at first. Carla never did—not until she was sure. She watched him from the corner of her eye, the way his shoulders stayed tense, the way his hands flexed and relaxed as if still expecting the world to fall apart at any second.
"You're breaking," she said at last.
Leon flinched.
"What?"
"You're breaking," Carla repeated, voice flat but not unkind. "And you're doing a terrible job hiding it."
Rebecca slowed behind them. Efil and Lynnette exchanged uncertain glances. Leon stopped walking.
"I'm fine," he said automatically.
Carla stepped in front of him, forcing him to meet her eyes. "No, you're not. And I'm not letting you lie about it anymore."
The Mark of War stirred faintly beneath Leon's skin, not in anger, but in tension. He exhaled slowly.
"…You want to know what broke me?" he asked quietly.
Carla nodded once. "I already do. I want to hear you say it."
Leon looked past her, toward the path leading back to the village. Toward safety. Toward the illusion that he hadn't already crossed a line he could never uncross.
"After the fire," he began, voice low, "I didn't grieve."
Rebecca's breath caught.
"I panicked," Leon continued. "I couldn't accept it. I kept telling myself there had to be something I missed. Someone I didn't save. So I ran back here."
His fingers curled, trembling.
"When I reached the house," Leon said, voice hollow, "it was already burning."
Rebecca stiffened.
"Lou was standing in front of it," Leon went on. "Watching."
Silence fell heavier than before.
"He didn't run. He didn't hide. He just stood there like it was finished business—like our home was already a corpse." Leon swallowed hard. "And something inside me snapped."
Leon's voice grew quieter, flatter.
"I didn't hesitate. I didn't speak. I didn't ask why."
He lifted his eyes to meet Carla's.
"I slaughtered him."
Efil gasped softly.
"And everyone who helped him," Leon continued. "Anyone who stood with him. Anyone who tried to stop me. I didn't see people. I saw obstacles."
His jaw tightened.
"It wasn't justice. It wasn't revenge. It was certainty. The Mark of War answered me instantly—like it had been waiting. Like it knew exactly what to do."
Leon looked down at his hands.
"What scares me," he said, barely above a whisper, "is how easy it was."
Rebecca stepped forward. "Leon—"
"I activated the power," he interrupted gently. "The thing Krieg gave me. I didn't understand it. I didn't care if it killed me."
His hand drifted to his arm.
"When Lou died… and the Death Mark appeared… I didn't feel victorious. I felt empty. Worse than before."
Lynnette's eyes brimmed with tears. "You… you were ready to die?"
Leon nodded once. "I still am. Some days."
Carla's fist slammed into his chest.
Not hard enough to hurt—but hard enough to force his attention.
"Idiot," she hissed. Her voice shook despite herself. "You don't get to decide you're expendable."
Leon swallowed.
"You think we survived just to watch you tear yourself apart?" Carla continued. "You think war means throwing yourself into the fire alone?"
The Mark of War pulsed.
Leon felt it—not as accusation, but as truth.
"I didn't tell you," he said. "Because I was afraid if I stopped moving… if I admitted it… I wouldn't start again."
Carla exhaled sharply, then rested her forehead briefly against his shoulder. "Next time," she said quietly, "you don't carry it alone."
Rebecca joined them, placing a hand over Leon's back. "We lost that house," she said. "Not each other."
Leon closed his eyes.
"I know," he whispered. "I just… forgot."
They resumed walking, closer now. Not healed—but no longer fractured.
Ahead, the village gates came into view, lanterns flickering in the gathering light.
The war hadn't ended.
But for the first time since the fire, Leon wasn't facing it alone.
That night, Leon returned to the training ground alone.
The sky above was clear, stars scattered like distant embers across the dark. The village slept behind him, unaware of the quiet decision being forged just beyond its walls. Leon stood at the center of the scarred earth, feet planted firmly, arms bare. The Mark of War lay dormant along his forearm, its black lines faint but unmistakable.
He closed his eyes.
No rage. No guilt. No hunger.
War was not fury.
War was clarity.
Leon focused, considering the meaning of the Mark, the responsibility it represented, and his purpose. He did not pull at the Mark. He did not command it.
He simply understood it.
The Mark responded.
Not with heat. Not with pain. With a subtle change—a dark crimson hue weaving through his usual mana, faintly coloring the flow of energy in his body.
A steady pressure spread through his arm, then his chest, then down his spine. Leon felt his awareness expand—not outward in a burst, but inward, aligning instinct with intent. He sensed lines of conflict as naturally as breath: where force would meet force, where resistance would break, where hesitation would kill.
This was War.
Not slaughter.
Not chaos.
Decision.
Leon raised his arm slowly. The air around him shifted, subtle but undeniable. Dust lifted from the ground, not violently, but as if acknowledging his stance. His heartbeat slowed. His thoughts sharpened.
For the first time, the Mark did not test him.
It accepted him.
Leon moved.
A single step forward cracked the ground—not from excess power, but precision. When he struck, the force traveled cleanly through his body, no backlash, no recoil. Every motion was deliberate, every breath measured. He could feel where strength should end and restraint should begin.
Minutes passed.
Then an hour.
When Leon finally stopped, sweat ran down his back—but his hands were steady.
The Mark of War pulsed once.
And settled.
Leon felt it then—not as strength, but as color.
Mana flowed through him as it always had, but no longer clear or indistinct. A deep crimson hue threaded through it now, dark and steady like cooled embers beneath ash. It did not flare or burn wildly. It moved with discipline, reinforcing his muscles, sharpening his senses, anchoring his thoughts.
This was not bloodlust.
It was command.
Where his mana had once surged chaotically in moments of fear or desperation, it now marched—ordered, deliberate, unyielding. The crimson current wrapped around his core, settling into his limbs, forming invisible structure where there had once been only raw force.
War had given his power identity.
Leon exhaled.
"I understand," he said quietly.
War did not want him to burn.
It wanted him to lead.
He reached into his pack and withdrew the old status plate.
The metal was cool in his hands. Leon hesitated, then brushed his thumb across its surface.
The plate shimmered.
Etched letters shifted, reforming as the system updated—no longer reacting to raw survival, but to alignment.
Status Plate – Leon
Primary Mark: War (Mastered)
Secondary Mark: Death (Unrefined)
Titles:
– Bearer of War's Accord
– Survivor of the Divine Conflict
– One Who Chose the Battlefield
Abilities Unlocked:
– War Sense: Perceive intent, threat vectors, and points of collapse in combat.
– Battle Command: Allies within range experience heightened coordination and resolve.
– Iron Resolve: Mental interference, fear, and divine pressure are significantly reduced.
– Accord Strike: Attacks carry decisive force against hostile entities, scaling with commitment rather than emotion.
Passive Effect:
– War does not drain stamina when actions align with protection and purpose.
Leon stared at the plate, heart steady.
Not stronger than a god.
But no longer lost.
He closed the plate and looked up at the stars.
"Krieg," he murmured, not in apology this time—but acknowledgment.
The night remained quiet.
Unresolved.
But for the first time, Leon was ready to decide how the next war would be fought.