Ares woke up with everything hurting. His muscles screamed in protest, and every bone in his body felt like it had been smashed by a celestial freight train. Groaning, he clutched his side and muttered through gritted teeth, "What was that thing…?"
As his vision cleared, he realized he was no longer in the mortal world. Instead, he was floating within a colorful void — shifting hues of pastel blues, pinks, and yellows surrounded him like a living kaleidoscope. Across from him, seated calmly in a floating chair, was what appeared to be a young boy around twelve or thirteen. The boy had snow-white hair and mismatched eyes — one blue, one golden.
But Ares wasn't fooled.
As a god, he could instinctively sense the true nature of beings around him. And this… this wasn't a child. No, this was something far older. Far more powerful. Something that didn't play by any known rules of Olympus.
The war god swallowed hard.
Realizing he was probably in some deep shit, Ares knelt — a rare show of submission from the war god — and said with a voice that held a faint tremor of respect, "How can I be of service to the Almighty One?"
Tet stared at him, resting his chin in his hand, expression unreadable — not angry, not smug, just… amused. As if watching a particularly entertaining scene in a game. His voice, when he finally spoke, was light and casual — but every word carried a weight that made Ares' skin crawl.
"Do you know why you're here, then?" Tet asked, his golden eye glinting with mischief.
Ares shifted slightly but didn't rise from his kneeling position. "I'm… not entirely sure," he admitted, unsure if honesty would help him here — but instinct told him lies were worse.
Tet nodded slightly, as if he'd expected that. "You're here because, first off, you got brainwashed by Kronos." His tone turned sharper, the lightness fading like a curtain being drawn back. "And don't deny it. You know you did."
Ares flinched at that. He had known — deep down, under all that arrogance and divine pride, he had known.
Tet leaned back in his floating chair, one leg crossed over the other. "Then you tried to start a war that most likely would've destroyed the entirety of North America — if not more." He gave a slow, deliberate pause. "But the biggest reason you're here is because you, the God of War, have become an honorless cur. A disrespectful wretch who has completely forgotten what it means to be a warrior."
Ares opened his mouth — perhaps to argue, perhaps to scoff — but Tet cut him off with a raised hand and a stare that froze even the god's fiery temper.
"I understand it's not entirely your fault," Tet continued, tone softening slightly. "Most gods are influenced by how the human race views them. Or their concept. You especially. And these days… people think of war as an ugly, horrible thing." He tilted his head, expression thoughtful. "And while it can be… it doesn't mean the soldiers need to be."
Tet's eyes seemed to burn straight through Ares' soul. "The reason you've become the way you are… is because there's no longer any honor in war. Not like there used to be." He paused again, and his voice turned quiet — nostalgic, almost. "There used to be a time when soldiers respected their enemies as much as they hated them." He raised his gaze. "Do you agree with this sentiment?"
Ordinarily, Ares would have bitten back with a snide remark or some rude comment — maybe scoffed or flexed his muscles in defiance. But this time? He didn't dare. Something deep inside told him this wasn't a game he could win with bravado.
Instead, the war god simply nodded, silent but solemn. There was a flicker of something in his eyes — regret, perhaps. Or shame.
Tet gave a satisfied smile, as if that was exactly the reaction he was hoping for.
"Now, Ares," Tet said, tone brightening again, "I'm going to help you regain your honor. Help you relearn what it means to be a true warrior."
Ares looked up, cautiously hopeful — until Tet added with a mischievous grin:
"But first, I'm afraid… you need some punishment."
Ares' heart sank.
"So," Tet continued cheerfully, "I'm going to drop you somewhere that you are absolutely going to hate — just for a little while."
And with no further explanation, no dramatic speech, no divine fanfare… the floor beneath Ares vanished.
A ripple of color opened beneath him like a trapdoor, and the God of War plummeted through it with a shout of startled fury.
Where he landed… would have been paradise for small children.
But for Ares It was hell.
Ares was surrounded by tall, lush green grass. Vibrant trees swayed gently around him under the bright, cloudless blue sky.
Now, this part wouldn't have been so bad… if not for everything else.
What was really bothering him—driving him absolutely mad—was the endlessly repeating, high-pitched, sickeningly joyful song. It followed him no matter where he moved. No matter how hard he tried to cover his ears, it burrowed into his brain like a parasite.
And everywhere he looked…
Cartoon-looking dinosaurs.
Small, bouncy, cutesy, pastel-colored monstrosities.
They came in all sorts of vibrant colors—lime green, bubblegum pink, neon blue, sunshine yellow—each one more obnoxiously cheerful than the last. Their big round noses, smiling eyes, and waddling feet mocked him. Mocked Ares, the god of freakin' war.
They didn't growl. They didn't roar.
Instead, they all said the same thing.
"Yoshi!"
Again.
And again.
And again.
"Yoshi! Yoshi! Yoshi!"
Ares grit his teeth, hands clenched into fists, his jaw ticking. "What the Hades is this cursed place!?"
He tried to fight them—of course he tried to fight them—but nothing worked. He didn't have his divinity. No weapon. No armor. Nothing. Just him in this pastel hell.
Every punch he threw? Useless.
It was like trying to fight a trampoline. His fists bounced harmlessly off their rubbery skin. The little freaks didn't even flinch.
He roared in frustration, stomping one of them into the ground—only for it to pop back up like a beach ball, smiling and chirping, "Yoshi!"
Then the worst part happened.
One of them—clearly annoyed by his repeated attempts to murder it—opened its oversized mouth.
And ate him.
Whole.
Ares didn't even have time to curse before the thing's tongue wrapped around him, yanked him in, and swallowed him like a grape.
Darkness.
Wet.
Disgusting.
And then…
He was shot out.
Not like a person.
