Before Hermes stood the Kratos family's personal guard, a wall of bronze and steel. Four men, well-trained and well-armed, with Phylo behind them, his face a mask of fury and disbelief.
"Your rebellion ends here, slave," Phylo said, his voice trembling with rage. "You've stained this house with the blood of its guardians. The Lord will show no mercy."
Hermes didn't respond with words. He advanced, a low growl vibrating in his chest.
The guards moved as one, closing formation, spearpoints forward. Hermes didn't attack head-on. He moved left, keeping the pruning blade low, forcing the man on the flank to turn toward him. The guard thrust with his spear—a standard maneuver—but instead of retreating, Hermes used the curve of the pruning blade to hook the wooden shaft. With a violent pull, he yanked the guard out of position, throwing him off balance and exposing his flank. Before the man could recover, Hermes drove the sharp tip of the tool into the gap between his armor and helmet. The guard collapsed with a gurgling scream, clutching at his pierced neck.
One down. But the other three advanced instantly. A wall of shields forced him back, the sound of bronze slamming against the iron of his improvised weapon echoing through the corridor. A short sword swept up from below—Hermes leapt back, feeling the blade tear a deep cut in his thigh. Pain exploded, making his leg falter. Another guard slammed the edge of his shield into him, a dull blow that sent him crashing into a marble pillar. The air left his lungs. He was surrounded, wounded, and his fury was beginning to be overtaken by the despair of a body reaching its limit. Spears and swords closed in.
"Stop!"
The voice—booming, heavy with authority—froze everyone in place. Lord Kratos appeared at the far end of the corridor, his face a storm of rage. At his side walked a man who made the other guards look like boys. He was massive, with muscles like carved stone and a face marked by a single scar running down his cheek. He wore no standard armor—just strips of boiled leather over a bare chest. In his hand, a short, lethal xiphos. This was Rinos, the Lord's champion—personal executioner of the family.
"Step away from this vermin," Kratos ordered, his eyes locked on Hermes with pure disdain. "Rinos, clean this filth. Make him suffer."
The guards obeyed, clearing a path. Rinos approached with slow, deliberate steps. He bore no rage—only the eyes of a craftsman preparing for his work.
Despite the pain, Hermes forced himself upright and attacked. Rinos didn't even move his feet.
He deflected the clumsy strike of the pruning blade with a near-bored flick of his xiphos, the fine bronze singing against crude iron. With a quick turn, Rinos slammed the pommel of his sword into Hermes's wrist. Bone cracked, and the pruning blade clattered to the floor.
Disarmed, Hermes tried one last act of defiance—a punch. Rinos blocked it with his forearm and answered with a brutal kick to Hermes's already wounded thigh, dropping him to his knees.
The humiliation was complete. Rinos circled him slowly, delivering a shield-edge blow to his ribs, then a shallow cut across his shoulder—an artist of pain demonstrating complete control. Finally, a kick to his chest sent him sprawling on his back. Rinos loomed over him, the point of his xiphos pressing against Hermes's throat.
That's when Lord Kratos laughed. A loud, arrogant laugh that echoed through the corridor.
"Look at you! The great rebel, writhing on the floor like the insect you are. Did you think you could change anything? That a pawn could challenge a king?" He stepped closer, savoring his victory. "Hahahaha! In the end, that's all you are—a worthless, lowly pawn!"
Those words… worthless pawn. They cut deeper than the wound in his thigh, reaching something ancient and buried. The villa's corridor vanished for an instant, replaced by the throne room of Olympus. He heard Kratos's voice merge with that of his father—Zeus—on the day of his fall.
A ringing filled his ears. He clenched his teeth, feeling the pain in his eardrums. And then, the ringing became a sound—a single note. A note of a lyre. Divine. Hermes's eyes widened in realization.
The note vibrated, filling the void in his soul—an echo of Apollo's music.
A soft golden light began to radiate from the caduceus-shaped scar on his chest. The glow spread, tracing the veins of his body. His eyes lit with the pure brilliance of Olympus.
Rinos, sensing the sudden change in air and pressure, hesitated for a fraction of a second, his warrior's instinct screaming that something was terribly wrong.
For Hermes, time slowed. Kratos's laughter became a distant hum. He spotted the fallen xiphos of one of the first guards he had killed. His hand—its wrist miraculously healed by divine energy—closed around it. The moment his fingers touched the hilt, the blade ignited in a golden aura.
He rose. To the others, it was a blur of motion.
Rinos, acting on pure instinct, thrust with his sword. But to Hermes, the blade moved in slow motion. He sidestepped it as if dodging a falling leaf, and his own golden blade carved an arc through the air. It didn't seem to cut—it unraveled flesh and bone at Rinos's neck, leaving behind a trail of ephemeral light. The champion stood frozen for a moment, shock etched into his face, before collapsing in a pool of his own blood.
