A weird village

Ares stood at the center of the village, watching as the people knelt before him.
Their eyes were filled with hope—a hope that did not belong to him.
They called him a hero.They whispered prayers of gratitude.
They did not know.
He was no savior.He was no saint.
But if they wanted to believe it, he would not correct them.

The village was small and struggling. The people wore ragged clothes, their bodies thin from lack of food. Many bore wounds and sickness, the kind that festered in places untouched by divine grace.
Ares listened as the village elder—a hunched man with a frail voice—spoke.
“Great Saint, we have prayed for a hero… and the gods have answered.”
The people nodded, whispered, wept.
Ares remained silent. He observed their trembling hands, their hollow eyes.
They were desperate.
And desperation made people blind.
“Please… our village is dying.”
A pause.
The elder bowed deeply.
“Save us.”
Ares tilted his head slightly. His black eyes flickered with something unreadable.
Then, he smiled.
“Very well.”
He moved through the village, healing those who were sick, mending broken bones, purging festering wounds.
But there was a price.
Ares’s touch did not bring comfort.
It brought pain.
Those he healed felt agony like never before.
A simple fever felt like fire burning through their veins.A wound closing felt like a blade carving through fresh skin.Even a minor illness felt like a death sentence.
Their suffering was temporary.But while it lasted—it was absolute.
And through their pain, Ares grew stronger.
The first time a man screamed from his healing touch, the villagers flinched.
The second time, they hesitated.
The third time, they understood.
There was no salvation without suffering.
And so, they endured.
They bit their tongues, gritted their teeth, and accepted their agony.
Because in the end, he did save them.
No one died.No one remained sick.The wounded could stand again.
They suffered, but they survived.
And Ares?
He only smiled.

By the time night fell, the entire village whispered his name.
Not as a hero.Not as a savior.
But as something else.
The Merciful Devil.
A Saint of Suffering.
The elder, despite his healed body still trembling from the pain, bowed once more.
“We are forever in your debt, Saint Ares.”
Ares chuckled softly. His fingers brushed against a small wound on his palm. The pain flared, and he savored it.
“I am no saint.”
But the villagers did not question him.
Because whether saint or devil, he had saved them.
And in the end, that was all that mattered.
The village changed.
At first, they whispered.Then, they bowed.And soon… they worshiped.
Ares had not asked for devotion.He had not sought followers.
But humans cling to their saviors, even when salvation comes with pain.
And so, the villagers knelt before him—not just in gratitude, but in faith.

The wooden shrine was built within a day.
Simple, yet reverent.
At the center of the village, they placed a stone altar, marking the place where Ares had first performed his painful miracles.
Each night, villagers lit candles in his name.Each morning, they prayed before the altar.
They carved symbols into wood and stone—marks of suffering and salvation.
Saint Ares.The Merciful Devil.The One Who Heals Through Pain.
The titles spread.
Even those who had once feared his power now kneeled before him.
To them, he was no longer just a man.He was a divine force.
Ares observed them in silence.
He had given them pain, and they had embraced it.
They no longer feared suffering.
Instead, they welcomed it.
The sick no longer hesitated when he touched them.The wounded smiled through their agony, knowing it meant healing.
Even children did not cry.
They endured.
They grew stronger.
And with each prayer, each whispered plea, Ares felt his power grow.
He was no god.
But to these people…
He was close enough.


High above, in the divine realm, the gods watched.
The Goddess of Life, seated on her throne of light, frowned. “This is unnatural.”
The God of War chuckled, arms crossed. “It is… fascinating.”
The Goddess of Wisdom simply observed.
And the Goddess of Cruelty?
She smiled.
“That’s my Ares.”
Her voice was filled with pride.

One evening, as Ares stood before the altar, the village elder approached.
He knelt, pressing his forehead to the ground.
“Great Saint… we ask for your guidance.”
Ares tilted his head. “Guidance?”
The elder hesitated. Then, he spoke.
“We wish to spread your word.”
The villagers had suffered.They had survived.
And now, they wished for others to know.
To embrace suffering.To seek salvation through pain.
They wished to become more than a village.
They wished to become a faith.
Ares did not answer immediately.
He simply gazed at the flickering flames of the shrine, his expression unreadable.
Then, he whispered.
“…As you wish.”
And so, the first followers of the Merciful Devil were born.

**Authors note**