The Weight We Choose

Koda floated.

There was no pain. No sound. Only the warmth of breath moving in and out, slow and careful, as if his lungs were unsure whether they were welcome here.

Then—pressure.

A weight on his chest. Familiar. Grounding.

Then—light. A soft one. Not divine or blinding. Gentle. Flickering warmth.

Voices.

Soft, low murmurs. Feet shifting across stone. Armor settling. Breath beside him. Steady and watching.

He blinked.

Just once.

The world was blurry. Shapes, colors, gold-veined light curling down the cracked pillars of a ruined chamber. The air smelled of ash and copper and old, old dust.

A shadow leaned over him.

Then the blur sharpened.

Maia.

She looked like she hadn't slept in days. Eyes bloodshot, cheeks streaked with faint soot and dried tears. Her hair was pulled back haphazardly, strands falling loose around her face.

But her smile broke like dawn.

"Koda," she breathed.

He tried to speak. Only a rasp came out.

She didn't need words.

She cradled his head gently, leaning down, and kissed him.

Not fast. Not desperate.

Certain.

His breath caught as her forehead rested against his. She trembled with the weight of holding herself together for too long.

And then she cried.

"I thought—" Her voice broke. "You gave everything. You didn't even hesitate."

He closed his eyes again.

Not from weakness. From comfort.

The pain was still there, aching in every muscle, every nerve, but it was honest now. And he was still here. With her.

"How long?" he whispered.

"Two days," Maia answered, brushing sweat from his brow. "You were stable, but… you didn't wake up. We stayed close. Just in case."

Koda's gaze drifted past her—over the chamber's scorched and silent walls. Shapes moved beyond the dim firelight. Terron, armor unbuckled, resting with his back to the throne. Wren leaned on her staff nearby. Junen was still alert, eyes closed but not asleep.

They were all still here.

Still guarding him.

He turned back to Maia, hand rising weakly to touch her cheek.

"You're safe," he said.

Maia nodded, the tears falling freely now.

"You made sure of it."

———

The fire had burned low in the throne room.

Flickering shadows danced across gold-dusted stone. The wreckage of battle still loomed around them, but in the quiet, something gentler had taken root. Not peace. Not yet.

But understanding.

Koda sat upright now, propped against Maia. His breathing was steady, if slow, and his skin held the color of the living again.

Footsteps approached.

Thessa stood a few paces away. Her posture stiff, her gaze low, her expression pinched with the weight of something not yet spoken.

Koda met her eyes.

She hesitated.

"I…" She swallowed hard. "I know I've already said it, but I need you to hear it again. From all of me, not just my mouth."

She stepped forward, one hand clenched tight at her chest.

"When Greed reached into us, I didn't just see power. I wanted it. I saw cities bending to my command. Fire in my palms, nations brought low in my shadow. I liked it. And when you fell, I didn't even see you anymore. I saw only… resistance."

Her voice broke.

"I'm a daughter of the Holy Mother. My magic is meant to heal, to protect. And all I wanted was control. I feel filthy. Unworthy of her name. I don't know if I ever was."

Silence hung heavy in the room.

Then Koda smiled.

Not dismissive. Not soft.

A knowing, kind smile.

"I've spoken to the Guide," he said, voice rough but sure. "Not just a vision. A memory. The founding gods. The ones the churches grew from."

Thessa blinked.

Koda leaned forward slightly.

"The Holy Mother… Clara… she wasn't a healer. Not at first. She wasn't support. She was one of the Guide's blades when they were mortal. Fierce. Relentless. The world didn't need gentleness from her then. It needed fire and steel."

Thessa's lips parted.

"Clara…" she whispered.

"She married the Guide," Koda continued. "She fought beside him until they earned the peace they wanted. Then—and only then—did she lay down her blade and become a healer. That's what godhood gave her. Not power. Release."

Thessa stared at him.

Tears formed in her eyes—but they didn't fall. Her body trembled slightly, as if something long-buried inside her had just shifted.

"Clara," she said again, reverently. "A blade. Married. She… chose to heal."

She dropped to one knee.

"I didn't know. No one ever taught that. They said she was born as mercy. That she never drew blood."

"Then maybe it's time the world remembered," Koda said gently. "Your power doesn't shame you. Only what you do with it now."

Thessa closed her eyes.

And for the first time since the battle ended, she stood taller when she rose again.

Thessa stepped back into the circle, the tears dry on her cheeks. Her hands still trembled faintly, but not from fear anymore. She had been remade.

Across the room, Junen sat in the dim light, polishing the edge of her shield with slow, methodical movements. But her eyes weren't on her hands.