Before Rinos's body hit the floor, Hermes was already in front of Lord Kratos, whose face was locked in petrified horror. The "king" opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came. He saw the golden eyes of a god—and there was nothing of a pawn in them. The sword of light rose in an arc of vengeance and drove upward beneath Kratos's jaw, piercing through his head with a force beyond the mortal realm.
Time snapped back.
The golden aura vanished. The sword in Hermes's hand lost its glow and crumbled into dust, releasing Kratos's head, which slid to the floor with a dull thud beside his lifeless body.
The corridor fell silent, broken only by Hermes's ragged breathing.
Then came the pain. A pain unlike any he had ever known. His mortal body, forced to channel even a fragment of divine power, rebelled. It was as if every bone were breaking, every muscle tearing. He collapsed to his knees, convulsing, vomiting a shocking amount of blood, staining the marble in a dark pool.
Phylo and the remaining guards, frozen in terror at the impossible carnage, finally broke and fled from the creature that had slain their master and champion in the blink of an eye.
Hermes shook violently on the floor, the pain consuming him. But amid the agony, one thought remained: Agouri.
With inhuman effort, ignoring his body's collapse, he braced against the wall and forced himself upright. Leaving a trail of blood and destruction, he staggered, step by step, toward the last door at the end of the corridor.
...
Every step was a battle against his failing body. The divine power that had saved him now demanded its price, liquid fire running through his veins and chest. The world swayed, torchlight blurring into streaks in his failing vision. He passed the corpse of Rinos and, with a trembling hand, took the man's xiphos. Heavy. Real. A piece of mortal steel for a dying god.
The Young Lord's door was ajar, a sliver of inviting darkness. Inside, an unnatural silence. Hermes expected a final confrontation—perhaps the Young Lord cowering but armed. He raised the sword, prepared his shattered body for one last push, and kicked the door open.
The scene that met him was not a fight. It was a slaughterhouse.
The opulent room was in disarray—furniture overturned, silks torn. In the center, on an expensive rug now soaked in deep red, lay the Young Lord's corpse. And over him—Agouri.
Hermes froze. It was a nightmare made flesh. Agouri, eyes wide and empty, straddled the noble's chest. In his hand, a small kitchen knife, likely stolen, rose and fell in a frantic, uncontrolled rhythm. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound was wet, horrible. He stabbed the lifeless body over and over, each motion a spasm of pure, blind, unrestrained fury. He wasn't killing a man anymore—he was trying to erase a memory, stabbing a ghost.
The horror of it all outweighed Hermes's pain. He had come to save Agouri from the monster, only to realize he was too late to save him from becoming one. This was not Agouri. This was a shell, moved only by hatred.
The xiphos slipped from Hermes's hand, clattering loudly on the marble. Agouri didn't register the sound.
"Agouri…" Hermes's voice was a hoarse whisper.
The boy didn't hear. He kept up his senseless slaughter, his body trembling from the effort, dry, silent sobs shaking his shoulders.
Desperate to keep the boy from falling forever into that abyss of rage, Hermes rushed to him. He didn't try to tear the knife away—he knew words or brute force wouldn't reach the dark place where Agouri's mind was trapped.
He knelt behind him and wrapped his arms around him from behind, trying to pin his arms. The moment he touched him, Agouri reacted with the speed of a cornered animal. He spun and, without recognizing him—seeing nothing but a threat—drove the kitchen knife into Hermes's shoulder.
The pain was sharp, a new star in the constellation of his agony. A groan escaped Hermes's lips, but he didn't let go. He forced himself forward, pulling the boy into a bear hug, using his weight and what remained of his strength to finally trap Agouri's arms against his body.
The knife fell, clinking to the floor. Agouri fought for a moment, a wild animal in a snare, then, feeling the firm hold, the warmth of another body, he stopped. Hermes held him tight, their blood mingling, his face pressed into the boy's sweat-matted hair.
"Guhaak…" Hermes choked, the taste of his own blood flooding his mouth.
The boy trembled, eyes wide.
"It's… all… over… now…"
The broken, pain-laden words were the key. They pierced the red haze clouding Agouri's mind. His body, once rigid with rage, softened. The violent shaking turned into trembling sobs. The emptiness in his eyes was suddenly flooded with horror, realization, and unbearable grief.
He looked at the mutilated body beneath him, the knife on the floor, the blood on his own hands. And then he screamed—a true scream, the sound of a soul returning to a shattered body.
Hermes held him tighter as Agouri collapsed in his arms, crying convulsively, the sound of his mourning filling the silence of that room of horrors.The bird had finally stopped singing. And amid the death and blood, bathed in the ruin of his enemy, the boy, for the first time in a long time, was alive again.