Ares

The battlefield was littered with bodies — mortal champions who moments ago had roared and fought, now silent in the dirt. The copper tang of blood hung heavy in the air, mingling with the smoke of torches and the hiss of dying fire.

From the shadows at the edge of the field, a figure had been watching. Gold and black armor gleamed faintly in the dying light, the red of his cloak pooling behind him like a tide of blood. Ares stepped forward slowly, helm tucked beneath one arm, the other hand holding a curved blade still humming with crimson sparks.

“You fought well,” he said, voice calm and resonant, each word deliberate. His golden eyes swept over them — not with warmth, but with the sharp, assessing weight of a predator. “Not with perfection, not with restraint, but with will. And will is what feeds war.” He moved closer, boots crunching against the broken ground, and studied them as though they were another weapon he might claim. “These mortals… strong enough that others feared them. Yet you stand. And I?” His smile was faint, dangerous. “I find myself curious.”

He raised the blade, not in threat, but to catch the firelight, crimson energy flickering along its edge. “Tell me, stranger… do you fight only to survive, or because battle itself calls to you? The answer will decide much between us.”