The end of the battle

The battlefield was drowning in pain and silence.
What was once a trial of strength had turned into a massacre.
Bodies littered the ground, warriors writhing in agony, clutching wounds that should have been minor—but were instead unbearable.
And at the center of it all, Ares stood, unscathed.
His dagger still dripped with the suffering of those who had dared to stand in his way. His breath was steady. His expression unreadable. But his eyes?
They were alive.
The Gods Intervene 
"Enough."
The voice echoed through the battlefield like a divine commandment, stopping the bloodshed in an instant.
The air grew heavy. A presence unlike any other descended upon the arena.
Ares lifted his gaze as the gods themselves materialized.
Their forms shimmered in divine radiance—figures of celestial might, their very existence radiating power.
At the forefront stood the God of Order, his gaze stern, his golden armor gleaming under the eternal light of the divine realm.
Beside him, the Goddess of Life—her presence a stark contrast to the chaos Ares had created. Her aura was soft yet overwhelming, warmth and eternity woven into her very being.
The fallen warriors—those who had collapsed under Ares’ power—moaned in torment. Their bodies convulsed, still trapped in suffering beyond mortal comprehension.
Even now, they were still dying.
The Goddess of Mercy turned away, unable to stomach the sight.
The God of War grinned. He had seen many warriors, many killers. But Ares was something else.
And Irkalla?
She sighed in satisfaction, leaning back with a smile. "Truly magnificent, my dear Ares."
But it was the God of Order who spoke first.
"This is no longer a trial. This is slaughter."
His voice was calm, but the weight behind it was enough to make the arena tremble.
His golden eyes swept across the battlefield, taking in the broken bodies, the fear in the eyes of the survivors, and the silent, unwavering form of Ares.
Then he turned to the Goddess of Life.
"Fix this."

The Goddess of Life stepped forward, her presence bringing an unnatural stillness to the battlefield.
She raised her hands, and a soft, golden light spread across the fallen.
Their bodies shuddered. The wounds, the unbearable pain—all of it began to unravel.
Ares watched as the warriors he had broken slowly gasped for breath.
Their pain faded. Their screams turned to silence.
One by one, they stood again.
The knight in golden armor, whose arm had nearly been useless from Ares’ cut—he flexed his fingers, his eyes filled with lingering terror.
The assassin with the twin daggers, who had collapsed in convulsions—she staggered to her feet, her hands still trembling.
Even those who had long since fallen in battle breathed once more.
It was a display of absolute power.
A power beyond Ares’ grasp.
His eyes narrowed slightly. So, this was the will of the gods?
To undo suffering with a mere thought?
To erase death as if it had never happened?
It was... disappointing.

As the last warrior was revived, the Goddess of Life turned toward Ares.
Her eyes were filled with something different.
Not hate. Not disgust.
But sorrow.
"Yours is a cruel existence," she murmured. "To find strength in the pain of others. Do you truly find joy in this?"
Ares tilted his head.
"Joy?" he repeated.
He looked around—the warriors, the gods, the divine realm itself.
And he smiled.
"I simply do what I am meant to do."
Irkalla chuckled. "Oh, I adore him."
The God of Order frowned. "Your strength is undeniable. But this trial was meant to test, not to torture."
The God of War smirked. "Says you. I enjoyed the show."
The Goddess of Mercy shook her head. "We must set limits. If we allow suffering to be his strength, then he is not a warrior—he is a disaster waiting to happen."
The gods debated, their voices weaving through the air like divine commands.
Some admired Ares.
Some feared him.
But all acknowledged his power.
Finally, the God of Order raised a hand.
"The trial is over."
A golden light descended upon the battlefield, signaling the end of the battle.
"Those who remain standing have proven their worth."
Ares glanced around.
Many were revived, but only a few still stood—those who had endured.
The weak had fled or fallen.
And Ares?
He had thrived.
But this was only the beginning.
Because now, the gods had seen him.
And they would never forget his name.

