The sea of gold stood still, but it wasn't a peaceful silence. It was the silence of a hundred thousand hearts beating in a panicked, uneven rhythm.
Arc stood alone against them. He reached down, his fingers locking onto the hilt of his sword with a grip that could crush stone. He didn't draw it yet. Instead, he simply shifted his weight forward, digging his obsidian boots into the pristine marble. At that moment, he stopped holding it back. The "Ancient Beast" within him didn't just growl—it roared.
A monstrous aura, cold and heavy as a collapsing star, erupted from his frame.
The pressure hit the frontlines like a physical shockwave. The angels, beings who considered themselves the pinnacle of creation, suddenly found it hard to breathe. The air turned thick, smelling of ozone and old, forgotten graves. For the weaker angels at the very front, the pressure was lethal. Their divine hearts simply seized; their lungs refused to expand against the weight of Arc's presence. Without a single swing of a blade, dozens of golden-clad warriors simply crumpled, their eyes rolling back as they died from pure terror.
That was the power of the Variable. He didn't just fight; he overwritten the reality around him.
Then, the ranks parted. A beautiful, tall angel stepped forward, his movements graceful and arrogant. He was a striking figure, even among gods, with long flowing blonde hair that caught the light of the sanctuary and eyes that held a thousand years of condescension. He rested a hand on the hilt of a golden rapier at his side.
He looked at the pile of dead angels at Arc's feet and laughed—a light, mocking sound that didn't belong on a battlefield.
"Ooh, so you did survive, vile wretch," the angel said, his voice dripping with venom. He tilted his head, his blonde hair shifting like silk. "I don't know how you did it, but you were always a cockroach ever since you came to this world."
To the surrounding army, this angel seemed like a pillar of strength, immune to Arc's overwhelming pressure. But Arc saw the truth. He saw the way the angel's fingers twitched against his sword. He saw the slight sheen of sweat on that "perfect" forehead. The beautiful god was scared—terrified to his very marrow. This was nothing more than a mask of false bravery.
Arc knew this angel well. They had a history—a long, bloody list of grievances that went back to the days when the gods first tried to leash the Variable. But Arc didn't feel like talking about the past.
He didn't even reply.
Arc's hand blurred. He unsheathed his blade just a fraction of an inch—a silver of obsidian steel catching the light—and then, he disappeared.
To the angels watching, it looked as if the world had skipped a frame. One second, the dark figure was twenty paces away. The next, a soft shink echoed through the air. Arc was suddenly standing beside the beautiful angel, his back turned, slowly sliding his blade back into its scabbard.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, the beautiful blonde head slid from the angel's shoulders. It hit the marble with a dull thud, followed a second later by the headless body. The "High God" who had been mocking him just a moment ago was now nothing more than a leaking carcass.
The silence that followed was deafening.
The bravery of the heavenly host evaporated. If a High God could fall in a single second, what hope did they have? The angels wavered, their spears trembling. Arc turned to face them, his eyes glowing with that cold, predatory void. His blade now carried a faint, red pulse—the first taste of divine blood. He knew exactly what had to be done.
With a primal battle cry that shook the golden gates off their hinges, the massacre began.
Arc disappeared again. He didn't just run; he teleported through the space between heartbeats. In the next second, the frontlines exploded in a spray of golden ichor. Angels fell like flies caught in a storm. Arc tore through the army like a deranged, battle-hungry demon—which, in their eyes, he was.
He was a whirlwind of black steel. His sword ignored every rule of warfare. When it struck, it didn't matter if the angel wore enchanted shingle armor or carried a shield blessed by Zeus himself. The obsidian blade sliced through divine metal like a hot knife through butter. It didn't meet resistance; it simply erased whatever was in its path.
As he moved, Arc's mind went quiet. The rage was still there, but it had narrowed into a single, sharp point. There was no strategy. There was no mercy. There was only a rhythmic, pulsing command echoing in his skull:
'Kill.'
'Kill.'
'Kill.'
He was a machine of slaughter. He reached a god with flowing black hair who tried to conjure a shield of light. Arc didn't even use his sword; he stepped into the god's space, his hand blurring as he slit the deity's throat with a jagged piece of broken armor. He pushed the dying body aside without a glance, pausing for a split second to survey the carnage he had caused.
The field was no longer white and gold. It was a swamp of red and amber.
He had killed three-quarters of the army. The "Sea of Gold" that had once looked so domineering was now a tattered remnant, a collection of broken wings and shattered spirits. Arc stood in the center of the graveyard, his armor slick and his blade dripping with thick, golden blood. With a sharp, violent flick of his wrist, he whipped the sword aside, clearing the gore from the steel, and looked at the survivors.
The remaining angels had lost their will. They stood in small, shaking clusters, their weapons forgotten.
"What can we do against that thing?" one angel whispered, his voice cracking with despair.
No one answered him. They couldn't. The angel standing right next to him was suddenly gone, replaced by a spray of red.
Arc had closed the distance in a flash. He pulled his fist out of the chest of the angel he had just punched through, then turned to the one who had spoken. Before the creature could even scream, Arc raised his sword and executed a vertical strike so clean that the angel was sliced in half before he could even register the movement.
Arc continued his work. He moved through the remnants of the army without a single shred of empathy. He wasn't just killing them; he was ravaging them. Every strike was a payment for a thousand years of lies.
He had a promise to keep to himself, and he whispered it into the dying ears of those he slaughtered.
"I'll keep that promise," Arc muttered, his voice a low growl that rose above the screams. "I'll make sure you all pay."
He drove his sword through the skull of the final standing angel. The creature's eyes were wide, bulging with a final, desperate fear, looking for a savior that would never come. Arc watched the light fade from those eyes, then yanked his blade free as the body slumped into the pile.
Suddenly, a massive BOOM echoed across the battlefield.
The ground buckled. A shockwave of pure, violent energy cleared the mist of blood, and there, standing in the center of the ruins, was Ares.
The God of War looked around. He saw the sea of bodies—his elite warriors, his "perfect" army—laying like trash on the once-beautiful field. His face contorted, his handsome features twisting into a mask of pure, divine rage.
Arc didn't look intimidated. He slowly raised his blood-stained sword, gesturing to the mounds of dead angels surrounding him.
"Do you like my painting?" Arc asked. His voice was casual, almost bored, as if he were discussing the weather.
Ares's grip tightened on his own weapon until his knuckles turned white. "You really are a demon," Ares spat, his voice trembling with fury. "All these angels fell to a wretch like you... but their sacrifice won't be in vain. I will kill you, you vile, wretched demon!"
Arc let out a short, hollow laugh. It was the sound of someone who had already seen the end of the world.
"Demon? Maybe I am," Arc said, stepping over a pile of wings. "And you'll kill me? That's funny, Ares. Because last time I checked, no one in this entire realm is able to even leave a scratch on me."
Ares drew his sword, the metal singing a high, violent note that cleared the air. "Today is the day you leave this world. This isn't a place for someone like you. All the vile things you've done, all the lives you've taken... you don't deserve forgiveness."
"Vile things?" Arc's voice went dangerously low. He took a stance, his weight shifting back, the Twin Blades of Chaos humming in anticipation. "You're one to talk about vile things, Ares. But you have one thing wrong. I won't be dying today. It's you, the so-called gods, who will be dying."
The two forces—the Golden God of War and the Obsidian Variable—stared each other down across a field of corpses. The real fight was about to begin.