Merciful devil

The hall was silent.
The mortals were gone.
The summoning was complete.
Except for one.
Ares stood alone. Unmoving. Unbothered.
Yet, the gods did not look away.
They watched him with expressions ranging from curiosity to suspicion—uncertainty heavy in the air.
Something about him was… wrong.
And they did not know what to do.
The Gods' Debate 
Vhalzith, the God of Judgment, was the first to speak. His voice was deep, powerful, absolute.
"He was not meant to be summoned." His golden eyes narrowed. "This is a mistake. A bug in the system. He should not exist here."
"Then remove him," Orion, the God of War, said simply. His armored form radiated power, and his hands rested on the hilt of his blade. "If he is a mistake, then correct it. Strike him down."
Elysia, the Goddess of Mercy, frowned. "Are you suggesting we kill him?"
"If necessary," Orion replied, his voice cold. "We cannot allow an anomaly to remain unchecked. He is not a hero, nor a villain. He is... nothing."
Aeryn, the Goddess of Life, crossed her arms. "And yet, he is here."
Her piercing gaze remained on Ares, searching. Looking for something.
But what?
What was he?
The gods murmured among themselves.
Ares listened. Unconcerned.
He was not afraid. He was not angry.
He simply waited.
As if their words meant nothing.
As if their judgment did not matter.
"We must decide his fate," Vhalzith announced, silencing the murmurs.
"There are only three options."
His voice echoed, filling the great hall.
"First: We erase him."
The gods listened. Some nodded in agreement.
"He is an error in our divine system. If we remove him now, all uncertainties will be eliminated. He will vanish as if he never existed."
Ares did not react.
It was as if the idea of being erased was of no consequence to him.
Some of the gods felt uneasy.
"Second: We seal him."
Vhalzith continued.
"We do not know what he is. If he is not meant to be here, then perhaps he was meant to be contained. We imprison him. Bury him away so that his presence no longer disrupts our world."
Orion nodded. "A sealed beast cannot harm anyone."
But Aeryn frowned. "Sealing something without understanding it is the same as admitting fear."
Orion met her gaze. "Perhaps we should fear him."
The gods fell silent.
"Third: We make him a hero."
This time, the murmurs grew louder.
The gods glanced at one another. Some scoffed. Some looked amused. Some… considered the thought.
"He was not chosen as a hero," Vhalzith stated. "He does not have the markings of a savior. He does not fight for others. He does not protect."
Elysia, however, tilted her head. "And yet, he is powerful. His presence alone shakes mortals to their core. Perhaps that is the kind of hero this world needs."
"A hero who inspires fear rather than hope?" one god muttered. "That is no hero."
Another god laughed. "Perhaps he would be a hero to the wicked."
Some gods were entertained by the idea. Others were disgusted.
The debate continued. Arguments grew louder.
Ares watched.
He was being spoken of as if he were not there.
As if he were a thing to be decided upon.
And he remained silent.
But his eyes, sharp and unreadable, took in everything.

Then—a new voice cut through the noise.
"Enough."
A hush fell over the gods.
A lone figure stepped forward.
She was elegant, composed. Her eyes held the weight of knowledge beyond mortal comprehension.
She was Nyx, the Goddess of Wisdom.
The gods respected her. Feared her, even.
Because her words always carried truth.
She looked at Ares. Truly looked at him.
And then she spoke.
"He is neither mistake nor fate."
The gods listened.
"He is not a hero, nor a villain, nor a tool to be sealed away."
Nyx’s gaze never wavered.
"He is a variable."
A single word.
But it shifted the entire conversation.

Nyx turned to the gods.
"You cannot decide his fate because it does not belong to you."
Some gods frowned. Some seemed intrigued.
Nyx’s voice remained calm. Absolute.
"Send him to the world, just like the others."
"But he was not meant to be a hero—"
"Then he shall not be one."
Nyx’s words carried weight beyond reason.
"He will carve his own path."
The gods looked at one another.
It was risky. Dangerous.
But it was undeniable.
They could not erase him.They could not seal him.And they could not force him to be what he was not.
So, they chose the only path left.
Let him go.