They were on Koda.

He met her gaze — and something passed between them. A silent understanding. A question not yet voiced.

"I imagine that was a lot to hear," he said quietly.

Junen nodded once, lips pressed in thought.

"Clara was your patron too," he said. "I saw you flinch."

Junen gave a soft exhale through her nose. "She was always spoken of like some untouched flame. A light. A saint."

"She is," Koda said gently. "But she earned the right to become that. And it took pain, battle, and love to get there."

Junen tilted her head. "It doesn't change how I see her."

Koda smiled. "That's good. It shouldn't."

Then he turned slightly, scanning the others.

His eyes found Wren and Deker, both sitting near the far wall — Wren absently tracing symbols into the dust with the butt of her staff, Deker half-dozing with his head leaned back and arms crossed, a flickering ember floating between his fingers like a toy.

"You two," Koda said, voice steady but warm. "The Librarian. I saw him too."

Wren looked up, brows raised slightly.

Deker cracked an eye.

"The Librarian," Koda continued, "wasn't a tactician. Not in the beginning. Not even close. He hated politics. Couldn't even keep track of most names. But he had a gift — he loved remembering. Stories. Mistakes. Victories. He trusted the Guide, and when everything else fell apart, he swore to remember the world they were trying to build. Even the ugly parts."

Wren swallowed.

Then nodded.

"That feels right," she said softly..

"And the Forger?" He chuckled. "He was the quiet one. Said the least. Argued the most. Didn't like people all that much."

"But he found peace in creation. Not just weapons or machines. Ideas. Dreams. He built hope — because someone had to."

Deker looked down at the ember flickering in his fingers.

Then, softly: "That's not a bad reason to make things."

A pause.

Then a low chuckle from the other side of the room.

Koda turned to Terron, who was now sitting cross-legged, rubbing at a bruise forming just beneath his collarbone.

Koda grinned.

"And the Shield?" he said.

Terron raised an eyebrow.

"You already know what I'm going to say."

Terron smirked, tossing a half-melted gauntlet aside.

"He was exactly what you'd expect," Koda finished, voice lighter now.

The room laughed.

Quietly at first, but genuinely.

Even Thessa cracked a smile. Deker snorted. Wren laughed fully, head tilting back as the weight in her chest began to lift.

The tension, the guilt, the heaviness that had hung over them like a burial shroud—shifted. Not gone. But lightened.

Their wounds weren't healed.

But they had started to scar.

To close.

Koda leaned back against Maia, her arms around him, and closed his eyes briefly.

"Let's make sure we're the kind of people worth remembering," he said.

No one disagreed.

———

Another day passed.

It was not enough to heal, not fully, but it was enough for their bodies to stand and their spirits to align. No one rushed. No one spoke of battle or sacrifice. The hours passed in quiet recovery—shared meals, quiet conversations, long moments staring at the broken walls of Greed's throne room.

But on the second morning, Koda rose early.

He stood at the edge of the ruined chamber, his armor freshly fastened, blades at his back, cloak swept over one shoulder. His body still ached with every breath, but his steps were solid.

He was ready.

By midday, the others had joined him.

Maia at his side, her strength steady once more. Junen with her shield restored, scarred but polished. Wren, Thessa, Deker, and Terron—each armored and quiet, a different kind of fire behind their eyes.

No words were needed.

They had survived Greed.

But now the wound it left behind had to be sealed—or it would fester, and spread.

Together, they descended deeper into the earth.

Greed's throne was not the end—it was only the sentinel of the domain. Beyond the ruined palace, a spiral stair of black stone led downward, winding like a serpent's spine into the hollowed heart of the scar.

The air grew colder.

Thicker.

More aware.

Torches sputtered despite the lack of wind. Their footsteps echoed unnaturally, as though walking inside a throat, the walls pressing just too close.

They passed through skeletal gates. Vaults of treasure untouched by the battle above. Mounds of gold still unmoving, whispering temptations the deeper they went.

But none of them paused.

No illusions followed this time.

Only silence.

And then—

They reached it.

The corridor widened into a vast chamber—a cathedral of rot and glittering stone. At its center stood a pulsing structure of black crystal, malformed and bleeding threads of green light into the ground. The Heart of the Scar.

It beat slowly, like a slumbering creature, and each pulse sent a ripple of unease through their bodies.

It was not alive.

But it remembered being.

The seven of them stood shoulder to shoulder now, facing it. No blades drawn. No spells readied.

Just breath.

And purpose.

Koda looked to each of them.

Then stepped forward and stood before the heart.

