As I regained consciousness, the first thing I noticed was the blood. It coated the floor, splattered across the walls, and hung in the air like a suffocating mist. The sight was grotesque, yet there was an undeniable beauty to it, a twisted reminder of both victory and pain. The trophies that lined the hall, broken and fallen, still gleamed with a faint, defiant lustre, their former grandeur stubbornly clinging to their shattered forms.
The mouths of these trophies seemed to turn towards me, as if alive, as if they were made for me. But they were stained, covered in the blood of those who had once sought them. I could feel their silent judgment, their expectations, but I refused to acknowledge them. The magic, the divinity, the meaning they once held was irrelevant now. They were merely symbols of a past I no longer cared to remember. I moved on, walking past the remnants of what was once glorious, my steps heavy with defiance. At the end of the hall, a red carpet stretched out before me, untouched by the chaos I had left behind. So I walked until a different sight before me
The next room was lined with weapons, each one laid out with meticulous precision. But unlike the trophies, these were untouched by blood. No, they gleamed; sharp, polished, and perfect, their edges reflecting the dim light with an unsettling clarity. Once again, they seemed to point toward me, their posture as audacious as the trophies before them. It was almost comical. These weapons, the very tools of violence, were pristine, devoid of any carnage they were meant to inflict. They should have been soaked in blood, heavy with the scent of death, yet they remained pure, immaculate.
And yet, in that strange contrast, it dawned on me, the weapons, not the trophies, were the true symbols of power here. The trophies had been broken, their luster dulled by time and ruin, but these weapons; they were made to last, to cut, to conquer. They were the silent, unyielding rulers of this place. It was a sick joke, the things that should be stained with blood were not, while those meant to be kept pristine were tarnished beyond recognition. But I cared not for the symbolism. It was irrelevant to me now. I had already passed through the halls of victory and defeat, and whatever the meaning behind this place, I had no interest in finding it.
At last, I reached the end of the room, only to be confronted by yet another door. This one, unlike the others, did not open on its own accord, but it felt inevitable, as if it had been waiting for me all along. I pushed it open, and there, in the center of the next chamber, sat a throne. It was grand, imposing, and somehow familiar, as if it had been waiting for the one who would come to claim it. The weight of the room shifted, and I knew without question: whatever this place was, whatever trials I had endured, it had all led to this moment. The throne awaited, but who sits upon it?
I walked slowly toward the throne. Each step echoed in the vast, hollow chamber like the beat of a war drum. The air grew heavier the closer I came, thick with a presence that clung to my skin and gnawed at my mind. And then I saw it; his silhouette, seated, still, watching.
And then I felt it.
An aura unlike anything I'd ever known. It was unnatural. Suffocating.
A primal instinct surged through me; bloodlust, pure and unfiltered. My hands itched to draw a blade, to tear, to maim, to bathe in destruction. It wasn't fear that gripped me. It was a need.
But the moment our eyes locked, it shattered. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't act. I knew that if I made one wrong move, if I dared draw my weapon, I would be dead before I even understood how.
Yet amid that terror, something else stirred. A purpose. A path. A finality. I wanted to surpass him.
Not defeating him in combat, that was a child's dream. I wanted to rise beyond him, to eclipse him. To become something greater than even he had become.
But I saw him. And I understood. He wasn't a man. He wasn't a king. He wasn't even a god in the stories I was told.
He was war.
Not the avatar of Ares, the savage and reckless. Not Mars, the disciplined strategist of the empire. No, this being was something older than myth, deeper than symbol. He was war in its rawest, most unfiltered truth. Pure. Ancient. Elemental.
He looked at me not with disdain, nor amusement, but with recognition.
He saw himself in me. A younger, more volatile echo. He knew what I was,what I could become. The same hunger ran through us, the same call to arms, the same dance with death.
But he had mastered it. He had bent it to his will.
His path wasn't forged by conquest alone, but by dominion,over blood, over fear, over the very nature of conflict. He had not just fought wars. He had become the law of war itself.
