The morning air hung heavy with smoke and sorrow, the remnants of the Valkyrie's assault still scattered across the village. Families moved quietly among the destruction, tending to the wounded and collecting the bodies of those who had fallen. Each step Leon took felt like a mile, weighed down by grief and rage.
Leon and the others prepared a solemn area for the funerals, a small clearing at the edge of the village where the sun touched the ground gently, as if offering reprieve to the suffering. The villagers gathered, their faces etched with loss and disbelief, clutching one another as tears fell freely.
Carla, Rebecca, Efil, Lynnette, and the children stayed close to Leon, each sharing in the heavy silence. Leon's eyes lingered on Angelica's body, draped in the simple cloth they had prepared, her mark—the Mark of Pestilence—faintly glowing even in death.
He knelt beside her, hands trembling. The Death Mark pulsed faintly in response to her presence, whispering as if urging him to act. Leon closed his eyes, focusing his energy. With a deep breath, he activated Skill Steal and absorbed Angelica's Mark of Pestilence, feeling the cold, resonant pulse of her power merge with his own.
A shiver ran down his spine as he realized the magnitude of the act. Angelica's essence—the vigilance, the courage, the protective instinct—flowed through him. The Marks of War, Death, and Pestilence danced together along his forearm, a fragile but undeniable harmony.
Leon opened his eyes and stared at her peaceful face. "I'll honor you," he whispered, voice thick. "I'll carry this with me and make sure her sacrifice wasn't in vain."
The villagers placed flowers and tokens beside their loved ones, each gesture solemn and heartfelt. Leon's mind clarified what he had felt but never fully realized: the Marks were more than power. War governed mentality, the drive and strategy behind action. Death was the path each life takes, the flow of endings and beginnings. Pestilence dictated how the body thrives and declines, the delicate balance of vitality and decay. And Famine—the mark he had yet to take from Mina—held the necessities required to follow life's path, the resources and sustenance that allowed existence to continue.
Every death, every loss, felt like a fracture in the village's soul, but in taking Angelica's mark, he vowed to prevent further fractures, to shield the living as she had tried to.
When the funerals concluded, Leon remained near the freshly turned earth, hands brushing the soil gently. He felt the Mark of Death resonate more strongly than ever, the threads of time and endings now intertwined with Angelica's will. Pestilence joined in subtle harmony, teaching him the delicate balance of life and decay.
Mina lay in a fragile coma, the effects of the Valkyrie's strike still holding her body in a delicate balance. Leon's mind raced with possibilities, the terror of harming her preventing him from acting recklessly. He knew that extracting her Mark of Famine without disrupting her life force would require precision and understanding of the fundamental connections of the Marks to life itself.
The day passed in a haze of grief and tension. Leon sat in solitude near the training ground, letting the weight of the Marks settle into his muscles and bones. He flexed his arms slowly, feeling Death and Pestilence pulse in tandem, a rhythm of endings and disease intertwined with his own heartbeat. Each subtle shift was a whisper of potential, and every hesitation a reminder of mortality.
As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the village, Leon practiced, focusing on the energy that now thrummed through his arms. He started with dead leaves scattered on the ground, manipulating their decay, slowing the rot and then accelerating it in controlled pulses. Branches snapped under his power when he pushed too far, yet he persisted, noting how Angelica's Pestilence worked differently from Death. Where Death responded to endings, Pestilence responded to the flow of life, the health of a body, and its gradual decay, demanding subtlety and care.
Hours bled into evening. Leon's eyes were bloodshot, his muscles trembling from exhaustion, but he refused to stop. He sensed the faintest traces of time's flow around him, realizing that for brief moments he could glimpse the outcomes of his actions before they fully unfolded. His mind wavered under the mental strain, the weight of recent losses pressing against the edges of his consciousness.
Elyra arrived silently, her presence grounding him. She observed his movements, correcting his focus and guiding him through delicate shifts in Pestilence's flow. Leon realized how different it felt from War and Death—this Mark required empathy, precision, and patience. Elyra watched closely, noting the synchronization between his mental intent and the Mark's subtle responses.
"Why weren't you there?" he asked quietly, a shadow crossing his features. "When the Valkyrie struck, why didn't you intervene?"
Elyra's expression remained calm, almost unreadable. "I am not simply a guide, Leon. I am a goddess assigned by Krieg before his death to oversee your path. My absence during the attack was no accident—it was meant to ensure you faced the trials that would shape your growth. The Marks respond to your choices and understanding; survival has always been your responsibility."
The realization settled on him: Elyra had guided him, yes, but he had faced the Valkyrie, absorbed Angelica's essence, and wrestled with terror and guilt largely on his own. A deep sense of both pride and lingering guilt churned in his chest.
"I need to understand," Leon said quietly, his voice low. "The Marks, the Valkyrie, the gods… why is this happening? What's the purpose behind it all?"
Elyra's silver eyes softened, though they carried the weight of ages. "You must know, Leon, that the events you have faced are part of a larger conflict—a war among the gods themselves. Skabelse seeks dominion over existence, reshaping the world according to his will. He believes he is entitled to control everything, his superiority complex driving him to manipulate life itself. Other gods, like Krieg, fought to preserve balance and freedom. The Marks were created as instruments of that balance, assigned to beings who could wield them with understanding."
She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. "War, Death, Pestilence, Famine… they are not merely powers. They are fundamental forces of life itself. Krieg chose to give you the War Mark to guide your will, to challenge and shape you. Angelica bore Pestilence to maintain the flow of vitality and decay, and Famine—Mina's mark—is the essential sustenance of life's path. Each Mark exists in relation to the others, intertwined with choice, consequence, and the cycles of living and dying."
