The battlefield was silent.
Smoke drifted in coils through the broken terrain, and blood — both divine and mortal — stained the cracked earth beneath Kyle's feet.
The god of war, once an indomitable symbol of endless conquest, now lay slumped on one knee. His divine armor was shattered, black ichor running down his arms and pooling at his feet.
His once blinding aura flickered weakly, no longer a threat but a dying ember of former glory.
Kyle stood opposite him, blade pointed toward the ground, his expression unreadable. His clothes were torn, his own blood mixed with the dust, but his presence had not dimmed.
In fact, with each breath, he seemed to grow more real — more immovable — while the god of war shrank in comparison.
For the first time in his existence, the god of war felt… fear.
His body refused to move.
The divine vessel that had waged thousands of wars, toppled kingdoms, and slaughtered pantheons could not even raise a finger against this human.