It pulsed, wet and wrong, shaped less like an artifact and more like an organ torn from the body of something divine and decayed. Its surface was translucent and veined, glowing faintly with a green hue that didn't illuminate so much as stain the light around it.

The others remained still behind him, silent.

He took one breath.

Then another.

And with no further ceremony, Koda raised his boot—and crushed the heart.

It gave way with a sound like wet stone and splitting meat. Cracks spiderwebbed through the organ, and for a heartbeat it seemed to writhe beneath his heel. Then it ruptured in full.

The explosion wasn't force, but presence—a gush of rot and gold-tinged fluid flooding out across the floor. It sprayed upward in a vile arc, coating his legs and chest in viscera. The stench hit a moment later, thick and sweet and rancid like syrup and spoiled blood.

The heart gave one final, hollow pulse.

Then it died.

The chamber shook once—then stilled.

And the system chimed.

DING.

Greed's Scar Sealed

You have overcome a fragment of the Dead God

+1 Skill Slot Unlocked

(Pending assignment…)

But the words never finished.

Because the air changed.

It was subtle—at first.

The sound of dripping blood from the shattered heart stopped.

The light of the team's torches no longer flickered against stone walls.

And one by one, they realized—

They weren't underground anymore.

The rot was gone.

The black stone beneath their boots was replaced by soft earth. The echo of the scar's chamber dissolved into open silence.

They stood together in the middle of a field.

The sky above was pale, dusted with faint clouds. The horizon curved wide, and the wind carried the scent of grass and morning dew.

The only sign that anything had happened at all was the lingering chill in their bones.

No flash. No pull.

Just change.

Maia turned in a slow circle. "Did… did we die?"

"No," Junen said, steady but quiet. "But something ended."

Koda scanned the line of hills ahead.

And there, just beyond the curve of a ridge—they saw it.

The faint glint of a distant wall. Tall. Familiar. Still standing.

Callestan.

They had returned.

But the unease had not left.

The walk to the city was quiet.

No one spoke.

The earth felt too solid beneath their feet. The wind too gentle. Even the sky, soft and unthreatening, seemed foreign after the thick, oppressive weight of Greed's realm. Birds passed overhead. Distantly, dogs barked. Normal things. Impossible things.

They crested the final ridge.

And there it was.

Callestan—black walls tall and unyielding, torch-lined and watchful. The gates loomed in the distance, and the ramparts were already stirring with motion.

The horns sounded before they were halfway down the slope.

Not the alarm.

The welcome.

The gates opened before they could raise a hand.

Waiting for them on the other side were the generals, fully armored, standing at attention with straight-backed reverence. And beside them, Veros—the head of Callestan's Order—robes immaculate, token of office glinting at his chest, and eyes wide with something like relief.

Koda stepped forward first, still wearing the scorched remnants of his armor. His blades sheathed at his back. His boots dark with dried corruption. He looked tired.

No one dared comment on it.

Veros stepped forward.

"You were gone," he said, voice quiet. "A week."

There was a pause.

Wren blinked. "It didn't feel that long."

"It wasn't," Maia murmured. "Not down there."

Veros nodded. "We knew something had happened. Scouts were watching. They saw the scar… fold. Close in on itself and vanish. Word was sent back to the city immediately."

The nearest general, a grizzled man with silver-streaked hair, stepped forward next. He looked each of them over with sharp, assessing eyes, then gave a slow, respectful bow at the waist.

"You returned," he said simply. "And you ended it."

Terron grunted. "Barely."

Junen nodded. "But yes."

Veros met Koda's gaze.

"You held your promise. The city stands. And now it breathes again."

Koda exhaled.

Not a sigh.

Just release.

"We did what we had to," he said.

Veros looked past them, toward the now-empty horizon. "You may have done more than that."

Veros's eyes lingered on Koda for a moment longer before he stepped back, his expression sharpening into duty.

"We need a full record," he said. "The Order Keepers are already preparing. You'll come to the Grand Hall. You'll tell us everything."

Terron's brows rose. "Everything?"

"Yes," Veros said simply. "Who fought. Who fell. How it affected you. What Greed was. How it spoke. What it showed you."

Thessa's breath caught.

Wren looked down.

Junen crossed her arms slowly but didn't speak.

Koda nodded.

"We understand," he said. "The world needs to know what was waiting in that scar. What still might be."

Maia touched his arm gently, and he added, "We'll speak the truth."

Veros's voice softened, just slightly. "That is all we ask. Not for glory. Not for judgment. But because the worst things must be remembered… or they will grow again in silence."

The group exchanged glances, a few nods, a few quiet sighs.

Then they followed Veros into the heart of the city—toward the waiting scribes, and the burden of truth.