Leon's brow furrowed. "And the Valkyrie?"
"Her actions—slaughtering innocents, testing your limits—are not her own. Everything you have faced, including her interference, has been orchestrated by Skabelse to halt your growth and prevent you from becoming a threat. The Valkyrie is one of thousands of creations he uses to enforce his will and manipulate potential threats without mercy."
Leon exhaled slowly, the revelations settling heavily on his shoulders. "So everything I've felt, everything I've suffered… it's all part of their war?"
Elyra nodded. "Yes. But the path forward is yours to choose. The Marks respond to your intent, your understanding, your choices. Mastery is not simply wielding power—it is comprehending the essence of life, death, and survival, and acting with that knowledge."
Night deepened around them, the training ground bathed in the pale light of the moon. Leon practiced slower, more deliberate manipulations of Pestilence, drawing energy into his fingertips, feeling the subtle pulse of life and decay, learning to bend it without breaking the natural rhythm. Each moment of control brought a fragile sense of peace, a slight restoration of his mental equilibrium.
Finally, he sat back, sweat dripping, arms still glowing faintly from the Marks. Elyra nodded once, approvingly. "You are learning, Leon. The Marks respond to your intent, your understanding. Never forget—their power is as much about thought as it is about action."
Leon exhaled, feeling a slight lightness in his chest for the first time in days. He realized he had begun to reclaim a measure of himself, and that mastery over the Marks could be a path not only to strength, but to healing. Mina's future, the protection of his family, and the echoes of Angelica's sacrifice all pressed upon him, giving him purpose.
Under the quiet night sky, Leon finally allowed himself a small smile. The journey of mastery was far from over, but for the first time, he felt that he might endure—and perhaps even guide others to safety amidst the storm to come.
Instead of practicing, Leon spent time with the women close to him, sitting in quiet conversation, helping prepare meals, and listening to their stories. Carla, Rebecca, Efil, and Lynnette surrounded him, providing a comforting presence that began to soothe the raw edges of his mind. The children's laughter, though muted by the day's grief, offered him a fragile sense of normalcy.
As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the village, Leon allowed himself a moment of clarity. He realized the connection to those around him—the warmth, the trust, the love—was the key to understanding the power of Angelica's Mark. Her cheerfulness, her care, the way she had always nurtured and protected those she could—it all manifested through Pestilence. By opening himself to the bond he shared with his family and friends, he could channel the Mark's true potential.
Leon observed how the Marks pulsed faintly under his skin, War and Death thrumming steadily while Pestilence now felt woven into his very being, a constant reminder of Angelica's sacrifice and the essence of life it represented. Mastery over the Marks was not just about power—it was about balance, and connection to those he cared for anchored him as much as any technique.
Night deepened around them, and Leon finally allowed himself a small moment of reprieve. Sitting with Carla on one side and Rebecca on the other, the children nestled nearby, he felt a fragile peace. For the first time since the attack, he could imagine moving forward—not just as a warrior, but as a protector and father figure, connected to those who relied on him.
The journey of mastery was far from over, but with his family by his side, Leon realized that strength could also come from trust, shared bonds, and understanding the essence of those he loved. The evening stretched on quietly, unresolved yet comforting, as the Marks pulsed faintly under his skin and the village settled into a delicate, cautious calm.
Leon spent the remainder of the evening moving through the village without purpose, yet never truly alone. He helped Carla repair a broken window frame, holding the wood steady while she worked in silence. He listened as Rebecca spoke softly about the villagers who had survived the attack, her voice steady even as her hands trembled. With Efil and Lynnette, he shared a simple meal, the food bland but grounding, each bite anchoring him to the present.
None of them asked him to speak. None of them demanded answers or reassurances. They simply stayed.
As night deepened, Leon found himself sitting near the fire with the children asleep nearby, their quiet breathing a fragile reminder of what still remained. The flames danced, casting shadows across his arms, where the Marks lay dormant beneath his skin. For the first time since Angelica's death, he did not feel them tugging at his thoughts.
Instead, memories surfaced.
He remembered Angelica laughing while tending to the sick, brushing off exhaustion with a smile that never quite reached her eyes. He remembered her scolding him gently for pushing himself too hard, for treating strength like something that had to be seized rather than shared. She had never spoken of power—only of people.
Leon lowered his gaze to his hands.
Pestilence is not corruption, he realized. It is maintenance. Care. Responsibility.
Angelica had never tried to change the world. She had simply refused to let it rot.
That understanding settled into him quietly, and the Mark of Pestilence responded—not with force, but with warmth. A subtle shift, like a body breathing easier after a fever breaks. Leon did not activate it. He did not test it. He simply accepted it.
Later, he sat beside Mina's bed, watching her chest rise and fall. He spoke softly, more to himself than to her, recounting small, ordinary moments—things she might remember when she woke. He did not mention the Mark. He did not mention the gods. Just home. Just family.
"If I take it," he murmured, "it won't be because I'm afraid anymore."
The words surprised him with their certainty.
When he finally returned to his room, exhaustion weighed heavily on him, but it was not the crushing fatigue he had grown used to. It was earned. Honest. Leon lay back and stared at the ceiling, surrounded by the distant sounds of the village settling into uneasy sleep.
For the first time since the fire, since Lou, since the gods had begun pulling at his fate, Leon did not feel alone with his thoughts.
He understood now that the Marks did not grow through domination or sacrifice alone. They responded to intent. To connection. To the quiet resolve to protect without consuming oneself in the process.
Angelica had known that.
And tonight, sitting among those who still lived, Leon chose to know it too.