The portal folded closed behind him with a sound like glass shattering into silence. Leon stepped onto the fractured ground of the Realm of Gods, his boots sinking slightly into a strange, luminescent moss that hummed faintly under his weight. Above him, the sky twisted in impossible geometries—colors that should not exist shifted like molten metal, stars spinning in midair as if time had forgotten them.
Every instinct in his body screamed that this was not a place for mortals. And yet, he was no longer mortal.
The Marks pulsed beneath his skin, a rhythmic heartbeat in tune with the raw, unbound energy around him. War, Death, Pestilence, Famine—they were coiled and obedient, waiting for his command. He drew a deep breath, tasting the tang of power and the metallic edge of anticipation.
"Skabelse," he muttered, his voice slicing through the warped silence. "I'm coming for you."
A ripple moved across the fractured sky, subtle but deliberate. The threads of fate that bound this realm trembled, and a faint, almost mocking laugh echoed through the air.
"You've come far, Leon," Skabelse's voice called, smooth and icy, carrying no urgency, only certainty. "I wondered if you would ever follow."
Leon's fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms. "Where's Carla? What have you done with her?
"She is… secured," Skabelse replied calmly, stepping from the shadows atop a floating dais of white stone. Silver hair slicked back, sharp eyes glimmering with amusement. "And yet, she is irrelevant to your progress. You seek only to fight me. Typical."
Leon's jaw tightened. "Stop hiding behind words. Face me!"
Skabelse's smile widened, slow and deliberate. "Very well. If it is a duel you want, then a duel you shall have."
With a motion almost too quick to follow, the god leaped from the dais, landing on a floating shard of stone that rotated lazily in midair. The sheer force of his arrival cracked the platform beneath him, sending energy rippling outward. Leon's Marks flared instinctively—War sharpening his reflexes, Death humming like a warning bell.
He surged forward, the ground itself bending and fracturing beneath his steps. His first strike was a blur, a slash of raw energy guided by Famine, draining the very air around Skabelse in anticipation of impact.
Skabelse tilted his head, letting the strike pass harmlessly through a shimmer that distorted his form. "You've grown," he murmured, voice smooth. "But not enough."
The next moment, the world split. Fragments of the floating terrain shattered and spun like shards of a kaleidoscope, forcing Leon to leap, twist, and roll in impossible arcs. Pestilence coiled around him, weakening the gravitational pull of the shards and giving him a measure of control, yet Skabelse moved with a grace that made prediction almost futile.
"You rely too heavily on power," Skabelse said, voice carrying even over the roar of colliding stone. "True strength lies in understanding. Anticipation. Adaptation. Do you understand, Leon?"
"Yes," Leon spat, gritting his teeth as he lunged again. "I understand that I will stop you. And I will save her."
A burst of light erupted as their strikes met midair—Skabelse's hand against Leon's, the clash radiating shockwaves that splintered distant shards of the realm. The energy surged, coiling around Leon, testing his endurance, pushing him to the brink.
He felt it then—the pull of his connection to Carla, a sharp, unyielding thread that wound around his heart. It flared inside him, and with a roar, he channeled it into War and Death, striking again, faster, more precise. This time, his blade grazed Skabelse's form, leaving a brief shimmer of disruption.
Skabelse tilted his head, a faint frown breaking his composure. "Clever," he admitted. "But this is only the beginning."
The god lunged, and the battlefield itself seemed to fight against Leon. Shards twisted, gravity inverted, and time flickered, slowing just enough to disorient him. Leon pivoted midair, letting Death anticipate Skabelse's next strike, countering with a pulse of Pestilence that sapped the god's momentum—but it was only a momentary advantage.
Skabelse laughed then, a sound that cut through reality like ice. "You fight for bonds, Leon. Admirable… but bonds are weak against inevitability."
Leon gritted his teeth, summoning Famine to drain energy from the floating shards beneath them, turning the battlefield into a trap. "Maybe," he said, voice steady, "but it's the bond that gives me the strength to keep going. Something you'll never understand."