I did not kneel.
I felt the expectation in the air, thick as iron. A command, unspoken yet absolute. But I stood tall. Unmoving.
And I saw it,the faintest flicker of approval in his gaze.
Still, I had to speak. I had to acknowledge what stood before me.
I opened my mouth, voice steady but reverent.
"I greet the God of War."
Silence. That was his answer. A silence so deep, it pressed against my skull like a vice. But I knew. I knew. It wasn't indifference , no, he was still watching, dissecting me with eyes that had seen a thousand empires burn.
Then, after what felt like a century trapped in stillness, he spoke.
"It is good," he said, voice like steel scraping against stone, "that you did not call me what I am not."
He stepped forward, each movement bending the air as though the world itself yielded to his weight.
"I am Ares."
He said it with the 's' silent; a pronunciation ancient, older than the Greek, older than language itself.
"I am War incarnate."
The words weren't just spoken. They arrived; carried on the backs of armies long dead, echoing with every scream ever lost on a battlefield.
"I come from an age before memory. My younger forms whispered of you. They say you are more me than man. There is war in your marrow, not the chaos of mortals, but the purity of it. A rare thing."
He stopped. Waiting. Testing.
I bowed my head, not in submission but in strategy.
"Thank you for your grace," I said carefully. "What must I do to earn your tutelage?"
A sound broke from him, a low, contemptuous laugh, like a blade being drawn across bone.
"You think you are here to earn me?"
The air thickened as a sliver of his aura bled forth. Oppressive, ancient, commanding. For a moment, I felt the battlefield stir beneath my feet, though none existed.
"Insolent. But amusing."
He withdrew the pressure, and I could breathe again.
"It is irrelevant. I have already chosen you. There is no test. You accept… or you perish."
His presence was not one that followed a script. He was the script. The universe didn't move around him; it moved because of him.
I inhaled, steady. Calculating. "Then I thank you for your benevolence. May I ask… what rewards follow such divine selection?"
He tilted his head, not angered. Intrigued.
"Greedy. Ambitious. Arrogant."
A pause. Then a smile, sharp and cold.
"Good."
"It is that defiance I enjoy. You are still unshaped… Wild, undirected. But there is potential. And I… shall indulge it."
He raised a hand.
"Consider this... your first taste."
Blessed Skill – Chthonic Wrath (Phase I: Ember of War)
Type: Passive/Active Hybrid | Unique to Ares' Champion
Description:
The blessing of Ares stirs from dormancy, kindled by the violence it craves. Every blow struck by the Champion is not merely an act of war, it is a prayer, an offering that feeds the ember burning deep within the soul. This ember grows with each wound inflicted, awakening the first echo of the ancient chthonic force sealed beneath the god's crimson mantle.
Lore Note:
"War is not a skill. It is hunger. The Champion does not learn to fight… He remembers."
I felt it, pure, undiluted power surging through me like wildfire in dry veins. My very blood pulsed with it. The skill, it wasn't just active, it was alive, woven into the fabric of my being. For once, my trials had been answered, the silence that mocked me now shattered by divine revelation.
I turned to the towering figure before me,no mere man, but a god. His presence wasn't just felt, it was crushed. Oppressive, ancient, unrelenting. The weight of war incarnate. And still, I met his gaze and offered my thanks.
"Thank you for your gift."
I knew this wasn't the whole of it. He'd said as much himself. A taste, a fraction. I wasn't special, I was useful. Chosen not out of need, but for potential utility. One day, I'd serve a purpose. And he'd be watching.
"Be honored, mortal. This is no petty boon," Ares intoned, his voice like grinding stone. He didn't wait for me to reply, he wasn't here to converse. He was here to declare.
"You've felt it, haven't you? The pull of violence. The taste for destruction. You were always aligned with war, but this world you've stumbled into, it's deeper than you can yet grasp. You are far too fragile for the full truth. So I offer you the barest bones, and even that is a mercy."
He leaned back, sprawling into his seat like a lion at rest, though not at peace. That was my cue.
