Ares-
Metal clashed in cacophony of sound,his strikes carried the weight of mountains behind them,a single impact wound shatter my bones. Ogun fought with admirable strength and skill, but it wasn't enough to defeat me as I weaved around his blows and parried those that came to close into the ground,each impact sending shock-waves through the ruined earth. Dirt and blood sprayed skyward. The ground cracked beneath us, groaning like it couldn't bear the weight of our wrath.
I staggered, blood slicking my armor, some of it mine—but far more his. My ribs were cracked, my shoulder torn open from an earlier blow. I could feel the bone grinding when I moved. Good. Pain meant I was still alive.
Ogun lunged, bellowing like a beast unchained, his hammer cleaving through the air with the force of a falling mountain. I ducked, barely—a split second too slow. The head of the weapon grazed my collarbone, sending a sickening crunch through my chest. I tasted blood, thick and hot, filling my mouth.
But I laughed.
"You call that a swing?" I spat, red foam dripping from my lips. "Your strikes can't even mold clay , blacksmith."
His eyes narrowed. A low growl escaped him as we circled like wounded wolves. Around us, the battlefield was a slaughterhouse—limbs torn, torsos crushed, entrails steaming in the dirt. Screams rose and died. The dead did not rest. And neither did I.
He came again—faster this time. I dodged once. Parried the next. The third strike came out of nowhere, his hammer slamming into my side with a crack that broke my ribs and knocked the wind out of my lungs. It tore me off my feet—landed hard,what little air I'd managed to draw in escaped my lungs.
Still, I rose.
I always rise.
"You look tired, Ogun," I sneered, coughing blood. "Or is that just fear weighing down your hammer?"
He roared and charged, but I met him with fury of my own. My blade carved a gash through his thigh, spraying hot blood across my chest. His hammer found my arm, the impact snapping it like a dry twig. I didn't scream. I grinned.
"Breaking bones now?" I hissed. "Getting desperate, are we?"
I charged into him dragging us both to the ground, we grappled, slipping in blood, fingers digging into flesh. I headbutted him—his nose exploded in a burst of gore. He slammed his fist into my jaw—something cracked. Again. Again. Blood poured freely, from both of us, soaking the ground until it was a river of war.
And still, neither of us fell.
My knees trembled. My vision swam. But I held on with the rage of a dying god.
I was Ares.
And I would drown him in his own blood before I gave in.
Then—suddenly—I managed to get him off me.
I turned—searching for my sword, I found it buried in the mud, I lunged to grab it and before I could turn to use it he appeared behind me.
His hand closed around my throat like a vice forged in fire.
"You bleed so easily, war god," he snarled.
I choked out a grin. "And you cling so tightly—for someone who's already lost."
Then the sky flipped.
He lifted me—slammed me into the ground—and the world turned to pain. My back hit the ground with bone-breaking force. I tried to move, but the first punch came like a thunderbolt. Then the second. Then the third.
He rained blows on me like a mad storm god—each one driving deeper, crunching ribs, fracturing bone, caving in flesh. My head snapped sideways from a hook that shattered teeth. Blood filled my throat. My limbs twitched, useless.
Still, I laughed through a mouthful of blood.
"You always were just muscle," I slurred, "No wit. No will. Just brute force dressed in godskin."
His fist smashed into my eye. Darkness danced behind my lids.
Another hit—my nose exploded, cartilage and gore spraying.
Then more—until the mud beneath us turned to sludge, thick with our mingled blood. He was shouting now, a guttural, wordless roar, his hands slick with crimson as they beat down my godhood like it was mortal flesh.
I was slipping. The edge was near.
But something in me clawed back.
Not yet.
Not by his hand.
I will not die with his name on my lips.
I am Ares.
War incarnate.
And I don't break.
I burn.