Skabelse's eyes narrowed, just for a flicker, before the smile returned. "Then let us see if your bonds are stronger than my will."
And with that, the true duel began.
The battlefield trembled as Leon and Skabelse clashed again, each strike fracturing the floating shards beneath them. The Realm of Gods reacted violently, the air thick with the pulse of raw power, gravity bending and snapping like a live wire.
Leon could feel the Marks thrumming beneath his skin, but something deeper stirred now—a hunger for action that couldn't be sated by mere physical blows. He paused midair, eyes narrowing, and focused.
From the depths of his mana, black as the void itself, energy began to coalesce. It swirled around his arm, thick and heavy, yet impossibly fluid. With a final surge of intent, the mana condensed into a solid form—a sword, pitch-black, absorbing the faint glow of the fractured skies around it.
He gripped the hilt, and the weapon seemed to pulse with life, responding to his heartbeat, his anger, his determination. War, Death, Pestilence, Famine—they thrummed along the blade, each amplifying its weight and sharpness.
Skabelse paused mid-lunge, eyes flickering with interest. "Ah… so you've learned to bend your very essence into a weapon," he said softly, voice smooth but edged with a hint of intrigue. "Impressive. But do you truly think a blade can match inevitability?"
Leon didn't answer with words. He swung.
The black sword cut through the air, leaving a trail of dark energy that bent reality around it. The impact with Skabelse's parry created a shockwave that shattered nearby floating landmasses. Sparks of raw mana sprayed outward, and the clash echoed like a bell tolling in the void.
The god moved with fluid precision, dodging and weaving, but Leon was relentless. Each strike was amplified by his Marks:War guided his instincts, predicting Skabelse's counters before they fully formed.
Death whispered in his mind, revealing gaps and weaknesses in the god's movements.
Pestilence drained the very essence of the floating shards Skabelse relied on, making the battlefield shift in Leon's favor.
Famine sapped residual energy from Skabelse's attacks, forcing him to adjust mid-motion.
Yet even as Leon pressed the attack, Skabelse's composure never wavered. He danced around the black blade, creating openings only to trap Leon in a cascade of feints, every strike calculated to test limits.
"You fight with conviction," Skabelse said, voice calm but heavy, "but conviction is not enough. Passion blinds. Bonds… burden. And yet… I see it now. You are different. You fight not for glory, not for dominion… but for connection. Hm."
Leon's eyes burned as he slashed again, the black sword carving arcs of void energy through the fractured realm. "And that connection is stronger than you think!"
A sudden surge of raw energy erupted from the blade, and the world around them convulsed. Floating shards collided, skies twisted, and for a heartbeat, it seemed Leon might actually overpower Skabelse.
Skabelse staggered, just slightly. A faint flicker of surprise crossed his eyes—the first sign of vulnerability Leon had seen in the god.
Smiling grimly, Leon pressed the advantage. The black sword pulsed with his life force, humming in tune with his heartbeat, each strike striking harder, faster, more precise. He could feel the Marks guiding him, synchronizing with the sword as if it were an extension of his very soul.
Skabelse recovered, landing gracefully on a shard that rotated violently beneath his feet. "Clever," he said, voice low, almost approving. "Very clever. But cleverness alone will not stop the inevitable."
The duel escalated further. Each strike tore the environment apart. Energy cascaded around them like rivers of fire and shadow. Leon's black sword struck, clashed, and cut through the warped reality, leaving faint trails of void that shimmered before vanishing.
And then… the air seemed to still for a heartbeat, as if the realm itself were holding its breath.
Leon's chest heaved. He could see it now: a tiny, almost imperceptible hesitation in Skabelse's stance—a gap that might be exploited. His hands tightened around the black sword. For the first time, Leon realized that the fight wasn't just about power. It was about creativity, adaptability, and heart.
"I won't let you take her," Leon said, voice steady, reverberating through the void. "Not now, not ever!"
