The request had been simple.
A bandit group had taken hold along a trade route not far from the academy—small in scale, but efficient enough to disrupt supply lines and draw concern. It was the kind of mission most students would take in teams.
Ares went alone.
The forest was quiet when he arrived. Not peaceful—quiet in the way something becomes when it knows it is being hunted.
He moved without hesitation.
Tracks were easy to find. Broken branches. Disturbed soil. Careless signs left by men who believed strength came from numbers.
Ares followed them.
By the time the first bandit noticed him, it was already too late.
A blade formed in Ares' hand mid-step—dark, solid, real—and the man dropped before he could even shout. No flourish. No wasted motion. Ares moved through them like a shadow given weight, each strike deliberate, each kill final.
They tried to rally.
Tried to surround him.
It didn't matter.
They were slow.
Disorganized.
Loud.
Ares adapted as he fought, his movements sharpening with every exchange, his timing refining itself in real time. He did not chase chaos—he controlled it. Cut it apart. Reduced it.
One by one, the camp fell silent.
Until only one remained.
The leader.
A larger man, scarred, armed better than the rest. He stood at the center of the camp, weapon raised, eyes wide—not with courage, but with the realization of what stood before him.
"You—what are you—"
Ares didn't answer.
The man swung.
Ares stepped inside the strike.
The axe formed.
One clean motion.
The head fell before the body understood it was dead.
Silence followed.
Ares stood among the bodies, breathing steady, expression unchanged. The faint echo of battle lingered in his mind—that distant, constant sound of war—but here, now, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
He turned away.
The mission was complete.
—
The return to Dreadspire was uneventful.
The gates stood as they always did—massive, unmoving, indifferent to what passed through them. Ares entered without pause, heading toward the administration hall to collect the reward.
A small task.
Already finished.
But as he crossed the courtyard—
Something moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
A blur cut through the space ahead of him, wind trailing behind it, distorting the air itself. Ares' eyes tracked it—but only barely.
Then it stopped.
Directly in front of him.
A young man stood there, posture relaxed despite the speed he had just displayed. Light on his feet, almost weightless, a faint grin playing at the edge of his expression.
Hermes.
"You're Ares, right?" he said casually, as if appearing out of nowhere was normal.
Ares studied him. "…yes."
"Good," Hermes replied, already reaching into a satchel at his side. "Got something for you."
He pulled out a sealed letter and held it out.
Ares took it without hesitation.
Hermes stepped back, stretching slightly. "Came from outside the academy. Word travels fast, you know. Especially when someone starts doing things like you."
Ares broke the seal.
His eyes moved across the contents.
A noble house—remote, but influential within its region. Their lands were under pressure from a rival faction. Skirmishes. Encroachment. A slow escalation toward open conflict.
They had heard of him.
Of the bandits.
Of the goblins.
Of the arena.
They were requesting his aid.
In return—
Gold.
Resources.
Recognition.
Ares lowered the letter.
Hermes watched him with mild curiosity. "Not a standard academy job," he added. "More… personal. You don't have to take it."
Ares folded the letter once.
Carefully.
"I will."
Hermes' grin widened slightly. "Figured."
Ares turned, already moving.
"No team?" Hermes called after him.
Ares didn't slow.
"No."
Hermes watched him go, expression shifting—something thoughtful now beneath the lightness.
"…right," he muttered.
Then he vanished just as quickly as he had arrived.
—
By the time the sun began to dip, Ares was already beyond the academy gates.
No announcement.
No delay.
The path ahead stretched long and uncertain, leading toward lands he had never seen, toward a conflict that was not yet a war—
But would become one.
Ares walked it alone.
And somewhere in the distance—
Faint.
Familiar.
The battle waited for him.