As the decision was made, the Blue Moon Butterfly fluttered once more.
It landed on Ares’ shoulder.
It did not fear him.
It did not flee.
And in that moment, some gods felt it.
Something deep, ancient, beyond even them.
A sign of something far greater than they had anticipated.
Ares did not react to the decision.
He merely stood, waiting, as the spell was cast.
And then—he was gone.

Ares descended.
Not as a hero.
Not as a villain.
Not as something the gods could control.
He was a force without fate.
A variable in a world that had already begun to change.
And somewhere, in the unknown land below, a Queen with his King stirred in her eternal slumber.
The game had begun.
And Ares was now a piece beyond their control.
Ares stood before his goddess, the Goddess of Cruelty.
The gods had debated, argued, and finally cast him down to the world, yet Ares did not resist.
He was not a hero.He was not a villain.He was an anomaly.
And now, for the first time, he had a choice.
His goddess, a being of twisted love and boundless cruelty, had watched over him with amusement since his summoning. She had chosen him—a being of contradiction—because he fascinated her.
And now, she awaited his decision.

She sat upon her throne of twisted beauty, her form ever-changing—sometimes a monstrous silhouette of jagged thorns, other times a breathtaking woman cloaked in darkness.
Her golden eyes glowed as she admired her champion.
“Ares.” Her voice was a mixture of sweetness and malice, like poisoned honey. “The gods have abandoned you to the world, yet you remain unfazed. Tell me…”
She leaned forward, her smile sharp. “What is it that you desire?”
Ares stood still for a moment. His face remained unreadable, his dark eyes reflecting nothing.
Then, he spoke.
“I want to be the Saint of Suffering.”
The air in the divine chamber grew still.
The goddess’s smile widened, her lips parting as a dark chuckle escaped her throat. “Oh?”
Ares did not waver.
“Or… the Merciful Devil.”

The gods had called him an error.A mistake, a being that should not exist.
And yet, he was here.
He would not be a hero.He would not be a villain.
Instead, he would bring both suffering and salvation.
A saint who granted mercy through pain.A devil who gave relief through suffering.
A walking contradiction.
“Oh, Ares…” The Goddess of Cruelty laughed. It was not mockery but delight. Pure, twisted delight.
She stepped closer, reaching out to touch his cheek with her fingers—cold yet burning with an unknown sensation.
“You are magnificent.”
Her voice was heavy with affection. A strange, twisted fondness.
“Then I shall bless you, my dear Ares.”
A pulse of divine energy surged through the air, wrapping around him, sinking into his skin.
And with it, his purpose was forged.

The moment her power seeped into him, Ares felt something change.
His body did not glow with divine light, nor did he feel overwhelming power like a hero would.
Instead, he felt pain.
A slow, creeping agony spread through him, yet it did not consume him.
Rather—he welcomed it.
The more he suffered, the stronger he became.
The more pain he inflicted, the more his power grew.
Even a small wound could become a nightmare.
And yet, he could also take pain away.
He could heal—but only through suffering.
His hands could bring relief or torture.
A saint in a demon’s skin.
A devil with a merciful touch.

The Goddess of Cruelty leaned in, whispering her final words before sending him down.
“Do not disappoint me, my beloved Ares.”
And with a single touch, he was cast down into the world.

The world blurred around him.
He felt his body shift, drop, land.
When he opened his eyes, he stood in the middle of a village.
It was small, the air filled with the scent of earth and woodsmoke. The people wore simple clothes, their faces marked with hardship and exhaustion.
The moment they saw him, their expressions changed.
Their eyes widened—not in fear, but in hope.
“A hero!” someone whispered.
“The gods have sent us a hero!”
The people rushed toward him.
Some knelt. Some cried. Some clasped their hands together in desperate prayer.
Ares looked at them.
They saw a savior.
They did not yet realize.
He was no hero.
He was the Saint of Suffering.
The Merciful Devil.
And their prayers had reached the wrong god.