The war did not unfold in days.
It blurred.
What began as a single defense became a relentless advance, and at the center of it stood Ares—no longer a lone blade cutting through a battlefield, but a force that refused to stop moving.
Fields became graves behind him.
Forests splintered under the weight of marching armies and fleeing men. Mud swallowed boots and blood alike. Rain fell, then heat returned, then cold crept in—but Ares did not slow for any of it.
He fought through all of it.
There were no camps for him. No rest.
While soldiers slept, he walked the lines alone.
While commanders planned, he was already ahead of them.
The sounds in his mind—the distant clash of war that never left him—grew louder with every battle. Not overwhelming. Not consuming.
Calling.
And he answered.
—
In the lowlands, he broke through a fortified ridge where enemy archers had held position for days. He climbed the slope under a storm of arrows, weapons forming mid-air to intercept, to deflect, to kill before they could reload.
At the summit, there was no pause.
Only bodies falling.
—
In the marshlands, where movement was slow and footing treacherous, the enemy believed themselves safe. Hidden. Protected by terrain.
Ares walked through the water as if it were solid ground.
Each step deliberate.
Each strike fatal.
The swamp did not slow him.
It swallowed those who tried to flee.
—
In the mountain passes, where the air thinned and the paths narrowed, they tried to collapse the cliffs around him.
Stone fell.
Dust filled the sky.
When it cleared—
Ares was still standing.
Still moving forward.
—
The soldiers who followed him stopped asking how.
They simply kept up as best they could.
Or tried to.
Because Ares no longer fought like a man in a war.
He fought like war itself had taken form and refused to end.
He did not sleep.
He did not rest.
He did not hesitate.
And the enemy—
Broke.
Step by step, field by field, they were driven back. Their formations shattered before they could settle. Their defenses collapsed before they could hold.
Until there was nowhere left to retreat.
Their own territory.
Their final stand.
—
They released it at dawn.
A giant.
It rose from behind their final lines, massive and crude, its form stitched from muscle and rage. Each step shook the ground beneath it. Each breath came like thunder.
Soldiers fell back instinctively.
Even seasoned warriors hesitated.
Ares did not.
He stepped forward, the war axe forming in his hand.
The giant roared—
And charged.
Ares moved once.
A single swing.
The axe did not even touch it.
The force of the strike carved through the air itself—pressure splitting forward in a clean, invisible line.
For a moment—
Nothing happened.
Then the giant's head slid free from its body.
It collapsed where it stood.
Silence followed.
Ares did not look back.
He was already moving.
—
The enemy castle loomed ahead, its gates still open from the chaos.
Ares entered alone.
No army followed.
None were needed.
Inside, resistance crumbled almost immediately. Soldiers who had just watched their final weapon fall did not stand long. Those who tried were cut down before they could form a defense.
Ares moved through the halls without resistance worth noting.
Until he reached the throne room.
The enemy king stood waiting.
Not defiant.
Not broken.
Simply still.
"You've come far," the man said quietly. "Further than he ever could."
Ares said nothing.
The king's gaze sharpened. "Do you even know why this war began?"
Ares stepped forward.
"No."
The king let out a breath that almost resembled a laugh. "Then listen."
He straightened, though his voice carried no pride.
"The man who called you here—the one who begged for your help—he started this war. He sought to take my lands. My people. He believed himself strong enough to claim what was not his."
His expression hardened.
"He was not."
Silence settled in the room.
Ares did not react.
The king watched him closely. "And now you stand here, finishing what he began."
Ares stopped a few steps away.
"I do not care," he said.
The words were flat. Certain.
"Not for right or wrong. Not for who started it."
The king's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Only war."
Ares raised the axe.
The king did not move.
The strike came down.
Clean.
Final.
The body fell.
—
By the time Ares returned, the battlefield behind him had gone quiet.
No pursuit.
No continuation.
The war had ended not with victory—but with absence.
Ares walked back through the lands he had crossed.
Through fields now still.
Through forests no longer burning.
Through silence that felt unfamiliar.
The sounds in his mind remained.
They always would.
But for now—
There was nothing left to answer them.
Dreadspire's gates came into view once more.
Ares stepped through them without announcement.
Without recognition.
As if he had never left.
Only one thing had changed.
The war behind him—
Had not mattered.