Awareness comes first.
Not sight. Not sound. Just awareness, like something waking in a place that has no shape.
Then the darkness follows. Thick. Endless. It presses in from all sides, heavy as stone.
Sound arrives next.
At first, distant. Then sharper. The echo of steel striking steel. The relentless clash of swords meeting again and again, ringing like a storm of iron. Beneath it, something worse, something human. Screams. Not one voice, but many. Layered. Endless. Men crying out in rage, in pain, in terror.
Then comes the smell.
Sweet. Metallic. Blood. Thick in the air, mixed with sweat, earth, and something sour, something like fear itself made tangible. It fills the lungs, clings to the skin.
And with it… feeling.
Not emotion as it once was. Something deeper. The fear of a dying man. The cold resolve of one who takes a life. The trembling courage of those who charge forward knowing they may not return. All of it floods in at once, crashing together.
It does something to me.
It builds. It churns. A dark pressure swelling beneath the surface. Rage, ancient and unending. A hunger forms alongside it, sharp and undeniable. A craving not just to witness the violence… but to become it.
I let it take hold.
And then—
I am there.
The darkness breaks apart, and I stand in its place.
Pale skin. Gaunt frame. Hollow features carved as if by something merciless. The battlefield stretches around me in every direction, soaked in chaos. I am naked. Unarmed. Yet untouched.
Men surround me.
Two factions, divided by symbols etched into their armor. Ravens on one side, owls on the other. Opposites locked in endless slaughter. But now, something shifts.
The nearest soldiers slow.
Then stop.
One by one, their weapons lower. Their eyes turn toward me, confusion cutting through their fury. I can feel their thoughts as clearly as my own.
What is he?
Where did he come from?
How is he here?
Their questions drift toward me like smoke.
I feel nothing for them.
No curiosity. No sympathy.
Only the hunger.
I raise my hand.
From nothing, a blade forms. Black. Long. Its edge drinks the light around it. It belongs there, as if it had always been waiting.
Without hesitation, I strike.
The nearest warrior doesn't even have time to react. The blade cleaves downward, clean and absolute. Flesh and armor part as if they were never meant to resist.
Before the next can move—
I am already there.
Faster than thought. Faster than fear.
My foot drives into his chest. The impact shatters armor, crushes bone. He is thrown backward, his body carried through the air like something weightless, vanishing into the chaos beyond.
Silence breaks.
Then comes the rush.
They charge me from every direction. A tide of steel and desperation.
I do not move.
I let them come.
Time loses meaning after that.
The clash, the screams, the endless motion. Each strike feeds the hunger. Each life taken deepens it. The battlefield becomes something else entirely… not a war, but a feast.
And I am at its center.
When it ends—
I sit.
A throne of bodies beneath me. Blood coats my skin, warm and thick. The air is quieter now, though not silent. It never truly is.
What remains of them kneels before me.
Weapons discarded. Hands trembling. Some sob openly, broken beyond pride. Others stare, unable to look away, something like reverence creeping into their fear.
They beg.
For mercy. For meaning.
One finds the courage to speak for the rest.
"What… are you?"
Their voices shake.
They need a name.
I look down at them, at what is left of their war, their purpose, their lives.
Then I answer.
"I am Ares."
The words settle over them like a verdict.
"The god of war."
And in that moment, they understand.
This was never their battlefield.