"Understood. Please... tell me more." I tried not to sound desperate. I wasn't begging. I refused to. But I was listening.
He chuckled. It shook the air.
"Your impertinence is amusing."
Then his tone shifted, iron replacing ash.
"Then let me speak of truths few mortals have ever heard… Truths etched into the marrow of the cosmos. Among the divine, there are four pantheons whose dominions shape fate and time. The Greco-Roman, mine, is the oldest and greatest. The Norse,storm-born and prophetic. The Celtic,wild, eldritch, steeped in primal rites. And the Egyptian,silent monarchs of death and return.
We are not stories. We are the hands behind history, the architects of catastrophe and salvation alike. Where empires rise, we watch. Where kings fall, we laugh.
And you, you, were chosen.
At first, it was curiosity. A flicker. But beneath your flesh, we saw potential. A fracture in the mundane. I, Ares, Firstborn of Olympus, God of War, Warlord of Immortal Legions, Slayer of Titans, and He Who Commands the Red Storm, was the first to mark you. Not out of grace. Out of ambition.
Your power is unbridled. Truly unstoppable as it is wild. But raw power is the tantrum of beasts. You will not be a beast.
You will learn. War is not merely blood and blade. It is pattern, strategy, symphony. You shall study the anatomy of annihilation, the geometry of conflict, the laws of divine supremacy.
And now, your weapon."
His voice grew darker, heavier.
"This is no tool of steel. It is a relic forged in the crucibles of forgotten stars, quenched in the ichor of slain deities. It is bound to you, not to serve, but to challenge. It is your test."
Xyphos of the Chthonic Ares.
And then,it spoke.
"Oh. You're the one he picked? Hah. Of all the screaming mortals clawing for scraps, he chose the little feral thing,breath like blood, eyes like war. How charming.
I was forged in a moment of divine boredom, shaped by hands older than Olympus, deeper than any shrine. Not out of love. Not out of need. But because he wondered what would happen if he gave a spark to a storm waiting to be born.
I am not your teacher. I am not your friend. I am not impressed.
Swing me with purpose, and I may awaken. Slaughter with meaning, and I might grow. But flail like a fool, and I'll stay exactly as I am,silent, sharp, and disappointed.
Now go on, little chaos thing. Show me why he laughed."
Arrogant little blade. It thought it owned me. We'd see. I would tame it. Or it would tame me.
Then, Ares stood, not with ceremony, but with the finality of a closing gate.
"You will be enrolled. Tomorrow, you will awaken at the Academy. Where mortals shed their skins and prepare to ascend. There, you will learn to identify gods, earn relics, and walk the path of power. If fortune favors you, perhaps you'll inherit a battle art, or forge your own.
But that is for tomorrow."
"Wait, what is it that you mean?" I asked, hoping to gain some sort of insight into what is to come. He waited for a moment then he raised his hand, and the world grew dim.
"…you are dismissed."
And just like that, I was alone.
I found it a bit rude that he would do such a thing. But regardless, it seems I need to go to university again to progress. With nothing left to do, I opened my status screen.
Name: Hudson Mitchell
Rank: Stirring Initiate (E)
Class: Light Warrior (new available)
Patron #1: Ares (Chthonic Olympian: greco-roman)
Patron #2: N/A
Patron #3: N/A
This was it, the power I had been waiting for. The sensation was unmistakable, like a storm gathering quietly behind my ribs. A stirring initiate… that is what I am. Not yet a blaze, but a spark trembling with potential. A flame on the cusp of awakening. And I can still evolve, that is the truth I hold above all else.
Then something shifted. I felt it in my hand, the card. It pulsed faintly, as if responding to my resolve. A message shimmered into view. It seems the time has come… I can choose my next class.
With steady breath and a touch of anticipation, I reached out and placed my fingers on the symbol etched into the card. The moment my skin met the surface, it came alive, glowing with ethereal light. Slowly, it unfolded before me, revealing a list of paths, each a promise, each a challenge. My future lay in the space between them, waiting for me to decide.
