Ares awakens in a pitch-black void, the same place where his awareness first formed. Even here, the sounds of war echo endlessly in his mind. They never leave him. He wonders why he has returned to this place.
His thoughts drift back to his birth on the battlefield, where he appeared suddenly and declared himself the god of war. How foolish that now seems. He understands the truth: he was not crowned by war, but born from it, the embodiment of bloodlust itself. And yet, despite that, he had been struck down so easily, like some weak, lesser god.
He knows the source of his power. War fuels him. Conflict strengthens him. The greater the battlefield, the more blood that is spilled, the stronger he becomes. But his greatest weakness is just as clear. When peace settles, when fighting ceases, he begins to fade.
Floating in the void, he wonders what will become of the others. Perhaps they will die, just as he did. But something about that thought unsettles him. He remembers how Aphrodite showed him kindness, how she healed his wounds. He remembers Ignis, her care and protectiveness toward Aphrodite. And now, because of his own recklessness and foolishness, they may die.
Regret settles heavily within him.
He must return. He must save them. He owes them that much. After all, he promised her father he would keep her safe.
He does not know how, but he forces himself back. He fights against the abyss, against the suffocating darkness. He fights death itself, clawing his way back into his body. For a brief moment, as his consciousness returns, he feels eyes upon him, as if he has offended something beyond understanding. Then the sensation vanishes.
He is back on the battlefield.
The once-still ancient creature is rising again, preparing to attack Aphrodite and Ignis. Ares sees the fear in their eyes, the dread in their posture. He knows what he must do. He must protect them. He must kill this creature, no matter the cost.
Ares lets out a roar, a berserker's cry. Power surges through him, the same overwhelming force he felt when he was first born on the battlefield. In that moment, he feels as though he is the battlefield itself, as though he is violence incarnate. But even as he grasps that power, he feels it slipping away. Forcing his resurrection has taken too much.
I must end this quickly, he thinks.
The creature lunges toward Aphrodite. Ares intercepts it, summoning countless swords midair and sending them hurtling toward the beast. The attack does nothing. The creature regenerates instantly, far faster than any vampire he has faced before.
Ares exhales sharply and charges again, aiming to sever its head. But the creature's centuries of experience show. It reacts instantly, coating its neck in dense blood armor. It counters with a brutal strike.
Ares summons a massive shield, blocking the attack. The clash sends shockwaves through the battlefield.
They collide again and again.
Ares fights with his black blade, summoning weapons to strike from every angle while raising shields to defend. The creature answers with feral claws and blood magic, each strike savage and precise. To witness their battle is to watch two overwhelming forces collide.
Aphrodite and Ignis can only stare in awe.
The two move so quickly they blur, their clash too close, too violent for any normal being to endure. The force of their blows begins to push Aphrodite and Ignis back. Realizing the danger, Ignis hastily casts a barrier, shielding them both.
Ares notices.
He knows time is running out.
Yet something changes. The sheer intensity of the battle halts his fading strength. Each powerful strike from the creature feeds him, pushing him higher, stronger. For a moment, Ares reaches the pinnacle of his power.
He moves.
Even the ancient creature cannot follow.
A single swing.
The creature begins to cast another blood spell, but it is already too late. Its head falls before it can react.
Ares stands victorious.
But his body is in ruins.