The grand palace of Ares, God of War, was a temple of hedonism, and today's sermon was particularly vigorous. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, ambrosia, and desire. Marble floors, once pristine, were now littered with discarded robes and golden goblets.
"Lord Ares, someone's at the door," a nymph gasped from beneath a tangled limb of what might have been a minor harvest deity.
From the center of the writhing mass came a manly, distracted grunt. "Hah! Yes!!! Oohhh Ignore it!"
This was Ares, the God of War. Unlike his indolent father, Ares maintained a warrior-ish physique—broad shoulders, powerful arms—if one chose to ignore the slight, doughy layer of pudge that had settled around his waist like a lazy laurel of fat.
The city outside was plunging into war, but for the God of War himself, this was merely background noise to his primary battlefield: the silk-draped dais of his bedchamber.
"Yes," he continued, his voice a rhythmic grunt of pleasure. "Oh, Melissa! Your stinger always hits that spot! Ohh yess~!"
Yes. The God of War was getting enthusiastically pegged by Melissa, a petite goddess with shimmering honeybee wings and a stinger. Stingers that were currently busy stinging God of War's anus.
The first goddess, a minor deity of morning dew whose name Ares had already forgotten, fearfully spoke up again, her voice trembling. "It seems important, my lord! It's Lord Zeus's summons!"
Ares's head lolled back, his eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy, his eyes rolled back, and his tongue lolled out.
Did this guy have an... arsegasm...?
Anyway, the message finally cut through Ares's haze of indulgence like a blade through silk. His eyes snapped open, and for the first time in hours, something other than pleasure lit his face — annoyance.
With an irritated grunt, he shoved himself upright, sending silk sheets and startled goddesses scattering. "Tch. Always when things get good," he muttered.
He swung his legs off the dais and stood, towering over everyone in the room. Servants rushed in with his armor and weapons. First came the pants — he yanked them on with little ceremony. Then the blood-red cape was fastened across his shoulders, billowing as if it sensed the carnage awaiting.
A bronze chestplate was presented next, but as he tried to secure it, the metal pressed a little too snugly against the soft ring of pudge at his waist.
Ares scowled at the discomfort, grunted, and tossed the armor aside. "I don't need it," he growled.
Weapons were next. His massive, double-edged sword, Areios, slid into the scabbard on his left hip. He hefted a round, bronze shield, emblazoned with the same boar symbol, onto his left arm. Then, with a final, satisfying heft, he took up his great battle-axe, Maimakter, in his right hand. The God of War was armed.
When he donned his helmet — the crimson plume slicing through the air like a war cry — the shift was complete. The indulgent ahaego-faced pegged god of moments ago was gone. In his place stood a warlord.
Outside, three hundred elite soldiers awaited him — the best of his personal battalion. As he stepped onto the grand steps of his palace, the roar of their unified war cry echoed through the burning streets:
"YEAAAA!!! HAUU! HAUU! HAUUU!"
Ares didn't bother with speeches. He pointed his sword toward the heart of the battle, and with that single gesture, they charged.
The streets, once glowing like starlight, were now slick with blood and littered with shattered marble. Chitauri swarmed like roaches, their reptilian hisses drowned out by the shrieks of dark elves wielding jagged blades.
But Ares and his three hundred were a hurricane of destruction, carving through the enemy ranks like a hot knife through flesh.
Wherever Ares went, the tide turned. Chitauri were sliced in half by his sword, their mechanical limbs sparking as they fell. Dark elves tried to flank him, but his shield bashed them into oblivion, and his axe sent heads rolling with a satisfying thunk.
One had to admit, his powers were truly impressive—each swing of his weapons seemed to ripple with divine energy, leaving trails of fire in the air. The battalion fought like men possessed, their war cries growing louder with every foe they felled.
Then came the leviathan—a massive, writhing beast of Chitauri engineering, its maw gaping with rows of serrated teeth.
