CHAPTER 92: DIVINE MARK

Divine Mark — 1000/1000

Lucy slowly pushed himself off the cold grey stone, one hand clutching his head. His skin was even paler than usual, his breath unsteady.

"My mind felt like it was going to tear in two. That was by far the worst pain I’ve ever felt from this dumbass ability."

Voices buzzed around him—his teammates, panicked, shouting his name. But it was all distant, muffled. His ears rang like struck bells, and his thoughts felt wadded in cotton. He couldn’t make out a word.

Instead, Lucy turned inward—into the familiar hum of his manual storage.

Completed Manuals

Storage Full: 7/7

Fire Cylinder: 18/18 — Delete

Double Strike: 52/52 — Delete

Wind Manipulation: 27/27 — Delete

Crucible of Grace: 38/38 — Delete

Atomic Radiation: 10/10 — Delete

Soulthread Reading: 16/16 — Delete

Divine Mark: 1000/1000 — Delete

In Progress Manuals:

Water Manipulation: 4/19

Earth Bullets: 3/17

Mana Circulation: 38/100

Infernal Flow: 2/67

Mass Teleportation: 130/150

Illusionary Fog: 7/42

His eyes landed on the warning: Completed Manual Storage Full.

Specifically, the glowing delete button next to each of his learned abilities.

"So I can only hold seven fully-learned abilities at once... and now I can delete them to free up space."

The idea left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"But what happens if I delete one? Do I forget the ability? Like it never existed?"

It sounded obvious, but something still struck him as... wrong. The idea of losing muscle memory, instinct, and training didn’t sit right.

"We’ll figure that out another time."

His eyes returned to the last entry: Divine Mark — 1000/1000.

The one that had nearly shattered his skull.

Lucy wanted to dive into it, peel it apart, understand what had just been burned into his brain. But it was useless. Every word in that manual had been in a language he didn’t recognize—sharp, angular script that refused to stay still in his mind’s eye.

Still... he had theories.

"I just learned that gods can transcend. Does this mean I can now, too? Does the Divine Mark boost my power... or my link to the gods? Is this some kind of divine tether?"

There were no answers. ’Damn it.’

Then a hand grabbed his shoulder.

"Lucy, Lucy! Snap out of it! Oh gods, don’t die on us—what kind of hero would I be if my best friend died while I was right here?!"

The ringing in Lucy’s ears finally dulled as the world sharpened around him. He turned and met Llarm’s frantic gaze—then gently pried the elf’s hands off his shoulders.

"I’m fine. Don’t worry, your hero license is still valid."

Llarm didn’t laugh. Instead, he yanked Lucy into a fierce hug that made him flinch.

"Oh, thank the stars," Llarm muttered. "We thought you were a goner."

Two more hands pressed gently onto his shoulders. He glanced up to find Eri and Gindu standing close, smiling.

"It’s true, Wyrmling," Gindu said with a toothy grin. "You looked like a worm getting exorcised for hours."

Eri gave a rare, faint smile. "It’s true, Captain. But we’re glad you made it."

Lucy managed a weak smirk. "Me too."

Then he saw her, still seated on the stone steps.

Bruma.

She hadn’t moved. One hand cradled her chin, her eyes dark and distant, watching him like something unreadable had happened.

Lucy narrowed his eyes. She knew something.

She’d screamed at him not to touch the Obsidian Chronicle. She knew what the Divine Mark was—or what it could do.

"Bruma," he said, voice low. "What was that?"

Bruma sighed and traced a gloved finger across her cheek.

"I’ll tell you another time," she said. "Right now, we need to get to the War Games."

Frustration flared in his gut. He wanted to press for answers. It was obvious now that Bruma had other motives for chasing the Chronicle. But she was right.

The War Games were waiting.

He exhaled sharply, shook off Llarm’s hug, and forced a grin he didn’t feel.

"Alright, team," he said, sarcasm sharp as steel. "Who’s ready to get famous?"

Then his eyes fell on the last member of their squad.

Fenric.

Still unconscious.

"Oh. Right." Lucy sighed. "Someone grab the blood-hungry stray."

...

"Please welcome the colosseum’s storm—Yshari—and the rest of her team, representing Ithriel’s squad, Team Black!"

"Whoooo!"

"Yshari!"

"Yshari!"

The crowd on Ithriel’s side of the arena roared to life, an eruption of cheers that shook the massive stone structure.

From the western gate strode a young Tigress beastkin, silver hair flowing like moonlight beneath her black armor. Her team followed close behind, but all eyes were on her.

Yshari’s brows were knitted tight, her golden eyes sharp enough to cut steel. She didn’t smile. She didn’t wave. She walked like she had something to prove—and someone to punish.

"We love you, Yshari!"

"She’s so fierce!"

Fans roared from the stands, slamming fists into the air.

Yshari and her squad walked towards fifty other warriors—competitors from Ithriel, Nyxaris, and Ravun’s factions.

The crowd vibrated with the energy of a hundred storylines colliding.

"Would you listen to these fans, Vulwin? They love the young tigress princess!" shouted the announcer, Ryo.

"You’re absolutely right, Ryo," Vulwin replied, his voice smoother but no less excited. "They can’t get enough of her—and can you blame them? That intensity is what you want in a champion. If I were a betting man, I’d put a fortune on her team placing high... even though she’s only fourteen!"

Ryo raised his mic and jabbed it toward the nearest camera. "War Games media does not promote gambling," he said with a grin, "but yeah—I think she’s placing high too."

Then, with a dramatic pause, he lowered his glittering, star-shaped glasses and screamed:

"Now it’s time to announce the champions for Seraphine!!"

