When Damocles joined my unit, I expected nothing remarkable from him. Just another young Spartan strong, battle-hardened, yet unexceptional. And though he had already survived the blood-drenched wars that had claimed nearly the entire youth of Sparta, he seemed no different than the rest. The result of the elders' failures, and the king's miscalculations.
No one had anticipated the enemy's cunning or their mastery of strategy. We paid a bitter price for that misjudgment a price I swore Sparta would never pay again.
But Damocles turned out to be more than a sturdy young warrior. In the first few days, I even thought he might be a god's son. I dismissed the idea quickly, of course after confirming his lineage. I could not allow anyone into my unit without knowing everything about them.
His heritage was unmistakable: born of Spartan blood on both sides, once weak and unremarkable as a child. Only years later did he become a true warrior. His features were a perfect blend of his parents', bearing a striking resemblance to his two brothers.
Damocles could have bested even me in battle were it not for my years of experience and the many wars behind me. He possessed all the qualities of a great commander. Yet he chose a different path one without glory or titles, a path where honor and duty stood above personal ambition.
I welcomed him into my unit and watched him closely from day one. His courage impressed me he did not flinch in the face of danger, willing to take risks and meet threats head-on.
Truthfully, I was grateful to have a warrior like him under my command. From the first trials, Damocles proved his worth. I even began to consider him as my successor. My years were many, and the times called for new leaders.
When we were sent to clear the supply routes of centaur raiders, I thought little of the mission. The lochagos leading the operation was unknown to me a name I'd never heard, recently granted rank.
But orders were orders. We had no right to refuse. Everything changed the moment we entered the forest. His commands became strange, almost mad as if he were leading us to slaughter.
At first, I suspected we were pawns in someone's game. Perhaps I had offended a powerful man, and this was how he exacted revenge. But I had no such enemies none who would sacrifice an entire unit, especially now, when Sparta was already starved for warriors.
I had seen such things before when a man seemed no longer himself, as though something foreign had taken root inside.
I questioned his comrades along the way. Each one said the same: he had changed. He was once a different man. But no one knew why.
There was only one solution left to challenge him and kill him in fair combat. Even if I would be judged for it, I was willing to take that step to save my men.
Before I could act, one of the Spartans I had spoken with struck the lochagos down killed him where he stood. I hadn't expected it to happen so fast. Least of all from one of his closest friends.
The situation worsened by the hour. The hardest blow was the decision I had to make: to leave the wounded behind in order to save the rest. That pain cut deeper than any sword.
But I had no choice. The centaurs had brought something unimaginable with them.
A creature I had only heard of in ancient myths. They said a beast lay buried in the mountain's heart, carving tunnels of stone. They called it Skalias. It fed on rock and living flesh alike, its body covered in obsidian-hard scales. Few had ever seen it and those who claimed they had were said to be liars.
And yet there it was. Skalias burst from the earth and charged us, its roar shaking the very air. It was terror made flesh.
Then Damocles made his choice. He volunteered to hold the beast at bay, giving us time to retreat. I believed he could have become a great warrior, a commander, even a hero of Sparta. But he chose death without hesitation for the sake of others. And I honored his choice.
It is a heavy thing to face your own helplessness.
The centaurs were far more cunning than I had feared. They did not let us flee. They locked us in combat, their force nearly four hundred strong. Archers circled us, raining arrows from every side, while their cavalry struck again and again, trying to break our lines. They surged like waves falling back, then returning with renewed fury.
The Spartans fought to the death. We held on with the last of our strength, for we could not afford to surrender.
When it seemed the end was upon us, salvation came from where I least expected. Damocles driven by madness, or heroism, perhaps both led Scalias straight into the heart of the centaur horde.
He stormed into their ranks, and the beast followed. The ground trembled beneath the monster's steps. The enemy lines were shattered in mere moments. We were saved.
As the centaurs retreated, we found ourselves face to face with Scalias. We quickly devised a plan draw its attention and give Damocles an opening.
In one perfect moment, his spear pierced the creature's remaining eye. That was our chance. But the enraged monster pinned him to the ground with a massive claw and tried to crush him with its jaws.