Gravecutter
"He moves like someone who's already dead. Only the sword lives now."
Gravecut is calm in a way that unsettles. He's cold, direct, and silent in combat. That is until he strikes. Then, it's a sudden flicker of steel, a burst of precision, and back to stillness. The madness is buried deep. But it's there. Watching.
Well, thankfully it keeps the sword. But to be honest… that's about it. I don't really know what this class brings to the table. It feels empty. Maybe it would be worth something if we got actual skills with the class — but that's not the way this world works, is it? We take what we're given. Still, I kept reading, hoping for something. And sure, there was a pretty quote to dress it up, something poetic to make it sound enticing. But it just felt off. Not wrong, just… not me. This class is made for someone who waits. Someone who sits in silence, plans things out, waits for the 'perfect' moment. Patience, restraint, timing, that's not who I am. I see that as a coward's victory. A step back before you strike? Why would I do that? I don't step back. I don't wait. I move forward. I break through. That's who I am. That's all I've ever been. Oh well, maybe the next one is better.
Splitjaw
"His sword moves one way. His body moves another." A Splitjaw's style is jagged, wrong, and unpredictable. He bends and contorts mid-fight, turning what should be openings into traps. His sword doesn't follow form, it's all feint, whip, twist, and ambush. There's something broken in how he moves.
Hmm, not bad. Definitely an improvement from before. Even the pretty quote feels sharper, more fitting. What grabs me most about this one is the unpredictability, there's a certain chaotic beauty in it. It feels… right, somehow. Like it actually reflects the madness I carry. But even with that, one question keeps burning in my mind: how the hell is this class supposed to change my battle style? Didn't Ares say something about learning a battle art? Were these classes meant to be hints, or just foundations? Because right now, it's not clicking for me. It just doesn't make sense.
And to be completely honest with myself, I'm pretty sure I lack the flexibility or finesse to make this class truly thrive. It requires a kind of fluidity I don't think I have. And while that's frustrating, I have to accept my own limits. I have to be realistic. So I pray that the last one, whatever it is, is the one that fits me best. The one that finally feels like mine.
Ironhowl Swordsman
"He doesn't parry. He doesn't wait. He answers pain with more of it."
The Ironhowl is a swordsman who channels his madness into momentum. Every blow he takes feeds the rhythm of his attacks, a relentless chain of wild, snapping swings. The howl isn't for fear. It's to drown everything else out.
Okay it seems like fate is on my side. Or should I say the fates? Oh well it doesn't matter. The point is this is a class which near perfectly describes my style. But nevertheless the burning question remains. What in the actual hell am I meant to do to progress? I needed answers. What does this mean in combat? Does this change my mindset or what? I don't even get skills, isn't this far less rewarding than the tutorial itself? I am genuinely confused. Then I look down at what I'm holding in my offhand, an ego sword.
"Hey, any advice?" i asked
"Did you not understand my initial speech?" it exclaimed
"Relax yourself swordy, i just want some answers"
"You called me fucking swordy!" it shouted
"Well you didn't give me a name, also what happened to your noble demeanour?"
"My lord is not here i don't really care anymore, also my name is Aelysk Mor'Krath"
"Right, that name is very easy to pronounce", I responded while rolling my eyes, "can i call you alex?"
"No"
"Mr A?"
"No"
"Mr Mor"
"I AM A WOMAN"
"Didnt know swords have gender."
"Well now you do"
"Okay how about Krath?"
"Acceptable"
"Okay then can you please give me any sort of advice?"
She paused for a moment before finally caving, "I suppose I should at least do the bare minimum, your class signifies the first step onto your battle art, you will actually learn to make your battle art in the academy. The knowledge and basic style and necessary strength will be ingrained in you, however don't choose something that doesn't feel right. Trust the thing that our lord chose you for. Your instinct."
After thanking Krath I instantly chose it, the class that called to me, the class that I didn't need to renew myself for, I chose the Ironhowl Swordsman.