Cheers erupted again—this time from the eastern side of the arena, where Seraphine’s supporters rose to their feet in a thunderous wave. Some were there out of loyalty, others for the thrill of the games—or the promise of profit.

"Representing Team Brown, making her first-ever War Games appearance—it’s Taraaa!!!"

From the opposite gate, Tara stepped into the light.

Her brown armor clanked with each confident step. Her shoulders were square, her spine straight, but her fur stood on edge as she took in the colosseum around her—so many voices. So many eyes.

The crowd’s cheers grew louder as she entered.

"Tara!"

"Tara!"

"The new queen!"

She blinked rapidly, struggling to absorb it all. Her heart thundered.

A familiar, dry voice whispered just behind her. "This is insane."

Tara turned slightly and met the calm, unimpressed stare of Alia, the short blonde elf with healing hands and a bland soul—the same elf who’d saved her life more times than she could count.

Tara chuckled under her breath. "Insane is an understatement. This is madness."

But as they moved closer to the other champions—now standing in a neat line at center field—Tara’s hackles rose for another reason.

Her fur prickled, her claws twitched, and something primal lit up in her spine.

Danger.

She scanned the line.

And there, at the far end, near where Tara would soon stand, was the source.

A silver-haired tigress, younger than any of the others. Fourteen, maybe. But the bloodlust rolling off her was suffocating. Her stare wasn’t just angry. It was murderous.

Tara’s breath caught.

’Fenara?’ she thought instinctively, but the memory came fast and cruel—Fenara’s final words, spoken like a whisper against time.

"I’m sorry, Yshari."

Her stomach twisted.

’So this is her daughter.’

Everything clicked. The resemblance. The rage. The why.

’Ithriel placed her in the War Games as a child, just to fulfill her vengeance?’

The idea turned Tara’s stomach. She shoved it down, along with the ache of guilt that tried to creep in. She knew what it felt like to lose someone who mattered. She knew what grief could do to a soul. And she knew Yshari’s fury wasn’t just about revenge—it was mourning weaponized.

She stepped into line beside her.

The heat from Yshari’s glare practically burned through Tara’s armor. The girl didn’t move or blink. Her aura screamed kill, and her body was coiled tight as a bowstring.

Tara didn’t say a word.

But her claws stayed sharp, and her amber eyes remained forward.

"Tara is a fierce competitor, Ryo, and you’ve got to watch out for her speed. She’s lightning in fur—any race-based event is practically a lock."

Ryo sighed into his mic. "Once again—for legal reasons—we do not condone betting on War Games media." Then, with a wink audible in his voice: "But yeah... she’s fast. If you were betting—not that you should—keep that in mind."

He turned toward his brother and quickly palmed the mic.

"Would you stop bringing up gambling?"

Vulwin covered his own mic and muttered, "My bad."

The crowd settled, a brief hush falling over the colosseum.

Then Ryo lifted his mic, voice smooth as thunder. "Now representing Team White, chosen by your beloved goddess Seraphine... give it up for the one, the only—Adgrun!"

For a heartbeat, the gate remained shut.

Then it burst open.

Inside, Adgrun bounced on the balls of his feet, his head lowered, and his one red-scaled fist trembled with anticipation.

"Remember the plan, team! If we want to be legends, we have to act like it! Enthusiasm equals fame!" His words spilled out like wildfire—fast, excitable, barely understandable.

"Yes, sir!" his team shouted, snapping into salutes.

Then Adgrun launched into a sprint, bolting from the tunnel with explosive speed. The crowd exploded as he leapt into the air, white armor gleaming, and punched a single fist skyward.

His team followed in a perfect stampede, each member mimicking his leap and pose with theatrical flair.

"ADGRUN!"

"ADGRUN!"

"ADGRUN!"

The cheers became deafening.

"It’s not every day you see this kind of entrance!" Ryo bellowed, struggling to be heard over the noise.

Adgrun landed and kept running, eyes gleaming with mischief. This is it. Just wait for the finale.

As he neared the line of assembled champions, he skidded to a stop, kicking up a cloud of dust. He struck a wide-legged pose, arm flexed out to the side, chin tilted up dramatically.

Then he roared.

A swirling column of fire erupted from his mouth, blazing skyward and casting flickering light across the entire colosseum.

The crowd froze in awe, then erupted into hysteria.

Even fans from rival gods cheered his name now.

He grinned, his smile wide and full of teeth, then strolled to the end of the line and took his place beside a brown-armored cat beastkin—Tara’s teammate. His crew trailed behind him like a streak of white fire.

Adgrun’s eyes drifted down the line until they landed on Tara.

She was already staring at him.

Her expression was caught somewhere between awe and what the hell just happened?

Adgrun, of course, didn’t care.

He gave her a giant thumbs-up, full of pride and fire.

Tara slowly dragged her hand down her face, muttering something under her breath.

Vulwin’s voice crackled over the broadcast, stunned. "Ryo... I don’t think anyone in War Games history has entered the arena quite like that. That fire wasn’t just for show—it was a weapon of mass destruction. If any event involves demolition, I’d say—"

Ryo cut him off, snatching back the mic. "Yes, yes, Vulwin—he’s a bringer of chaos, no doubt. But now..."

He paused for dramatic effect.

"Now it’s time to introduce the final champion of Team Seraphine!"

The stadium shook as the crowd unleashed its voice.

A single chant began to rise, echoing from every direction.

"King of Hearts."

"King of Hearts."

"King of Hearts!"

Ryo’s voice returned, louder than ever, his words thick with reverence and dread:

"He is a being thought to be lost. A bringer of madness. A wielder of devastation."

He leaned forward, nearly growling into the mic.

"The Human. The anomaly. The monster. Give it up for... Lucyyyy the Human!"

The crowd deafened.