I saw Damocles resist, straining with all his might to keep those jaws from closing. We struck at the beast, our blades scraping uselessly against its stone-plated hide. I ordered the others to fall back, leaving only a handful of warriors beside me.
Then, I saw the raven. The same one that always followed Damocles. It sat nearby, watching as if waiting. Then, something shifted.
Just as Scalias's jaws were about to snap shut, they were forced open by some unseen power. And Damocles surged upward.
His eyes burned with golden fire. He rose into the air, seized his spear, and with a force no mortal could wield, drove it straight through the creature's skull. A crack like shattering stone echoed across the battlefield. And the beast fell lifeless.
Silence fell over the field.
I rushed to Damocles as he collapsed. His wounds were terrible no man should have survived them. I tore off my cloak to stop the bleeding, but there was no more blood left to flow. His body was spent, his strength gone.
"Damocles! Don't let death take you. Not yet. Fight!" I cried, leaning over him.
"I will…" he whispered. But his body went still.His heart had stopped.
I closed his eyes with bloodstained fingers. He was a great warrior one of a kind. I had not seen his like in many years… perhaps never would again.
We laid his body upon our shields. High on our shoulders, we carried him back to Sparta, like a hero. He had earned his return in honor.
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Beyond time and space, in a dark chamber hidden from mortal eyes and the gaze of gods…
Thousands of fine threads hung from the ceiling, vanishing into the abyss below. Amid the endless web of fates, three eyeless women moved between the strands the Moirai, the Sisters of Fate. Their faces were lined with age, their fingers precise and sure. They wove the tapestry of life, entwining birth and death. To them, all had its place. All obeyed the pattern.
"A warrior born under the sign of the lamb… turned into a savage wolf cub," murmured Atropos, holding a glowing thread. "Death tried to claim him, but his defiance proved stronger. A soul coveted by life and death alike. His hymn rang bold and brief. His path ended in the jaws of a beast, slain at the cost of his own life."
She raised her scissors over the trembling thread and cut it. The light faded. Atropos turned, ready to tend the next fate.
But the thread stirred.
Its ends began to move slowly, steadily drawn together by an unseen force.
Atropos froze. This was unheard of. Their fates were absolute. No one returned after the thread was cut.
"This should not be," she whispered, reaching for the shifting ends. She tried to tear them apart, resisting the force pulling them together. Her hands trembled her power seemed to vanish into the struggle. But the thread moved with purpose, as if it had its own will.
"Sisters, help me," she pleaded.
The other two joined her, gripping the thread to pull it apart.
"Who dares tamper with what is decreed?" Clotho cried in fury.
"No one escapes their fate," Lachesis said coldly.
But the thread surged with life. The severed ends grew closer, the break vanishing. The thread was being reborn defying even the Weavers' divine will.
"Cut it! Now!" Lachesis shrieked.
"Don't interfere. I know what must be done," Atropos growled, raising the shears again. She struck but the blades bounced off the thread as if it were made of stone.
"It won't cut," Clotho whispered in disbelief.
"Give it to me," Lachesis demanded, snatching the scissors. She tried again nothing. The thread would not yield. The fate of a mortal no longer bowed to their divine law.
"This is impossible…" she murmured. "We are witnessing the birth of a new god."
"How?! He was mortal!" cried Atropos, gripping the thread.
"Not anymore," Clotho replied, gazing into the pulsing light. "His name will strike fear even into the hearts of gods. Pantheon! As long as the fire burns in his heart, he shall not fall. His will tears through the fabric of existence."
"We cannot allow this!" Lachesis cried. "He is still mortal. But his spirit already shields him from fate. We must stop it before it's too late!"
"So be it," Clotho said, calm and cold.
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Author's Note
By the way, I released an extra chapter on patreon. patreon.com/ValikMurigov
Anyway, so far there are no major changes in these chapters, just a couple things. I read all your comments, and I see that most of you are in favor of the first option, but also progress in 3 and 4. Maybe who guessed originally the limit of physical strength was 30 level, conditionally he would not be able to repeat the same feats as Kratos or Hercules.
While I'm still thinking then what can be added and changed. I just one thing I did not understand the comments about Haki