Skabelse's eyes narrowed, and for the first time, the faintest edge of tension appeared across his composed features. "Then show me, Leon. Show me what a god born of bonds can do."
And with that, the battlefield erupted into a storm of darkness and light, as Leon surged forward, black sword in hand, determined to face Skabelse fully—not as a mortal, not as a warrior, but as a god who would fight for what truly mattered.
The black sword pulsed in Leon's grip, shadows licking along its edges as if alive. With every strike, it carved through the fractured terrain of the Realm of Gods, leaving trails of void that shimmered and then vanished.
Skabelse moved with his usual grace, sidestepping and parrying, but this time there was a hesitation—a flicker of recognition in his silver eyes. The faintest ripple of tension marred his otherwise calm demeanor.
"You… where did you get that?" Skabelse's voice was low, sharp, carrying a weight Leon had never heard before. He stepped back slightly, circling, analyzing. "Impossible…"
Leon pressed forward, blade swinging in arcs of pure shadow. "It's mine!" he shouted. "Forged from my mana, sharpened with everything I am!"
Skabelse froze mid-motion, his expression unreadable for a fraction of a second. Then, a slow, almost reverent smile curved his lips. "No… no… that can't be… That sword… it's one of Krieg's creations."
Leon faltered slightly, unsure if it was a taunt or truth. "Krieg?"
"The very same," Skabelse said, voice tightening with something like… respect? Or fear. "The one who once dared defy the natural order of this world. That blade… it is one of the few objects in creation capable of affecting me directly."
Leon's pulse quickened. The sword hummed in response, as if acknowledging the god's recognition. Power surged through him, amplifying every strike, every thought, every intent.
Skabelse's usual composure cracked further. "You wield it well… but beware," he said, voice low, almost a growl. "That blade was never meant for mortals. Even gods fear its touch. If you strike true, it could unravel everything I have built."
Leon's eyes burned. "Then it's a good thing I'm not holding back."
With a roar, he lunged, the black sword slicing through the warped reality itself. The blade's edge hummed against Skabelse's defenses, dark energy colliding with divine light. Shards of the Realm shattered under the sheer force of their clash, energy cascading like rivers of fire and shadow.
Skabelse recoiled slightly, the faintest crack appearing in his form as the sword struck. "No… it cannot…!" he shouted, the usual calm in his tone replaced by disbelief and something sharp, almost fear-like.
Leon felt it—every strike now carried not just his strength, but the legacy of Krieg embedded within the weapon. Each movement of the sword resonated with an ancient, immutable force, one of the few in all creation that could pierce even Skabelse's godly essence.
The battlefield quaked. Floating landmasses twisted and collided. Light and shadow warped, bending toward the black sword as if the universe itself acknowledged its power.
"You underestimated what a god forged from bonds… and the creations of those who defied gods… can do," Leon said, voice steady, eyes fixed on Skabelse.
For the first time, Skabelse's smirk faltered. "So… this is what they feared," he muttered, almost to himself. "A weapon not bound by dominion, but by connection… and chaos."
Leon tightened his grip. The black sword pulsed, thrumming with the energy of his mana and the echoes of Krieg's design. "I fight for her. And I fight for what's right. No matter what you are."
Skabelse's eyes narrowed. The calm, untouchable god who had toyed with mortals and gods alike now faced something unpredictable—a force he could neither dominate nor anticipate fully. The balance of the duel had shifted.
"Very well," Skabelse said, voice low, almost a hiss. "Show me, Leon… show me the full extent of this madness."
And with that, the duel erupted again—faster, fiercer, more dangerous than ever. Each strike of the black sword left scars in reality itself, marking the beginning of a battle even the gods of old would remember.
The moment Leon struck again, something changed.
Not in the realm. Not in the sword.
In him.
Skabelse twisted aside, fingers slicing through the air in a precise arc meant to sever Leon's momentum. The attack should have landed—by all logic, by all prior motion.
