The night is somber.
The wind passes through broken walls, echoing hollow whimpers among the ruins. After the fire has extinguished, the remains of Rhodes Island return to silence, still enveloped by the smell of ash and blood in the air.
Zeus handed Ian the blood of Kratos.
"Injustice leads to self-destruction, Zeus." Ian weighed the Crystal Bottle in his hand, the dark red blood inside slightly swaying, as if still carrying Kratos's anger and unwillingness before his death.
He casually tossed the bottle into the Magic Money Bag at his waist, which appeared ordinary but contained endless space.
"This is not your concern, just our family affair." Zeus was very resistant to Ian's advice, responding with a cold voice.
Ian wasn't the kind to persist when unwelcome; he only liked others' warm faces sticking to his cold ones, so seeing this situation, he stopped advising Zeus further.
"One item acquired."
He spoke to himself.
"Next are... the speaking rose, and Epiphyllum Honey." This seeming mumble to himself was actually reminding Zeus that he still needed two other things. When mentioning Epiphyllum Honey, his mouth twitched slightly. He seriously doubted that this was Female Titan Claire's own craving, given she had always been defenseless against sweets—with no evidence, though, he had to find and bring it back honestly.
To be honest.
Ian really couldn't quite understand Female Titan Claire; her character was complex and conflicted, at times cruel and ruthless, yet sometimes showing deep sympathy for the mortal world. When she proposed this list, her tone was serious, but Ian still felt that the inclusion of Epiphyllum Honey was more like her personal preference.
Of course.
In any case, it wasn't him going to find it.
Ian was happy to exploit Zeus's fear of him.
"You just need to wait some time; I'll have someone deliver the items to you. Meanwhile, Raven, I hope very much that you don't approach our new home." Zeus slowly descended from the sky, transforming into human form, standing atop broken walls. His gaze was still like thunder, deep yet mixed with weariness and vigilance.
Clearly, Zeus was still haunted by past events of displacement, hence not wanting Ian near the Mount Olympus where gods currently resided.
"Rest assured, I have no interest in your new abode, and I also dislike disturbing history." Ian smiled slightly, as indeed, he preferred not too much interference in history's flow.
Who knows, if he stirred some major trouble, whether future history might trigger a butterfly effect; history's self-correction is limited to smaller ripples.
Like when this city's civilians live a little longer, their historical weight truly matters less than stabbing a divine spirit.
"That is best," Zeus paused for a moment, finally nodding. His eyes reflected a complex emotion, as though recalling those pursuing, displaced days.
He lastly cast a long look at Ian, saying nothing more, transformed into a giant eagle, and flapped away, leaving Ian standing alone in this silent ruin.
The entire city is terrifyingly quiet.
Zeus's divine power has long erased most living beings, leaving only collapsed buildings, shattered statues, and scattered remains—the corpses of Spartan Warriors, severed limbs of ordinary soldiers, civilians shattered by the Divine Sword's repercussions... The scent of Death permeates every inch, everywhere displaying horrific scenes.
Ancient Greek Soldiers, Spartans, civilians... they were once enemies, once compatriots, but now lie silently upon this scorched earth, voiceless and still.
Regarding this.
Zeus seems well adapted.
But Ian is a bit unaccustomed.
So he plans to take action and bury all the bodies into the ground.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."
Ian stands high, overlooking everything. His gaze is calm yet quietly masked with a hint of compassion. He slowly raises his hand, palm up, a Magic Wand flipping into view as he softly sighs.
This is certainly not a Spell.
However, Ian nowadays rarely needed Spells to wield Magic.
As his voice emerged.
The earth began to tremble, as if awakening from slumber. The land surged, cracking gaps spread, like a giant beast's mouth open to swallow the already cold bodies slowly.
Earth surged like tides, covering faces, chests, and limbs. The torn armors, snapped weapons were also buried into the dark brown soil together. No tombstones, no inscriptions, only the most primitive form of resting—burial.
After all, Ian inherently still adhered to an ancient custom.
Even though these soldiers couldn't distinguish right from wrong, war itself wasn't directed by soldiers' wills, so burying all together also meant grievances dissolve.
"Though I have no qualification to speak for these people, as long as I feel better, it's already enough." War is never decided by ordinary soldiers.
They were merely pawns of fate, thrust onto battlefields, forced to fight, ultimately lying dead in neglected corners. Whatever loyalty they held is now irrelevant.
Ian doesn't judge their rights or wrongs, only wishes to grant them final dignity. The wind blows through, taking away the odor of blood and smoke, replaced by the damp scent of freshly turned earth.