The wind died. The mountain itself seed to be holding its breath.
Ares took a single, ground-shaking step forward, the point of his greatsword scraping a furrow in the stone. The fire along its edge roared, hungry for kindling.
"Do not go all out on him, Ares."
The voice was a thunderclap inside his own skull. His father’s. Ares’s head twitched a fraction, his burning gaze snapping from Kratos to the high throne where Zeus sat, impassive. A flicker of confusion, then irritation, crossed what little of his face was visible. Don’t go all out? This was an insult. He was being asked to swat a fly with a careful tap, not the satisfying crush it deserved.
He shrugged, a massive rolling of iron-clad shoulders, and looked back at the silent Spartan. The order chafed, but it changed nothing. A quick, controlled kill would still be a kill.
"Co on then," Ares bood, his voice dripping with condescending amusent. He gestured with his free hand, a ’bring it’ motion that was both invitation and dismissal. "Why don’t we go at it? Show these gathered legends what a mortal’s final monts look like."
Kratos gave him nothing. No taunt. No battle cry. Only a slow, deep breath that filled his lungs. The flas on his blades burned a little hotter.
Then he moved.
It wasn’t the god-like teleportation of the Olympians. It was sothing far more terrifying in its mortal intensity. He exploded forward, a blur of white skin and red marks, closing the distance in a heartbeat. The chains of his blades whirled, creating a cyclone of fire around him.
Ares, expecting a hesitant advance or a defensive stance, was caught slightly off guard by the sheer, suicidal aggression. He brought his greatsword up in a clumsy, hurried block.
The sound was not of tal on tal, but of worlds colliding. A shockwave of force erupted from the point of impact, visible as a ripple in the air that shot outwards, making the robes of the nearest gods flutter. Nymphs gasped. Hephaestus, watching from his forge-like perch, grunted in approval.
Kratos did not relent. He was a storm of violence. He swung the Blades of Chaos not with brute strength alone, but with a savage, practiced grace. High, low, a sweep at the ankles followed instantly by an overhead chop aid at Ares’s helt. The chains allowed him to strike from impossible angles, the flas leaving after-images in the cold air.
Ares found himself on the back foot, his massive sword suddenly feeling slow and unwieldy. He parried, the blows rattling his arms, each impact sending sparks of divine and infernal fire cascading across the stones. He grunted, more in surprise than pain. This was no re mortal. This was a force of nature.
"You have spirit, insect!" Ares roared, finally finding his footing. He planted his feet and shoved, a surge of raw divine power blasting out from his body.
Kratos was thrown back, skidding across the stone, his boots carving trenches in the rock. But he never fell. He used the montum, twisting in mid-air to land in a crouch, blades crossed before him, eyes burning with a cold fire that mirrored his weapons.
Ares didn’t give him a chance to recover. He lunged, his greatsword coming around in a horizontal sweep ant to cut Kratos in two. It was a blow that could level a fortress wall.
Kratos didn’t try to block it. He dropped flat to the ground, the massive blade whistling inches over his head. As the sword passed, he kicked upward, planting both feet on Ares’s armored chest and pushing off, flipping backwards to create distance.
Ares staggered a step, more from the audacity of the move than the force. A low growl rumbled in his throat. This was becoming embarrassing.
"Enough of this," he snarled.
He stomped his foot. The entire mountain trembled. The very stone of the arena erupted around Kratos, sharpened spikes of rock shooting up from the ground to impale him.
Kratos was already moving, a dancer in a field of death. He leaped, spun, and weaved, the Blades of Chaos lashing out not at Ares, but at the stone spikes, shattering them to dust as he used them as platforms to launch himself higher. He was a phantom, using the God of War’s own power as his stage.
He landed from a high flip, bringing both blades down on Ares’s shoulder. The armor held, but the god roared in pain and fury—the first real sign that Kratos could hurt him. The concussive force of the blow drove Ares to one knee.
The gathered gods, who had been watching with detached amusent, were now silent. Poseidon’s smirk had vanished. Hades leaned forward slightly, a glint of sothing akin to interest in his eyes. Athena’s face was a calm mask, but her knuckles were white where she gripped her spear.
Ares surged back to his feet, a wave of pure heat blasting outwards. "You DARE!"
He abandoned all pretense of a controlled fight. Forget his father’s order. Forget Athena’s plan. This mortal had humiliated him. He swung his sword in a furious, relentless barrage, no longer elegant sweeps but brutal, world-ending chops.
Kratos t him. Blade for blade. Fire for fire. The arena beca a maelstrom of clashing steel and roaring flas. Kratos was giving ground, but he was not breaking. Every parry was precise, every dodge calculated. He was a rock against a tsunami, being worn down but not yet swept away.
Ares, enraged by the resistance, overextended on a powerful overhead smash. His greatsword slamd into the ground where Kratos had been a mont before, sinking deep into the stone and sticking fast for a crucial half-second.
It was the opening Kratos had been waiting for.
He didn’t go for a killing blow. He knew he couldn’t land one, not yet. Instead, he lashed out with one of the Blades of Chaos. The chain wrapped not around Ares, but around the hilt of the embedded greatsword. With a guttural roar that tore from the depths of his soul, Kratos pulled.
The god, caught by surprise, was yanked off balance. His grip on his weapon was torn loose, and he stumbled forward, his guard down.
And for the first ti, Kratos spoke. Two words, ground out between clenched teeth, carrying the weight of all his pain, all his loss, all his rage.
"For Sparta."
He swung the other blade in a blazing arc, putting all his weight, all his montum, into the strike. The flaming edge connected with the side of Ares’s helt.
There was a sound like a shattering bell. A crack appeared in the dark tal. A piece of the helt, near the jaw, broke off and clattered to the stone.
Ares froze, his head snapped to the side by the force of the blow. The roaring flas of his sword flickered and died. The sudden silence was deafening.
Slowly, with a creak of strained tal, Ares turned his head back. Through the new crack in his helt, a single, raging eye was visible, glowing with pure, undiluted hatred. The air around him began to boil, the very light bending toward him as he drew power from the concept of war itself.
The playful condescension was gone. The controlled fury was gone. All that remained was a bottomless, murderous intent.
He spoke, his voice a low, deadly whisper that carried to every corner of the peak.
"Now you die."
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