Chapter 4

In a single instant, reality itself shifted.

One moment, the hall was bound by mortal fears and divine tension. The next—he appeared.

The God of War. The son of Zeus.

Ares arrived.

He did not descend with thunder, nor with the wrath of Olympus. No, his arrival was quieter—a mere blink of crimson light, as if war itself had stepped through the veil of existence.

Yet the weight of his presence was crushing.

His armor gleamed like freshly spilled blood, each plate echoing the screams of fallen legions. His aura reeked of steel, of fire, of victory and ruin stitched into the air like battle hymns. The very air thickened, as though war had become tangible—alive.

But no one, not a single soul in that hall, was looking at Ares.

They were looking at his sword.

A breath away from Raezel's throat.

The King paled, his skin turning the sickly white of a man who had just glimpsed his own funeral procession.

The guards stood frozen, hands hovering over their weapons, knowing that to act was to die.

The serpents coiled, their tongues flicking in agitation. The air itself vibrated with venomous fury.

And then, Ares spoke.

"You, boy… Do you know what you have asked for?"

His voice was not merely loud—it was commanding. The weight of storms, of battles untold, of a thousand warriors screaming in their final moments—that was the sound of Ares' voice.

And in that moment, every soul in the hall understood—

Why he was the God of War.

Why he was the son of Zeus.

His presence was absolute. His strength, unquestioned.

And yet—

No one was afraid of Ares.

They were afraid of who he had drawn his sword in front of.

For Ares had chosen to bare his blade in front of Medusa—toward her son.

A mistake so grand, so utterly unforgivable, that the Fates themselves must have gasped.

And then—

A hiss.

Low. Ancient. Deadly.

Not from the serpents that slithered around the hall.

But from her.

Medusa.

It was not anger. Not fury.

No—this sound was something older.

It was a warning. A whisper from the abyss of time itself. The kind of sound that once turned empires to ash and made gods remember they could bleed.

And Ares—the mighty war god, the unshaken warrior—hesitated.

For the first time.

Ares blinked.

His grip on the sword faltered—barely, almost imperceptibly—but it was there. A flicker of restraint, a realization clawing at the edges of his mind. He had made a miscalculation. A grave one.

The weight of Medusa's gaze bore down upon him—not with rage, not with wrath—but with certainty. A certainty he had seen once before, long ago, in the eyes of a warrior he had struck down. A certainty that sent a cold shudder through his immortal bones.

For the God of War had stepped onto a battlefield where his blade meant nothing.

And he knew it.

Now, he had drawn his sword against Raezel, the son of Medusa… in front of Medusa herself.

His fingers twitched, ever so slightly. The smallest movement, yet it spoke volumes. A warrior's instinct—to correct a mistake before it became his undoing.

Still gripping his blade, Ares straightened his posture, attempting to regain what little dignity remained. His voice was steady, but thinner now—the roar of war tempered into something dangerously close to diplomacy.

"This land," he declared, "is under my command."

Silence.

The words hung in the air like an unspoken dare.

Then—

A cough.

A single, casual cough.

And it came from the King.

The same mortal ruler who had moments ago feared for his life. Now, he leaned forward on his throne, an eyebrow raised, speaking as if he were discussing the weather.

"That's fine," the King said, waving a dismissive hand. "You can withdraw your command."

Ares' eyes narrowed.

"Withdraw?"

"Yes," the King said, tone entirely too light for the moment. "If we are granted The Seal from Medusa, we won't need your protection anymore, will we?"

And just like that—

The world shifted again.

Ares did not move, did not speak. And yet, everyone saw it. The way his fingers curled, ever so slightly. The way his stance shifted, as if the very ground beneath him had betrayed him.

For this was not just a refusal.

This was an insult.

No.

A humiliation.

The war god's claim—his very authority—was being dismissed like a child's tantrum. A land under his command had dared to suggest they would be better off under Medusa.

And what was worse?

They were right.

Ares' grip on his sword tightened—but he did not raise it.

Because what could he do? What could he say?

Ares stood motionless, yet within the halls of his mind, a storm raged. He could feel it—the weight of a gaze that needed no eyes to see. The sky did not darken. Thunder did not roar. And yet, he knew.

Zeus was watching.

Then—without sound, without breath—his presence filled Ares' mind. A voice not spoken, but understood. A voice as vast as the sky, yet as piercing as the tip of a spear.

"You have drawn your blade against Medusa's son, in the presence of Medusa herself.

Tell me, Ares… have you learned nothing?"

There was no wrath. No fury.

Only weight.

"Back then, she was merely a Gorgon, a cursed thing beneath our notice. But now—now she is Queen Medusa, feared by the three realms.

And still, you dare to stand against her?"

Ares clenched his jaw. He would not kneel. He would not submit. But before Zeus, the King of Olympus, he was made to listen.

"Tell me, Ares—what outcome did you foresee?

What victory did you imagine awaited you here, in her presence?"

The words resonated like the toll of a bronze bell. The meaning was clear—not a reprimand, not even disappointment.

No.

This was worse.

It was confirmation of a mistake already made.

Ares let out a slow breath. His fingers, still curled around his sword, loosened slightly. Not in surrender. But in acknowledgment.

"I meant not to offend," he answered in thought. "But honor compels me. This land is under my domain."

A pause.

Then, a shift—not of the world, nor of the heavens, but within his own thoughts.

Zeus was not angered.

If anything, he was amused.

"Honor?" The word was spoken like distant thunder. "Do you think honor will keep you standing if Medusa decides to execute you now?"

Ares said nothing.

For even he could not deny it.

Medusa was no goddess. No Olympian. And yet—the very mention of her name commanded a fear that not even Olympus could deny. And Ares, more than anyone, knew why.

Zeus understood this best. He had ruled the heavens, shaped the fates of men and gods alike. And yet, there was a reason he had never sought to command Medusa.

He could not.

Medusa bowed to none.

Ares breathed deeply, steadying himself. He could feel the weight of his father's presence easing, withdrawing. Yet before it faded completely, one final thought passed between them:

"Ares, there is no battle here.

Only echoes of your past failures."

And then, Zeus was gone.

Ares exhaled, the breath leaving his lungs slow and measured. He glanced at the mortals—at their wide, stunned eyes. They had heard nothing, yet they had seen everything.

Then his gaze fell upon Raezel.

The son of Medusa stood before him, unflinching. He did not gloat, nor did he smirk. But in his silence burned a promise—one that needed no words.

Ares sighed.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his sword.

Not in defeat.

But because even war knows when it cannot win.