Ares grinned, his helmet glinting under the eternal sun. "Oh, you're a big one, aren't you?" he taunted, hefting his spear.
With a mighty heave, he launched the spear, and it streaked through the air like a comet, piercing the leviathan's skull in a single, glorious shot.
The beast collapsed in a heap, shaking the ground, and the battalion roared again—"YEAAAA!!!" "HAUU!" "HAUUU!"—their voices echoing across the battlefield.
Ares planted one foot on the fallen leviathan, striking a pose that would've made a sculptor weep.
"Next," Ares pointed his blood-soaked axe toward the sky, where Erik's mothership hung like a malevolent jewel, his voice booming across the suddenly hushed battlefield, "we'll bring that giant mothership down to the Olympian grounds and mount its helm on my father's throne!"
The cheers of Ares's battalion were still ringing out, shaking the ground, when his eyes caught something odd. A black dot dropped from the belly of the Chitauri mothership, falling fast like a shooting star.
The soldiers' shouts faded, their eyes locked on the sky as the dot grew bigger, hurtling toward the ground. It crashed just a short distance from the battalion with a loud BOOM, kicking up a cloud of dust and broken marble that stung their faces.
Ares squinted through the haze, his gut tightening. Even after years of lazing around, his instincts screamed danger. The dust cleared, and there she was—a figure he never thought he'd see again. Hela, the Goddess of Death, banished by Odin ages ago.
What was she doing here? How was she here?
Ares thought, his jaw dropping. His heart pounded, half from shock, half from the bad feeling crawling up his spine.
Hela stood up slowly, like she had all the time in the world. Her black and green suit hugged her like armor, and those creepy, spiked horns crowned her head.
She walked toward them, calm as you please, her boots crunching on the shattered street. In her hands, two dark swords appeared out of nowhere, their blades black as night and humming with bad energy.
Ares gripped his axe tighter, his shield raised.
"Hela," he growled, his voice rough but loud enough to carry.
He took a step forward, his crimson cape flapping behind him. But deep down, he was wondering if skipping that armor was a dumb move.
Hela's lips curled into a cold smirk as she stopped a few paces from Ares and his battalion. Her dark eyes scanned the soldiers, their faces pale with fear, and she let out a low chuckle. "Oh, at least the folks here know who I am," she said, recalling the fact that the existence was removed from the history of her own homeland. "It'll be more fun killing you all while seeing those fear-filled eyes."
Ares scowled, his face twisting with rage as he planted his shield in front of him. "Of course we know you," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "The dog Odin had to put down because it started biting its own master! You're nothing but a rabid mut—"
Hela tilted her head, her expression bored, like she was listening to a kid throwing a tantrum. She sighed loudly, rolling her eyes. "I don't have all day for his nonsense," she muttered, almost to herself.
Before Ares could spit another insult, she swiped her arm in a lazy motion. A massive black sword materialized from thin air, gleaming with dark energy.
It shot forward like a bolt of lightning, piercing straight through Ares's heart and pinning him to the ground with a sickening thud.
Ares hung there, lifeless, his body limp in the middle of the cracked street. His axe slipped from his hand, clattering to the ground, and his crimson cape fluttered uselessly in the smoky air. His eyes, once burning with arrogance, stared blankly at the sky.
The soldiers froze, their war cries choking in their throats. Horror washed over their faces as they stared at their fallen god, impaled like a trophy. For a moment, the battlefield was silent, the only sound the distant crackle of flames and the hum of Hela's swords.
Then, with a mix of desperation and loyalty, the battalion roared and charged, weapons raised, even though they knew it was suicide. "For Ares!" one screamed, his voice cracking. They rushed at Hela, spears and swords gleaming, their faces twisted with fear and fury.
Hela didn't even flinch. Her lips curved into a faint, amused smile as she raised her hands, more dark blades forming in the air around her. "Brave," she said softly, almost pitying them. "But stupid."
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