Chapter 23 – The Relic of Ares
The air in Kabul was sharp with dust and the stink of smoke. Even after the Taliban had fled, the city had not quieted. Convoys rolled through broken streets, soldiers shouted orders in languages half the locals didn't understand, and children ran barefoot between armored trucks begging for scraps of food.
Ivar stood at a cracked fountain near the old bazaar, rinsing the grit from his face. His sea-green eyes caught the warped reflection in the water — a face younger than his years, but older than centuries, shadowed by battles stretching from Rome to Vietnam.
He bowed his head for a moment, whispering thanks — not for victory, not for peace, but simply for the strength to keep walking. Survival itself was worship.
Then the wind shifted.
It was subtle at first. A still day stirred with a sudden breeze, carrying the scent of cedar and fire. The water in the fountain rippled, not with the pattern of wind, but with intent — forming letters, shapes, words in a language not heard in Kabul's streets for two thousand years.
Ivar. The storm is not only of men. Come.
The air shimmered. And Hermes stood before him.
Not in winged sandals and radiant cloak, but dressed in a soldier's jacket, dusty boots, a grin on his lips that danced between humor and sorrow. His eyes glinted with mischief, but his presence carried weight Ivar had felt in every war where crossroads turned men into heroes or corpses.
"You walk with mortals too well," Hermes said lightly, voice lilting with old melody. "But don't forget — you are not only theirs. You are ours as well."
Ivar straightened. He did not kneel — he had never bent knee to gods or men. But his bow of the head was enough. "Then speak. What is required?"
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The Task
Hermes tilted his head, the grin fading. "A relic has stirred. The Spear of Ares. Forged in fire at Troy, buried in the earth when gods last walked openly. Blood has woken it. Mortal blood, spilled too close. Warlords search for it now. If they find it…"
Hermes let the thought dangle. The weight of it pressed into Ivar's chest.
"A relic of war in mortal hands?" Ivar asked.
Hermes' grin returned, sharp. "It would not end well. Ares himself wants it reclaimed. He cannot step directly into the mortal storm — too many eyes watching, too much balance at risk. But you?" Hermes pointed at him. "You walk both worlds. You will bring it back."
The air shimmered again, and when it stilled, a map was burned into the stone of the fountain. The Caucasus Mountains.
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Into the Mountains
The journey carried him north, through broken borders and forgotten villages, into mountains older than empires. The Caucasus stretched like the bones of titans, snow crowning their peaks, valleys carved deep by rivers that never ceased.
Ivar climbed cliffs where avalanches had buried paths, slept in caves with only a fire to ward off the cold. His body healed quickly, but even immortals felt the weight of endless stone.
At night, he dreamed of battlefields. Troy. Cannae. Stalingrad. All merging into one storm. In each, the same spear stood buried in the earth, dripping with endless blood.
He woke each morning with his hands on the hilts of his swords.
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The Warlords
It wasn't long before he found others hunting it.
A warlord named Bakhtiyar had taken control of a valley near the relic's resting place. His men carried modern rifles, their trucks painted with slogans, their camps filled with stolen goods. They whispered of a weapon buried in the mountains, a spear that would grant them victory over any foe.
Ivar slipped into their camp at night. He moved through shadows, his twin swords flashing only when necessary — quick strikes, silent deaths, bodies falling without sound. He reached the tent where maps were spread, listening as Bakhtiyar's men argued.
"The spear is cursed," one muttered.
"Cursed for them, blessed for us," Bakhtiyar snarled. "With it, I will be more than a warlord. I will be a king."
Ivar left the camp in silence. He knew the truth: mortals could not wield a god's weapon without becoming monsters.
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The Cavern
The path led him to a cavern halfway up a cliffside, its mouth framed by bones. The air inside stank of iron, thick with something older than rot.
He lit a torch and stepped into darkness. The walls were carved with symbols — battles, warriors, gods striking men down. The deeper he went, the hotter the air grew, until sweat ran down his back despite the winter outside.
At last, he found it.
The Spear of Ares.
It was buried in stone, its tip glowing faintly, as if the earth itself could not fully swallow its fire. The rock around it pulsed like a heartbeat, warm beneath his fingers.
He reached for it.
The cavern roared.
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The Spirit of War
The spear screamed as he touched it, and the air split open. A figure rose — not flesh, not shadow, but fire shaped like a man. Its face shifted constantly — Roman legionnaires, Mongol horsemen, German soldiers, Vietnamese guerrillas — every warrior Ivar had ever faced or fought beside.
"You cannot take what is mine," the spirit hissed, voice layered with centuries of war. "I am battle. I am blood. I am the storm you claim to walk."
Ivar drew his swords. "I do not claim. I survive."
The spirit attacked. Fire lashed out, taking the shape of spears, swords, arrows. Ivar dodged, struck, his blades cutting through flames that seared his arms. The cavern shook, stone cracking beneath the force of their struggle.
The spirit taunted him with voices of the dead — Spartacus, crying from the cross; a French soldier gasping at Verdun; a Marine at Chosin screaming in the snow. All voices he had carried. All pain he had endured.
He roared back, his fury finally breaking loose. Lightning sparked along his swords, fire meeting storm. With one final strike, he cut through the spirit, shattering it into sparks that died in the air.
The cavern fell silent.
The spear lay quiet.
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The God of War
Ivar lifted the spear from the stone. Its weight was immense, heavier than iron, heavier than memory. Every battle it had seen burned in its steel.
The air shimmered. And Ares appeared.
He was not like Hermes — no tricks, no smiles. He came armored, massive, his presence filling the cavern like the press of an army. His eyes burned with fire, his voice rumbled like thunder on a battlefield.
"You faced my storm and did not break," Ares said. "You did not seize the spear for yourself. You returned it to me."
Ivar met his gaze, unflinching. "It is not mine to wield."
Ares studied him for a long moment. Then, to Ivar's shock, the god of war laughed.
"You are no glory-hound. You are no butcher. You are survival itself. That is why you are my storm."
For the first time, Ivar felt not just silence from the gods, but approval. Heavy, dangerous approval.
Ares reached out, took the spear, and vanished. The cavern went still.
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Return
Ivar emerged from the mountains as dawn broke, light spilling across snow like fire. The warlord Bakhtiyar's camp was gone, scattered by fear after men vanished in the night.
He walked down into the valley, his swords still sheathed, his body scarred from fire but already healing.
The gods had tested him. He had passed.
But in his chest, he felt unease. Because if the gods were stirring now, it meant the storms of mortals were no longer enough. Something greater was coming.
And he would have to face it.
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Would you like me to continue immediately into Chapter 24 – The Hunt of Artemis, where Ivar is sent after the sacred wolf, or pause to expand this one further with more in-depth battle scenes inside the cavern (turning the spear's spirit fight into a longer, more psychological duel)?