Not even like vomit.
He was ejected from its backside as an egg.
When he finally managed to break free from the shell, sticky and dazed, he collapsed on the grass. He was severely traumatized. Shell-shocked—literally and figuratively.
He didn't know how long he was in there. Hours? Days? Weeks? It felt like an eternity. Time didn't exist in that pastel nightmare.
He sat there in silence, twitching, until finally… finally… a door opened in the middle of nowhere.
Ares bolted toward it like a man possessed. He scrambled out as fast as his trembling limbs would allow, panting heavily, his face pale and eyes wide.
On the other side, Tet was waiting for him.
Tet smiled mischievously, floating lazily in the air with his usual carefree grin and mismatched eyes glowing with playful intent.
"All right," he said cheerfully, folding his hands behind his head. "I think you've had enough. Now, the real fun begins."
His expression turned just a little more serious—though his tone remained teasing.
"Ares, I'm going to be sending you to various places in the multiverse… to relearn what it means to be a warrior. Once you've done that, I'll restore your position as God of War—and then some."
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"Do you think you can handle it?"
Ares stood silently for a moment, his fists slowly unclenching. He took a deep breath, forcing his body to relax. The trauma of that colorful, egg-regurgitating nightmare world still clung to his thoughts like a bad stench, but he pushed it down, burying it under layers of sheer willpower and grit.
His jaw tensed. At first, he was angry—furious, even—about what had happened. About being stripped of his power, humiliated, reduced to a joke. But eventually… he understood.
He needed that.
He'd lost his way. Lost his edge. Lost the meaning of the battles he once gloried in.
Now he had to find it again.
As he came to this realization, a strange mix of dread and excitement welled up inside him, twisting in his gut like fire and steel. On one hand, he was essentially powerless—no weapons, no divinity, nothing but his battle-hardened skills and centuries of experience.
But on the other hand…
This was something he hadn't tasted in years.
The thrill of combat. The heat of blood on the battlefield. The joy of standing toe-to-toe with powerful enemies. The glory of a real fight.
He craved it.
His eyes burned with renewed determination as he stepped forward, his voice gruff and resolute.
"I'm ready, Lord," Ares said. "Send me to the first location."
Tet clapped his hands together, delighted, and a swirling, glowing portal opened behind him—colors twisting like oil on water.
He grinned wider. "There won't be any need for you to have an identity or background in the worlds I'm sending you to. The locals will automatically think you've been there forever."
Tet twirled in the air like a lazy cat, then added with a wink, "You'll have some money and starting supplies in each world you go to. I won't be policing what you do."
Then, for once, his voice softened just a little—serious, but still playful.
"I only ask that you learn something… from each world you end up in."
Ares gave a firm nod, his expression steel.
Then, without hesitation, he stepped through the portal.
When Ares next opened his eyes, he found himself in the middle of a nightmare.
He stood atop the stone ramparts of a massive, ancient city under siege—Minas Ithil, its gleaming white towers now stained with soot, fire, and blood. The air was thick with smoke, screams, and the iron stench of war. Banners bearing the White Tree of Gondor fluttered in the wind, tattered and scorched from constant assault.
He looked down at himself.
He wore polished Gondorian iron plate mail, the kind forged in the deepest halls of Minas Tirith—angular and proud, etched with silver accents and the emblem of the White Tree over the chest. Iron gauntlets wrapped his forearms, and matching greaves protected his legs. A well-crafted steel longsword sat sheathed at his side, its leather-wrapped hilt within easy reach, its scabbard hanging from a blackened belt reinforced for battle.
Then a nearby soldier, wearing armor nearly identical to his, ran past and shouted in a panic, "They've breached the lower city! All hands to battle!"
Ares turned his head toward the horizon—and what he saw made his blood boil with exhilaration.
From the breached gates of the lower city, hundreds—maybe thousands—of green-skinned, snarling beasts came pouring through. Orcs, twisted and malformed, covered in jagged, rusted iron armor that looked hammered together from scrap. Their weapons were brutal things—spiked axes, cleavers, hooked blades, and cruel spears, all designed for pain over precision.
And they were charging.
Then a powerful voice rang out behind him, echoing across the courtyard like a war horn. "Soldiers, to battle! We will not let the orcs take the city! Move, move, move!"
The Gondorian soldiers around Ares surged forward, answering the call with cries of defiance and resolve. Some wore expressions of grim determination; others had fear in their eyes—but they still held their ground.
Ares?
Ares had no fear.
He had excitement.
Relief.
His eyes lit with fire. His lips curled into a savage grin. This—this was what he had been waiting for. This was what he craved.
To stand shoulder to shoulder with real warriors, blades drawn, backs to the wall, ready to die like men—not gods.
And best of all? The enemies they were fighting actually looked like they could be a challenge.
Especially now that he was mortal.
The enemy was in sight. Their gnarly, yellowed teeth bared. Their grotesque faces twisted in bloodlust. Weapons brandished high as they screamed war cries and barreled forward.
Ares drew his sword with a sharp metallic ring and rolled his shoulders, muscles rippling under the weight of the armor. He took off at a sprint, racing into the fray to meet them head-on.
The first orc lunged at him—a huge brute wielding a rusted cleaver—but Ares ducked under the wide swing, stepping in close.
Then, with a roar and a savage grin, he drove his blade across the creature's exposed throat in one brutal slash.
"That's one," he said, flicking blood from the edge of his blade.
And just like that, Ares dashed into the heart of the enemy, a whirlwind of fury and precision. He moved like a man possessed, each motion fluid and deliberate. He dodged, parried, struck, and killed, using every ounce of his centuries-honed skill and combat experience.
Every orc that came his way fell—one after another, a brutal ballet of steel and blood.
Ares was home.