It didn't.
Leon's body adjusted mid-strike, muscles shifting, stance correcting itself before conscious thought could intervene. His foot planted at a sharper angle, torque redistributing through his spine as if he had practiced this exact counter a thousand times before.
The black blade swept past Skabelse's defense and scraped him.
Not a glancing illusion.
Not displaced essence
It cut.
A thin line opened across Skabelse's forearm, dark—not bleeding, but fractured, as though his form itself had been scored.
Silence rippled across the battlefield.
Skabelse stared at the wound. Slowly. Carefully.
"…Interesting," he said at last.
Leon barely heard him. His heart thundered in his chest, the Marks roaring—not wildly, but precisely. Data flooded his senses: Skabelse's attack angles, the delay between intent and execution, the way his presence distorted causality just a fraction of a second before he moved.
And Leon adapted.
The next exchange came faster. Skabelse struck high—Leon ducked before the strike fully formed. A spatial cleave followed—Leon's shoulder twisted around the distortion, his body flowing into a counter that felt instinctive, inevitable.
Each failed strike fed something inside him.
Each clash refined him.
War sharpened his responses.
Death mapped probabilities in real time.
Pestilence corroded inefficiencies.
Famine stripped wasted motion away.
And beneath it all—something new took root.
Instant adaptation.
Not learning over time.
Not evolution through repetition
Correction in the moment of failure.
Skabelse retreated several steps, landing atop a slowly rotating slab of white stone. His expression remained composed—but his eyes were no longer amused. They tracked Leon with sharp, calculating intensity.
"You're adjusting," Skabelse said. "Not reacting. Not predicting."
Leon raised the black sword, breath steady now despite the strain. "I told you," he said quietly. "I won't stop."
Skabelse's gaze flicked to the blade again. "…No. That alone wouldn't be enough."
He moved.
The Realm of Gods convulsed as Skabelse unleashed his full authority. Gravity collapsed inward, time stuttered, and causality folded into itself. Attacks came from after they landed, strikes echoing backward through reality.
This should have ended the fight.
Leon screamed—not in pain, but effort—as his body was torn between conflicting outcomes. His arm fractured, then didn't. His vision doubled, then realigned. The Marks burned white-hot beneath his skin.
And then—
He adapted.
His mana flared violently, the black sword drinking deep as Leon's existence recalibrated. His perception widened, no longer bound to linear time. He stopped trying to follow Skabelse's movements.
Instead, he moved where Skabelse would fail.
Leon stepped through a collapsing moment, blade rising in a perfect counterstroke that shouldn't have been possible—except now, it was.
The sword bit deep.
Skabelse staggered back, boots skidding across empty air, his form flickering violently as fractures spread across his divine presence like cracks in glass.
"…That ability," Skabelse said, voice tight now, stripped of its earlier ease. "Instant adaptation… You're not just responding to me."
Leon's eyes burned with quiet fury. "I'm becoming something you can't control."
The realm screamed around them, reality warping to accommodate a battle that was rapidly exceeding its limits. Leon stood at the center of it, black sword humming, body moving with impossible efficiency—each second of combat making him more dangerous than the last.
For the first time since the duel began—
for the first time in a very long time—
Skabelse looked at Leon not as a pawn…
but as a threat.
"And that," Skabelse said slowly, power coiling around him in preparation for something far worse, "is exactly why you cannot be allowed to win."
The air collapsed inward as both gods surged forward—
the next clash poised to tear the Realm of Gods apart.
The Realm of Gods screamed.
Not in sound— but in fracture.
Reality tore itself apart as Leon and Skabelse surged toward each other, a storm of pure divinity and mortal will. Light twisted and shattered; shadows convulsed like living beasts; the air itself quivered in fear. Leon's black Mana blade, alive with the harmony of all his Marks, collided with Skabelse's unleashed divinity in a shockwave that obliterated entire floating islands before they could fall.
