The world had become a canvas for Mark's rage, painted with the stark colors of destruction and retribution. Every corrupted Vanguard outpost crumbled, every unethical research lab evaporated, leaving behind a chilling testament to his unyielding fury. "The Immortal Demon" was no longer just a media moniker; it was a force of nature, an elemental judgment delivered with terrifying precision. Yet, with each devastating strike, a subtle, insidious transformation was occurring within Mark. The pure, overwhelming power of Celestial Mode, while effective, came with a heavy price.
The initial bursts of god-state, fueled by the visceral pain of losing Ren and Mara, were raw and chaotic. Now, as his understanding of his abilities deepened, the Celestial Mode became more controlled, more devastatingly efficient. He could summon tidal waves that swallowed entire coastlines or conjure meteoric firestorms with a mere thought. He could dissect a building into its molecular components, or heal his own body from absolute obliteration in milliseconds. He was, in essence, becoming a living god of destruction. But this apotheosis was eroding the very essence of Mark.
The moments after using Celestial Mode were becoming increasingly disorienting. The world would appear muted, colors drained, sounds muffled. His emotions, already a fragile construct, would feel even more distant, like echoes bouncing off the walls of a vast, empty chamber. He noticed subtle changes: a growing intolerance for dissent, a chilling objectivity in his decision-making that bypassed empathy, a pervasive sense of detachment from the consequences of his actions. The lines between right and wrong, justice and vengeance, were blurring, replaced by a singular, burning imperative to erase the corruption that had birthed him.
Lira was the only constant, the fragile tether to his dissolving humanity. Her Emotion Resonance, a power so subtle yet so profound, was the only thing that could cut through the raw, destructive feedback loop of Celestial Mode. When the golden light in his eyes flared too intensely, when his jaw clenched with the inhuman focus of pure power, Lira would reach out. Her touch, a cool hand on his arm, a gentle palm on his cheek, would send waves of calm, compassion, and sometimes, a quiet sorrow, directly into his soul. It was never a demand, never an order, but an offering of shared humanity.
"Mark," she would whisper, her voice a soothing balm, her eyes reflecting the turmoil in his. "Come back to me."
And sometimes, only sometimes, it would work. The molten gold in his eyes would recede, a flicker of his former grey returning. The tense lines of his face would soften, and a profound weariness would wash over him. In those moments, he looked like the terrified boy from the lab again, burdened by a power too vast for his soul. He would cling to Lira, not with passion, but with the desperate grip of a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. She was the one who reminded him of Ren and Mara, of the simple kindness that had once anchored him, of the reason he began this fight in the first place—not just for vengeance, but for justice, for a world where such horrors could never happen again.
Yet, even Lira noticed the escalating difficulty. Her calming waves had to be stronger, her presence more constant. He would snap out of Celestial Mode faster, but the residual coldness would linger longer. He would stare at her, sometimes, with an unnerving detachment, as if she were another variable in a complex equation. The fear was a quiet, insidious worm in her own heart: what if one day, she reached out, and there was nothing left of Mark to pull back? What if the god truly eclipsed the man? The stakes of their mission, and of his very soul, grew heavier with each passing day.