Chapter 85: In the Midst of the Storm

Dante stopped with the sword raised, admiring Marcus' great work. He had a very different skill, recreating objects from their origin, and by having some rusted weapon far away, he managed to bring it back in no time.

The scabbard was as black as the starless sky, while the hilt was blue, and the red threads formed a vibrant, almost aggressive contrast. Dante spun his wrist, feeling the sword's weight balance between his fingers, firm and precise. Every time he touched a blade, he felt drawn back to the past, where the sound of metal against his bones was the soundtrack of his childhood.

His father, relentless and cold, appeared in his mind as a specter that never left him. There was no movement, error, or hesitation that Render didn't correct with a blow. Every memory brought the bitter taste of blood and sweat.

"Are you ready?" Dante's voice broke the silence, pulling him back. He stared at Juno, her eyes locked on him, focused like a tiger cub about to be released into the jungle. "I'll make just a few moves, so you can feel the pressure and understand the weight of a straight strike. This way, you'll see that your dodge needs to follow the same principle."

Juno didn't look away. Her face carried that almost childlike seriousness, the kind of determination that seemed to come from a place too deep for someone so young.

"Against Two-Faces, you left yourself too exposed because you had nowhere to brace yourself," Dante continued, his voice firm. "You needed your skill to do the heavy lifting. That's dangerous."

"I understand... sir," Juno murmured, nodding quickly.

"When we start, you'll just dodge, that's it. I'll attack with the sword or with my legs. No lightning. No skills. I want your body to learn to react on its own. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

Dante smiled to the side, noticing how the snow gathered in her hair fell off as she shook her head. For a moment, Juno seemed as small and fragile as the child she truly was, but he knew the truth. There was something in her, a rare and wild spark, like a blade that hadn't been polished yet.

"The girl might not be the talkative type, but she learns better than anyone we've taught," Jix had said the night before. "She needs to be shaped the right way, so she shines without becoming one of those fake, arrogant jewels."

Dante knew exactly what Jix meant. Pride was a dangerous disease, and he knew it all too well. When Render trained him, there was no room for weakness or vanity; there was only the abyss. A mistake meant punishment. A hesitation meant pain. And a victory was never enough. Render didn't train a son — he shaped a weapon.

Now, there, facing Juno, Dante found himself in the place where Render used to be. He wouldn't let the girl fall into the same abyss, but neither would he go easy.

She would learn, just like he did.

"Alright," Dante murmured, lowering the blade until the tip touched the snow. "Pay attention. If you miss, you'll get hit."

Juno swallowed, feeling the weight of the words. The snow continued to fall around them, silent and slow, but the world there felt sharper than ever.

Marcus moved like a ghost through the falling snowflakes. The storm was his ally, a perfect veil to hide his presence. He had asked one of the women at the shelter to sew a white blanket, thick enough to withstand the cold and large enough to cover his entire body. The idea was simple, almost obvious: invisibility amid the endless white of winter.

With the blanket over his shoulders, Marcus disappeared. He became part of the landscape, a shadow indistinct in the silent chaos of the blizzard. Every step was calculated, the weight of his feet sinking into the snow without a sound, as if he had learned to be as light as the wind.

He wasn't like Dante or Juno, with their flashy and powerful skills capable of destroying anything in their way. No. Marcus preferred to be the shadow, the silence before the shot. The memory of that day when he first set foot in the Research Center came back to him like a persistent whisper. There, among cold corridors and the echo of his own boots, he had discovered something important: fear was a weapon.

Fear didn't need to scream. It didn't need to roar or shine like Juno's lightning. It only needed to exist — silent, constant, inevitable.

Just as he decided to walk alongside Clara, he also decided to be the weapon they needed.

The snow lashed against his face, but he didn't care. With his eyes half-closed, the carbine pressed to his chest, and his fingers firm on the trigger, he watched. Every shadow was a possibility, every sound muffled by the wind was a potential threat. Invisible, he could be the hunter or the ghost that pursued his victims until they collapsed from exhaustion, overcome by terror.

He didn't have Juno's speed. He didn't have Dante's overwhelming presence. But on the day he discovered the power of fear, he became something different.

Cold before the shot. Fatal after it.

Marcus stopped, his chest rising and falling slowly under the white blanket. His gaze swept the horizon covered in ice and gloom. Invisible and relentless, he was the weapon the world didn't see until it was too late.

It was then that they passed by him. Meliah and Degol Jones, the two brothers had been talking for quite a while, and Marcus followed their steps, hidden from their eyes, far from their ears. It was how he had trained this whole time, and it was what he was proud of when Two-Faces, as Dante called him, was struck in free fall.

The shot that filled him with pride.

"I know she's complicated," Meliah said with regret, but didn't look away. "Clara took care of us, just like she does with all our people. She knows how to do this, knows how to handle people. Remember, she was the one who told us to talk to Luma so we wouldn't starve last year?"

"I remember, I remember well. She had nothing, but offered shelter. We turned it down." Degol hadn't spent much time in the building since he woke up. For some reason, he preferred to stay in the snow, even if it cost him the clothes he wore. "And we lost a lot of people before. But, we had a deal with Antton. And we always honored our deals. He wanted the battery, and we did too."

Meliah shook his head slowly, finding it ridiculous to think that Antton was like this.

"Look at me. Brother, look at my face. I want that battery and Antton to go screw themselves. After you got bedridden, he never showed up. Not even to ask if Clara or I needed anything. He's not the type of person we should have with us, in our circle. Look at this place."

Degol turned, looking at the building. The shelter had some internal lighting, but the storm overshadowed the intense glow.

"It's a good place," Degol stated. "A great place, actually. But what would we do here? We're nothing without the Industrial Sector."

"Stop being foolish." Meliah grabbed his brother's shoulder and pulled him close, embracing him. Even in the snow, the fraternal warmth between them was visible.

Marcus envied them to a certain point. That kind of affection, he had lost many years ago. Enough time for his wounds to be healed by the cold of that fierce winter or by the constant battles that followed.

Still, he smiled when he saw them together again. Even though Degol Jones was a total jerk, he wouldn't wish for him to be dead in such a drastic way.

"Don't worry, I'll talk to Antton," Meliah said, still holding his brother's shoulders. "I want to ask you to come inside with me. We'll talk to Clara and do what's right. She needs us as much as we need her, so how about bringing the Industrial Sector here? The old man and Marcus can help fetch it."

Degol grimaced.

"Marcus doesn't like me. He's got guts, almost killed me last time, but I know he doesn't like me."

"Do the right thing, brother, and he'll recognize you, just like he did with me."

Marcus raised an eyebrow.

And who said I recognized you, idiot?