The battle had ended.
The once bloodstained battlefield, where screams of agony and cries of battle had echoed, now stood eerily silent.
The gods, having witnessed the sheer brutality and resilience of their chosen, had granted them reprieve.
Each survivor, regardless of their strength or weakness, was escorted to their quarters—lavish rooms within the divine palace. A grand structure, crafted from celestial stone and bathed in ethereal light.
A place that felt neither of this world nor beyond it.
Ares walked through its golden halls, his footsteps quiet against the polished marble. The echoes of past suffering still lingered in the back of his mind, fueling him, strengthening him.
Yet, as he approached his door, something became clear.
Unlike the others, who were assigned roommates—pairing them with fellow warriors or strangers from other realms—Ares was alone.
His door stood apart from the others, at the end of the corridor.
A private room.
He exhaled softly. Of course.
Even among gods, they understood.
He was not like the rest.
And deep down, the other survivors must have felt the same.
Inside His Sanctuary 
The door opened with ease, revealing a room unlike any other.
The walls were draped in deep crimson and black velvet, ornate carvings of suffering and war etched into the golden columns. A massive window overlooked the divine city below—a kingdom of eternal radiance and power.
And in the center of the room, waiting for him, was her.
Irkalla.
The Goddess of Cruelty reclined on a lavish sofa, her long silver hair spilling over her shoulders like cascading silk. Her piercing violet eyes gleamed with amusement, and her lips curled into an intoxicatingly sweet yet dangerous smile.
She was beautiful in the most unnatural way. The kind of beauty that could make men kneel, even as they feared for their souls.
"Ah, my darling Ares, you’ve finally arrived."
She spread her arms as if welcoming a beloved child—or a cherished weapon.
Ares remained silent, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
Irkalla tilted her head, watching him with undisguised adoration. "Come closer, my dear. Let me look at you properly."
Ares did as she commanded, stopping before her. He met her gaze without fear.
She sighed in satisfaction. "Perfect. Every part of you, my beautiful Ares, is exactly as I had hoped."
She reached forward, tracing her fingers along his jawline.
It was not a touch of lust, nor of maternal care—but something else entirely.
Possession.
Admiration.
Obsession.
She lifted his hand, the same one that had wielded the dagger she gifted him. The same hand that had brought so much suffering.
She kissed his knuckles. "You were splendid today."
Ares didn’t react.
But deep inside, something stirred.
A presence unlike any other. A bond unlike any mortal connection.
Irkalla was pleased.
And a pleased goddess was dangerous.

While Ares enjoyed the undivided attention of his goddess, the rest of the chosen warriors were not so fortunate.
Many of them lay in their rooms, haunted by what they had witnessed.
The golden knight, who had once stood tall and proud, now trembled in silence. His arm—though healed—felt phantom pain where Ares had touched him.
The assassin with twin daggers had locked herself in her room, her hands still shaking uncontrollably.
Even the strongest survivors could not erase the memory of Ares turning their wounds into unbearable torment.
"That man… he isn’t human."
"He barely moved, yet he broke us all."
"What kind of monster did that goddess summon…?"
Meanwhile, the others who had not faced Ares directly felt something else.
Jealousy.
Even among gods, favoritism was rare. Yet Irkalla had chosen to shower Ares with praise, affection, and solitude.
While they were forced to share rooms, to tolerate strangers, to continue proving their worth—
Ares was given a kingdom of his own.
His own room.
His own goddess, who worshipped him instead of the other way around.
And that fact alone unsettled them more than anything.

Back in his chambers, Irkalla had not stopped spoiling Ares.
She poured him wine from a golden chalice, feeding him the finest delicacies of the divine world. Fruits from the Garden of the Forgotten. Wine brewed from the tears of lost souls.
And as she watched him eat, her satisfaction only grew.
"You are everything I dreamed of, my dear Ares."
She stood, stepping behind him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.
Her breath was warm against his ear. "You do not need to concern yourself with the other gods."
Her fingers trailed down his chest, gentle yet possessive.
"You belong to me."
Ares remained still.
Not rejecting. Not accepting.
Just observing.
Irkalla chuckled, sensing his silent defiance.
"Ah, such a good boy."
She kissed the top of his head, her eyes gleaming with unspoken promises.
"Rest well, my dear. Tomorrow, the next trial begins."
"And I can’t wait to see you break them all over again."

As Ares lay in his vast bed, staring at the ceiling, he thought about what came next.
The others would grow stronger.
They would learn, adapt, and change.
But so would he.
Because the gods had seen him.
And soon, they would understand.
Ares wasn’t just another champion.
He was a force.
A weapon.
And when the next trial came…
He would carve his name into divinity itself.