Chapter 176: “The gods will pay.”
The night split with fire.
Athens burned.
Stone houses collapsed under falling spears of flame. Statues toppled, their marble faces breaking against the streets. The screams of men and women tangled with the clash of steel, and through it all moved one figure—bare-chested, scarred, chains rattling as the Blades of Chaos sang in his hands.
Kratos.
His eyes were not mortal eyes anymore. They burned red, not with wine or rage alone, but with the curse of the god he had served. Ares’s mark seared across his flesh, binding him to the weapons that dragged behind him like anchors.
And now those anchors tore through everything.
–––
The first squad of soldiers met him in the square, bronze shields raised, spears thrust forward. Their commander shouted, voice lost in the fire’s roar. Kratos answered with silence.
He swung.
The blade whirled, a circle of flame and iron. Shields split like bark under an axe. Spears snapped. Men screamed as they were lifted from the ground, bodies hurled across the square. Blood sprayed the stones, steaming where it met fire.
Kratos did not stop.
Another swing. Another body broken. The chains rattled, sparks scattering in arcs, each strike tearing through armor and flesh alike. When the last soldier staggered, his eyes wide with terror, Kratos’s blade carved him from shoulder to hip.
The square was silent again—silent but for fire.
–––
On the cliffs above, unseen by mortal eyes, Zeus watched.
His cloak swayed in the wind, his electric-blue eyes fixed on the carnage below. Lightning curled faintly along his fingers, restless, but he did not move. His face was unreadable—no anger, no pity. Only the steady gaze of a god who knew what this moment meant.
He exhaled once, the breath shaking the air. But still, he stayed.
–––
Kratos marched through the streets.
A mother ran past, clutching her child. A soldier, desperate, lunged with a sword. Kratos caught the strike on his blade, twisted, and wrenched the weapon free. The man fell to his knees, and Kratos’s boot crushed his chest.
Blood. Screams. Fire.
The Spartan’s voice broke loose in a roar that split the night. He had lost everything—wife, daughter, the home he once fought for. Now the world would lose itself to him.
He smashed through a temple wall, columns cracking as stone fell. Priests cowered by the altar, their prayers spilling from trembling lips. Kratos did not hear them. His blades swung once, twice, and their prayers ended in silence. Statues of Athena shattered under his rage, marble faces crumbling into dust.
–––
Above, Zeus’s gaze never wavered.
His jaw tightened, but his hands remained at his sides. He had heard the cries of mortals before. He had watched cities fall to war, watched temples rise from ruins. But this was different.
This was one man against the world.
And Zeus knew: to intervene would be to shape fate itself. To leave him was to let the storm take form.
So he let it.
–––
Kratos’s rampage spread.
Soldiers poured from every alley, their shields locked tight, their spears bristling like a forest of steel. Kratos met them head-on, a beast unchained. He ducked low, the Blades of Chaos carving wide arcs. Shields shattered. Bodies fell.
One soldier tried to flee. Kratos’s chain whipped forward, the blade piercing his back. With a yank, the man flew screaming through the air before slamming against a wall. Kratos dragged him down, the blade splitting him open.
The Spartan’s chest heaved, sweat mixing with blood and ash. His voice growled, low, guttural: "ARES!"
The name thundered through the streets. Even the flames seemed to pause at its weight.
–––
Zeus closed his eyes for a moment. He could hear that cry as clearly as the mortals below. Not just anger. Not just vengeance. A vow.
The king of gods opened his eyes again. His storm churned faintly above the city, but he did not call it down. His blue gaze locked on Kratos as if studying a truth carved into stone.
"He will not stop," Zeus murmured to himself. "Not until the world feels his pain."
–––
The temple district fell next.
Kratos stormed through its gates, his blades trailing arcs of fire. Statues shattered, shrines crumbled. Soldiers tried to hold the steps, but he cut them down like stalks of grain. Their blood streaked the marble, dripping into sacred pools.
A high priest raised his hands, calling on Athena for protection. The goddess’s light flickered faintly, but Kratos roared, slamming his blade into the altar. The light died. The priest fell, his body split in two.
The Spartan spat blood from his mouth. "The gods will pay."
–––
On the cliff, Zeus shifted, his fingers curling slightly. A spark leapt from his hand, vanishing into the air. His storm pressed heavier, the clouds blackening, as though the sky itself struggled with his silence.
He could stop this. One bolt. One command. Kratos’s blades would fall silent.
But he did not.
Instead, he let the Spartan carve his path.
–––
By dawn, Athens lay broken.
The streets were rivers of ash and blood. The temples stood in ruin, statues fallen, altars smeared with red. The cries of the wounded echoed through the smoke.
And in the center of it all, Kratos stood. His chest heaved, his body streaked with blood not all his own. The Blades of Chaos dripped black, the chains rattling faintly as he lowered them. His eyes still burned red, his voice hoarse as he whispered the only name left to him.
"Ares."
–––
High above, Zeus sighed. His blue eyes softened for a moment, not with pity but with the weight of knowing. He had seen tyrants rise and fall, heroes burn into monsters, mortals curse the heavens.
But this...
This Spartan would shake Olympus itself.
And so, Zeus turned from the cliff. His cloak caught the wind, sparks scattering into the dawn. His storm followed him, silent, heavy, waiting.
He had chosen not to intervene.
And now, the fate of gods and mortals alike would carry the mark of that silence.