Chapter 9: The Mark
The cabin sat in eerie stillness, surrounded by the scent of blood and burnt gunpowder. The air was thick, weighed down by death and the aftermath of vengeance. But Axel didn't come back for guilt, or mourning. He came for answers.
He stepped inside, katana still sheathed across his back, the floorboards groaning under his boots. The bodies remained where they had fallen, twisted and broken, blood soaking into the rotting wood. He didn't look at them. They were already forgotten.
His eyes were on the wall.
There it was—behind the broken table, splattered with old blood and streaks of filth. The same mark.
Three jagged slashes, crude and cruel, forming a rough triangle. In its center, a single blackened circle.
Axel stared at it, jaw tight, fingers twitching at his side.
He had seen it before.
Behind his father's corpse. Smeared in blood, ash, and oil on their once-white living room wall.
At the time, he hadn't understood it. He'd been too broken. Too overwhelmed.
But now—now it made sense. These men were not random. Not scavengers or desperate survivors. They were part of something. A group. A pack.
A cult.
A plague.
He knelt before the symbol, studying it, tracing the air in front of it with careful precision. The paint was dry—but the ash was fresh. Recently remade.
"They were proud of it," he muttered to himself, lighting a cigarette with shaking fingers. "They wanted to be known."
Smoke curled around his face, the silver strands in his hair shimmering faintly in the dim light. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sting of tobacco ground him.
"I moved on emotion," he whispered.
It was the first time he admitted it.
"I should've waited. Watched. Followed one of them. Learned more."
He shook his head.
"Stupid."
Axel took a deep drag, exhaled slowly, and stood. He searched the cabin thoroughly now—not like a killer, but like a tracker. A hunter. He rifled through bags, crates, crates of stolen supplies. Torn maps, bloodstained notes, a compass. In the back room, under a loose floorboard, he found something useful: a tattered journal.
He flipped through pages of insane ramblings—lists of names, vague codes, symbols—and then a mention of something chilling.
> "The Nest is moving. Next gathering at the Cradle. We bring her—the chosen one. All marked are welcome."
The Nest.
The Cradle.
A gathering.
A target.
His eyes narrowed. He tore the page from the journal and tucked it into his jacket.
There were more of them. Maybe hundreds. Maybe worse.
Axel stared at the mark again, letting it burn into his memory.
"I'm coming," he said coldly.
He turned from the cabin, stepped out into the wilderness again, and vanished into the trees—silent, focused, and far more dangerous than before.
---
The fire crackled weakly in the clearing, casting long, dancing shadows across the group. Mary and Emily huddled together under a shared blanket. Rachel sat off to the side, legs pulled to her chest, eyes distant. Hank cleaned a blade in slow, steady motions while Jason stared into the flames, lost in whatever thoughts haunted him.
Axel stood just outside the circle of light.
He leaned against a tree, half-shadowed, the cigarette between his fingers burning down to the filter. Smoke curled around him like a ghost, silent and ever-present. His katana rested against the tree beside him, and his eyes—sharp, cold, calculating—never stopped moving.
They were still too soft.
Too human.
He watched them, and all he saw was fragility. Good people. Brave, maybe. But weak. Driven by guilt, by hope, by feelings they couldn't afford in this world anymore.
And he couldn't blame them.
But he couldn't trust them either. Not with this.
That mark… that symbol… it wasn't just a warning. It was a signature. A claim.
Whoever they were, they weren't scavengers or opportunists. They were organized. Confident. Dangerous.
Axel had seen the way it was drawn—bold, deliberate. Not hidden in a corner. Displayed. Like they were proud of it. Like it meant something sacred.
The journal page in his pocket was more proof than he needed.
"The Nest… The Cradle… A chosen one…"
These weren't just murderers. They were believers. That made them worse.
Axel exhaled a slow breath and looked at his group again.
If he told them everything now… they'd panic. Or worse, they'd want to help. To act. To fight.
They weren't ready for that.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Even Hank—steady, quiet, experienced—was just one man. Old bones, tired eyes. If things went sideways, Axel could count on him to survive, maybe. But not to win.
The others?
Emily couldn't even look at blood without her hands shaking. Mary flinched at sudden sounds. Jason had a temper and no control. Rachel… she was a mystery still,
She said she is a teacher but axel saw more than eyes can see
but even she wasn't ready for war.
Five people.
Two men. Three women.
One katana, one old gun, and too many ghosts.
Not a team. Not an army.
Just survivors.
He tapped the ash from his cigarette and made his decision.
No. Not yet.
He wouldn't tell them about his past. Not the house. Not the bodies. Not the symbol. Not the rage he carried in place of a soul.
Not until he had to.
But if the day ever came—if something happened to him, or if they ever found that mark again—he'd make sure they understood what it meant.
What they were up against.
And maybe, just maybe, they'd run.
Because Axel wasn't sure he could protect them all. He wasn't even sure he wanted to.
He stubbed the cigarette out on the tree bark and walked back toward the fire, his expression unreadable.
"Where were you?" Hank asked, lifting his head.
Axel didn't answer right away. He just sat down near the edge of the firelight, arms resting on his knees.
"Just thinking," he said.
And for now… that was enough.
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