In the middle of a dark and seemingly endless ocean, there was a lone figure swimming forward, his arms moving slowly but steadily against the heavy water. The abyss beneath him stretched endlessly, its depth impossible to measure, and though he could not see the bottom, he kept traveling forward, his body floating yet sinking at the same time in the cold emptiness. After a short while, the calm surface was broken as a massive creature emerged, its monstrous jaws opening wide as though preparing to devour him whole.
The sight was overwhelming, the kind that could make a person freeze in fear, but before the beast could close the distance, a gigantic arm marked with strange crimson lines reached down from above and pulled him away. In that moment, the sensation of drowning ended, and he opened his eyes to realize that it was nothing but a dream.
"Zelos, wake up. It is time for your training." The deep voice came from Kratos, the man with the marked arm, who was not only the one waking him but also his father. This daily routine was something Zelos had already grown accustomed to. He did not resent it, nor did he complain, for his desire was to become stronger, and he accepted each day of training without hesitation. On the surface, one might see him as just another child, but in truth, Zelos was far from ordinary.
Zelos was a transmigrator, a soul from Earth who had died and awakened in a body that should never have existed in the world of God of War. He knew this the very moment he opened his new eyes, for he instantly recognized the faces of the people around him. His mother was Faye, a woman he had only ever seen in cutscenes, and his father was Kratos, a figure he had fought with and against countless times while replaying the games. The familiarity confirmed the reality he now lived in, and the truth settled deep into him.
At first, excitement filled him. The idea of living in such a world, of meeting these characters he admired, was thrilling. Yet, reality soon struck, bringing with it the heavy weight of dread. This was not a safe place, not a fantasy meant to be admired from a distance. It was a world where gods walked freely, where monsters could appear without warning, and where wars between divine beings could decide the fate of mortals. Even if he was the son of Kratos and Faye, even if his bloodline was not ordinary, he could not predict what kind of destiny awaited him.
It was during those uncertain thoughts that something beyond comprehension appeared within his mind. A single vial floated there, shimmering with an otherworldly glow, and beside it appeared the image of his old body, the one he once had on Earth. Somehow, within that space, he could move, and with instinct guiding him, he made the image of his old self drink the vial. It was called the Essence of the Sorcerer Lord. The moment it was consumed, a wave of clarity burst through him.
His thoughts sharpened as though his brain now operated with a precision it never had before. His body, even as a newborn, carried the sensation of strength and agility, enough that he felt he could stand and walk immediately. More important than either of those changes was the flood of knowledge that filled him. Countless streams of magical theories, spells, and systems embedded themselves into his memory, forming what felt like an infinite grimoire that he could consult at will.
From that day forward, magic became his greatest reliance. No matter what branch of sorcery he thought about, the knowledge surfaced within his mind, and he could shape it into practice. Light magic, time manipulation, elemental spells—anything he could imagine revealed itself to him, often more detailed than what he remembered from other worlds and stories.
Out of all of them, light and time magic fascinated him the most, particularly because they reminded him of powers he admired in the Black Clover universe. He devoted his focus to these, exploring their possibilities with the curiosity of a scholar and the determination of a warrior. At the same time, he designed healing spells, crafting them carefully so they would aid him and others in the future. All of this, he accomplished successfully before he even reached the age of five.
When Zelos finally turned five, Kratos—who had already noticed the uncanny similarities between them, both in appearance and in temperament—decided it was time for his son to begin proper training. While Kratos chose not to impose the brutal Spartan regime upon him, he insisted on instilling the discipline of a warrior, ensuring that Zelos understood strength was nothing without control.
This became the new rhythm of his childhood. Meanwhile, years earlier, when Zelos had been three, Atreus was born, making Zelos older than his younger brother by exactly three years. Knowing this detail shaped his perspective further, as it made him realize how different the path of his life might become compared to the story he once knew.
Now, Zelos stood before Kratos, gripping tightly onto a wooden sword, a simple weapon crafted by his father's own hands. Though it was plain in appearance, it held weight and balance suited for training, and to Zelos, it carried significance as his first real tool for battle.
One of the greatest blessings granted by the Essence of the Sorcerer Lord was not only knowledge of magic, but also an unnatural aptitude for combat. Whether it was swordplay, spear work, hand-to-hand fighting, or even the subtle control of stance and breathing, his body seemed to learn and adapt far faster than what should have been possible. It was as though instinct itself had been rewritten.
Because of this, even though Kratos was overwhelmingly stronger, their sparring sessions were not one-sided. Kratos would often hold back his raw strength to focus on technique, relying on skill rather than brute power, and under those conditions, Zelos could keep up with him.
Every clash of wooden weapons became a test of timing, reflexes, and control. Each step, each strike, each parry pushed Zelos to prove that his talent was more than mere luck—it was something real, something that made him capable of standing against even the Ghost of Sparta when the battle was fought on skill alone.