CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT: ARES: STRENGTH WITHOUT MASTERY

Ares: Strength Without Mastery

The training session was far from over.

Ares stepped back, rolling the ache out of his shoulders. The fight had been rough, but he wasn't satisfied. He had won, yes, but not effortlessly. And in the Warborn domain, anything less than dominance was weakness.

"Next," Ajax called.

A new opponent stepped forward.

Galen.

Ares tensed. He had been hoping to avoid him.

Galen was a descendant of both Ares and Hephaestus—a rare bloodline that gave him the perfect mix of brute strength and unyielding endurance. While others relied on skill or speed, Galen was a walking fortress. He didn't dodge. He didn't hesitate. He just broke whoever stood in front of him.

Ares had fought him before. And lost.

But not this time.

The air was thick with anticipation as they squared off. No weapons. No tricks. Just fists, muscle, and willpower.

Ajax's voice cut through the tension. "Begin."

Ares moved first, launching forward with a sharp right hook aimed at Galen's jaw.

It never landed.

Galen didn't dodge—he didn't need to. He simply raised his arm, catching Ares's fist in his palm like it was nothing.

Then he squeezed.

Pain shot up Ares's wrist as Galen tightened his grip, his fingers like iron clamps. Ares twisted, trying to pull free, but the moment of hesitation cost him.

A knee slammed into his ribs.

Ares grunted, biting back a curse. He staggered but didn't fall. Instead, he retaliated with a quick elbow to Galen's sternum, but the impact felt like striking solid rock.

No reaction.

Galen smirked. "That all?"

Ares gritted his teeth. No. Not even close.

He wrenched his hand free and darted back, reassessing. He needed a different approach. A direct fight was suicide. Galen could soak up damage all day.

Ares shifted his stance, focusing on speed this time. He darted in, striking fast—targeting the weak spots. The ribs. The side of the knee. The throat.

Each hit landed. But none of them stopped Galen.

Then—

A blur of movement.

Ares barely saw it coming.

A crushing backhand slammed into his chest, lifting him off his feet and sending him skidding across the rough stone floor. His back hit the ground hard, knocking the breath from his lungs.

He gasped, coughing.

Galen didn't even look winded.

"You're fast," he admitted, rolling his shoulders. "But speed alone won't save you."

Ares pushed himself up, his body screaming in protest. He knew he couldn't win. Not yet.

But he refused to stay down.

He clenched his fists, forcing himself to his feet, blood trickling from his mouth.

Galen raised an eyebrow. "Still want to keep going?"

Ares spat blood to the side. "Always."

Ajax chuckled. "Enough." He stepped forward, waving a hand. "This fight's done."

Ares wanted to argue. To demand one more round.

But he knew the truth.

Galen had won. Again.

"Good effort," Ajax said. "You're improving. But you're not there yet."

Ares exhaled sharply. He hated those words.

He wasn't there yet.

He needed to be.

Because in the Warborn domain, there was no room for second place.

And if he couldn't surpass Galen…

He would never be strong enough.

As Ares walked away, fists clenched, he caught sight of the arena's highest platform—the place where only the strongest warriors stood.

Galen was already looking down at him from there.

A silent message. A challenge.

One day, Ares would take that spot.

One day, he wouldn't just be another fighter.

He would be the warrior.