Mortal(God of War)

When the festival ended, the waiting afterward didn't last long.

Ares had long since turned Kratos into his personal executioner an obedient killer who slaughtered anyone the god pointed to. Enemies of Sparta, both foreign and domestic, fell one by one to the Blades of Chaos. The god's brutal influence had clouded the Spartan's mind, turning him into nothing more than a loyal weapon of war.

One day, Ares sent a unit of Spartans led by Kratos himself to destroy a village he had deemed hostile. Secretly, he had placed Kratos's wife and daughter within the village temple.

Without a shred of mercy, the Spartans unleashed their fury upon the people. They saw no faces, no innocents only the burning rage of war. To their eyes, every figure was an enemy, and an enemy must be destroyed at any cost.

I merely watched the slaughter, not interfering.

"I'm no hero… and I never will be," I whispered.

But there was one thing I could do.

They believed they had killed those people but it was an illusion. I preserved their lives, their souls. By my will, I moved them to another place the golden groves, which would become their refuge. No trace, no clue, could remain to hint that they had survived.

Kratos stormed into the temple, blinded by fury. He struck down everyone in his path without pause, without reason. And in that blind rage, he destroyed what he loved most his wife and daughter.

When it was over, he finally came to his senses. And when he realized what he had done, his scream filled with agony and horror shattered the silence. It pained me to see him this way: broken, emptied, consumed by guilt. His fury only grew stronger.

Then the Oracle spoke her prophecy. She cursed Kratos: the ashes of the slain villagers clung forever to his skin, turning it pale as death. Thus was born the Ghost of Sparta.

"This was my doing," said Ares, emerging from the flames only his face visible in the fire.

"Why?!" Kratos roared.

"Now you are the perfect warrior," Ares replied coldly. "Family no longer chains you. No weaknesses. No attachments. No limits."

"No..." Kratos muttered, gripping the handles of his blades. Now he understood how deeply he had erred. His oath had been the worst mistake of his life.

As he stepped out of the burning temple, he saw an old crone with a staff. The Oracle delivered her curse again: the ashes of the village would stain his flesh forever death-white, unremovable. The Ghost of Sparta was born.

"I renounce you, Ares! And I will kill you!" Kratos shouted.

His oath was broken and for that, there would be consequences. From the ashes rose the Erinyes Furies who descended upon him, dragging him into the Underworld, where he would be forced to fulfill his vow once more.

I watched with heaviness in my heart, knowing what awaited him.I would help him escape.

Returning to the golden groves, I found the villagers looking around in confusion and fear, unsure of where they were. Among them Kratos's wife, Lysandra, and his daughter, Calliope.

"Do not be afraid," I said gently. "My name is Atreus. You are safe here."

I told them where they were, and why. Some did not believe me. They thought they were already in the Underworld but I managed to convince them otherwise.

"What will happen to us?" Lysandra asked softly, clutching her daughter's hands.

"You'll remain here," I replied. "Darkness, chaos, and war lie ahead. This place… is one of the few sanctuaries left."

"What about Papa?" Calliope asked, raising her eyes to me.

"Don't worry, little one. He'll be alright," I said…I lied.

I helped settle the villagers, and soon, the small mill became a thriving settlement.

The space was filled with life. The people quickly recovered and adapted, grateful from the depths of their hearts simply to be alive.

Hephaestus, though grumbling at first about the noisy newcomers, eventually accepted them. He found several craftsmen and began teaching them his craft. Pandora, given a rare chance to speak with other girls her age, spent all her time in their company.

As for me I went to see where Hephaestus worked. His forge lay not far from the mill, deep within the mountain. Inside, several sets of armor already stood. They were crude and utilitarian in design: simple humanoid forms with rounded shapes, their inner frames visible. Cold iron husks, soulless… but all they lacked was breath life to awaken them.

[image]

I called upon the souls of the dead and one of the armors came to life. Gears groaned to motion, and my will forced the machine to rise. The soul, now housed in the crafted body, examined itself, then raised its gaze and stepped toward me.

"Damocles?" asked Damipp.

Removing my helmet, I revealed my face. It had changed but within the features, I was still recognizable.

"It's me, old friend. I go by Atreus now," I said calmly.

"This body... Why did you bring me back?" Damipp asked, then glanced at the other golems standing still around us. "You need an army, don't you?"

"A battle is coming one that will decide the fate of the world. And only we have the power to change its outcome. Tell me if I call, will the brothers answer?" I asked.

"As we once did, in the hour of need," Damipp answered, pausing for dramatic effect before continuing, "so shall we now. But we will not fight for your ambition."

"Ambition?" I repeated.

"I believe you won't lead us to war for your own sake. We are dead. Our duty ended long ago," Damipp said softly.

"I understand," I replied.

"Then will you tell me what happened to you?" he asked.

"Of course," I nodded.

This old friend, this brother-in-arms, meant more to me than words could say. I still remember the day my hands were soaked in his blood. He forgave me but I never forgave myself. I swore from that moment on never again to allow any weakness that could lead to such tragedy.

Releasing his soul, the golem ceased to move.

But there was one more thing to do.

The compass in my hand pointed the way, and soon I arrived at a small village, before an old house. On a bench by the door sat Creon. He looked worn, hunched as if time itself had laid its heavy hand upon him. He wore only a simple chiton now, and his gaze was hollow, cast into nothingness.

When he saw me approaching, he stirred slowly and cautiously. His eyes settled first on the spear, then on me.

"Come to visit an old man?" Creon rasped, settling back onto the bench.

"I heard the unit was disbanded?" I asked.

"That's right. We're no longer needed. Perhaps it's for the best. I'm too old, and there was no one left to pass the torch to," he said.

"I know you once saw me as someone who might take your place... I'm sorry I shattered those hopes," I said.

"It's true. I dreamed you would one day lead the unit," Creon nodded. "But I always knew it wasn't your burden to bear. You've nothing to apologize for. Sit with me. Keep an old man company."

"You still have strength in you," I said, lowering myself onto the bench beside him.

"Perhaps but my wounds won't let me fight like I used to," he replied, casting a glance at his battered body.

"I know Hephaestus. He can forge you a new arm better than your old prosthetic. I need a trusted comrade," I said.

Creon chuckled.

"You won't let an old man rest, will you?" he muttered with a wry smile. "But you know... I'm ready. Dying in bed was never my fate. I still have enough in me to show the young what a battle-hardened veteran is worth. So… where are we headed?"

He rose to his feet, and in his eyes, battle-hardened resolve gleamed.

And I felt it: my strength was growing. So was the number of those who stood with me.

Now, behind me, stood an army. An army ready to fight.