Time snapped. Space shattered. Past, present, and future collided in a violent cacophony of existence. The Realm itself groaned under the weight of two gods refusing to yield.
Leon moved first—not faster, but sharper. Skabelse's opening strike warped gravity, intending to crush him utterly. Leon twisted mid-flight; bones shattered, then reforged. Muscles tore, then realigned. His Mana flowed, adapting, recalibrating instinctively. The strike that should have annihilated him slithered past, rendered impotent.
The black blade screamed—void-dark, merciless, a living shadow slicing the air itself. Each swing tore through the constructs of divinity, each cut precise, inevitable. Doubt and hesitation burned away; only execution remained.
Skabelse answered with the raw fury of creation. Blinding arcs of divine light surged outward—constructs of judgment, chains of inevitability, laws weaponized—striking with the power to erase entire pantheons.
Leon endured. Adapted. Survived. Every strike that grazed him once never touched him again. Skabelse rewrote the rules; Leon rewrote them back, harder.
Skabelse staggered as the black blade tore deep, cutting a wound into his essence itself. "You're still changing," he hissed, disbelief cracking his voice.
Leon's gaze burned, unwavering. He stepped through collapsing moments, presence bending the very fabric of the Realm. His Marks pulsed as one—War, Death, Pestilence, Famine—merged into a singular, terrifying will.
War drove him forward. Death revealed the perfect strike. Pestilence eroded what could not be destroyed. Famine consumed all that remained. Adaptation refined everything into lethal perfection.
"This ends here," Leon said—not as a threat, but as a godly decree.
Skabelse roared, summoning the last of his authority, desperation twisting his ancient form. "Then come," he snarled. "Let us see which god shatters first."
They collided like collapsing stars. Light screamed. Void roared. Laws unraveled; reality itself recoiled. Existence shuddered, unsure what was true.
Skabelse struck with absolute inevitability, inverting time. Leon found himself impaled by destiny before the strike began.
His body refused it. Bones shattered, reforged. Lungs collapsed, then expanded. Perception tore open.
Leon roared, black Mana blade alive and singing with the power of all his Marks. He no longer dodged. He no longer retreated. He advanced, each strike rewriting the battlefield, each motion rewriting reality itself.
Each clash escalated. Skabelse bent space—Leon adapted. Skabelse tore at time—Leon moved between its beats. Skabelse erased reality—Leon stepped where nothing could exist.
"You exceed your design!" Skabelse bellowed, divine essence bleeding, fracturing light streaming from every wound. "You were never meant to stabilize like this!"
Leon's eyes flared. "Neither were you meant to take her."
The Realm of Gods began to unravel. Towers, palaces, constructs dissolved, ashamed to witness such defiance. The pressure became unbearable, even for gods.
Adaptation burned. Each recalibration tore mana, instinct, memory. Blood ran freely as Leon's body struggled to keep pace with its own evolution. Still, he pressed forward.
Skabelse rose, presence swelling to eclipse the broken sky. "Enough! If I fall—this realm collapses!"
Leon stepped forward, resolute. "You're already falling."
Skabelse unleashed everything. The sky inverted. Gravity imploded. Time shrieked as it tore, folded, snapped into a singularity of chaos.
Leon endured. He stood—broken, reforging, bleeding—over a god who could no longer rise. The black Mana blade pulsed, alive, absolute.
Then—
"Leon!"
Carla.
He turned just enough to see her at the edge of the shattered battlefield, stumbling through fractured stone and warped air, terror etched into every feature.
For the first time, Leon hesitated.
The air thickened—not with pressure, but finality. His Marks flared, seeking rules to adapt to—and found none. The Realm froze mid-collapse.
A voice shattered the silence. Low. Venomous. Exhausted.
"I'm sick of this."
Reality snapped.
Leon felt himself erased—not pulled, not dragged—but removed. Space folded violently. Carla's outstretched form blurred at the edge of vision.
His grip tightened. The black Mana blade remained solid.
Skabelse vanished at the same instant.
And then Leon was gone.