Six months had passed since he claimed the Bow of the North Wind. Six months of training, hunting, and building. The village of Odomantike, where he had been found as a baby in the snow, was no longer a village. It was a fortified settlement, its wooden palisade reinforced with stone, its storehouses full of grain and salted meat, its people armed and drilled. Lysandros had seen to the drilling. The Thessalian had a gift for teaching, for turning farmers and shepherds into soldiers who could hold a shield wall and trust the man beside them. Adrestus had seen to everything else: the walls, the trade agreements, the monster hunts that kept the surrounding passes safe.
The villagers called him Archon now, though he had never asked for the title. He was their leader, their protector, the man with the red lightning and the winged unicorn. He slept in a longhouse at the center of the settlement, his weapons hung on the wall behind his bed, his system humming in the back of his mind like a second heartbeat. He was twenty years old, nearly twenty‑one, and he could feel the weight of the years pressing down on him.
Not the weight of age. The weight of waiting.
He knew what was coming. He had always known. The Spartan, Kratos, was out there somewhere, serving Ares, burning villages, earning the trust of the gods who would eventually betray him. The events of the first game—the deal with Ares, the murder of Kratos's family, the plague of Athens, Pandora's Temple—were less than a year away. Adrestus did not know the exact date, but he could feel it approaching like a storm on the horizon, dark and inevitable.
He had spent his whole life preparing for this moment. The skills, the titles, the Fame Coins, the red lightning, the bow, the unicorn, the favor of Hephaestus—all of it had been in service of this single truth: when Kratos began his rampage, Adrestus would be ready to stand in his way. Not to kill him. To stop him from becoming the monster the gods wanted him to be.
But first, he needed to know where the Spartan was.
The news came on a wet autumn evening, carried by a merchant who had fled south from Thrace. His wagon was burned, his goods stolen, his guards dead. He sat by the fire in Adrestus's longhouse, wrapped in a wool blanket, his hands trembling around a cup of wine.
"It was a Spartan," the merchant said. "Big man, bald, covered in red tattoos. He had blades on chains—burning blades. He came out of nowhere, killed my guards like they were children, and took everything. He said he was collecting tribute for Ares."
Adrestus felt the red lightning stir in his chest. "Where did this happen?"
"North of here. Three days' ride. A village called—" The merchant closed his eyes, trying to remember. "Pella. No, not Pella. Pella is further east. This was a smaller place. Doberos. Yes. Doberos."
"Was the village still standing?"
The merchant shook his head. "He burned it. Every building. Every person. I saw children in the streets, and he just—" The man's voice broke. He drank deeply from his cup.
Adrestus stood. His face was calm, but the red lightning flickered at his fingertips, barely contained. "Lysandros."
The Thessalian appeared in the doorway. "Archon?"
"I'm leaving. Dawn. You're in charge until I return."
Lysandros did not argue. He had learned not to argue. "Where are you going?"
"To find a Spartan."
---
Skotadi flew through the night, her black wings silent against the stars. Adrestus rode with his bow across his back, his spear in his hand—Pheme's simple spear, still unnamed, still waiting for the day Hephaestus would forge its replacement. The red aura coated his body like a second skin, keeping him warm against the cold wind. He did not know what he would say to Kratos. He did not know if words would even matter. The Spartan was a weapon, and weapons did not listen.
He found Doberos at dawn.
The village was ash. The buildings had collapsed into charred skeletons, their beams still smoking. The bodies had been left where they fell—farmers, women, children. Adrestus walked among them, his boots crunching on cinders, and felt something cold settle in his chest. Not rage. Rage was hot, impulsive, dangerous. This was colder. This was judgment.
He found tracks leading north, toward the mountains. Boot prints, deep and wide, spaced for a man in a hurry. And beside them, smaller prints—maybe a child, maybe a woman. A prisoner.
Adrestus mounted Skotadi and followed.
The trail led to a camp in a narrow valley, sheltered from the wind by overhanging cliffs. A single tent, a dying fire, and a man sitting on a boulder, sharpening a blade. The man was huge—not tall, but thick, built like a battering ram. His head was shaved, his face hard, his arms covered in red tattoos that seemed to shift in the firelight. The Blades of Chaos lay beside him, their chains coiled like sleeping serpents.
Kratos.
He looked younger than Adrestus had expected. Not soft—never soft—but less worn, less haunted. The nightmares had not yet begun. The murder of his family was still in the future, a wound that had not yet been cut. Right now, he was just a soldier. A brutal, efficient soldier serving a cruel god.
And tied to a tree behind him, gagged and bleeding, was a young woman. A captive. A trophy.
Adrestus landed Skotadi fifty paces from the camp. The black unicorn folded her wings and stamped a hoof. The sound echoed off the cliffs.
Kratos looked up. His eyes were dark, cold, utterly without fear. He set down his sharpening stone and rose, the Blades of Chaos leaping into his hands as if they had a life of their own.
"You made a mistake," the Spartan said. "Coming here."
"I made a choice," Adrestus replied. He slid from Skotadi's back and walked forward, his spear held low, his red aura flickering around his shoulders. "You burned a village. You killed children. You took a woman who did nothing to you."
"Ares demands tribute. I collect."
"Ares is a god. He doesn't need your excuses."
Kratos's eyes narrowed. "You speak like someone who has never fought a god."
"I've fought monsters. Bandits. A cyclops. A fire salamander. I've earned the favor of Hephaestus and the blessing of Zeus." The red lightning surged brighter, coating his spear from tip to butt. "I'm not afraid of you, Spartan."
Kratos smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. "Then you're a fool."
He attacked.
The Blades of Chaos whipped through the air, their chains singing. Adrestus had seen the moves before—in his memories, in his dreams—but seeing them in person was different. The blades were faster than he had imagined, their arcs wider, their edges hungry. He dodged the first strike, parried the second with his spear shaft, and felt the impact jar his arms. Kratos was stronger than any man he had ever fought. Stronger than Krokos. Stronger than the cyclops.
But Adrestus was faster.
He used his speed to circle, to stay outside the arc of the blades, to probe for openings. His eidetic memory recorded every movement, every tell, every pattern. Kratos favored a right‑handed slash followed by a left‑handed thrust. He overcommitted on the thrust, leaving his flank exposed for a heartbeat.
Adrestus lunged.
The spear tip struck Kratos's side, just below the ribs. The red lightning discharged on impact, sending a shock through the Spartan's body. Kratos grunted, stumbled, but did not fall. He grabbed the spear shaft with one hand and yanked, pulling Adrestus off balance.
The Blades of Chaos came around in a wide arc.
Adrestus released the spear, dropped to the ground, and rolled under the blades. He came up with his sword drawn—Pheme's simple xiphos—and slashed at Kratos's hamstring. The edge bit deep. Blood sprayed. Kratos roared and kicked out, catching Adrestus in the chest and sending him flying into the boulder.
His ribs screamed. His vision blurred. But the red aura absorbed most of the impact, and he was already moving, already adapting. He had fought Kratos in his mind a thousand times. The reality was harsher, bloodier, but the patterns were the same.
Kratos was limping now, his hamstring torn. He could not charge. He could only stand his ground, the Blades of Chaos held defensively across his chest.
"You're good," the Spartan admitted. "Better than most."
"I'm not trying to kill you," Adrestus said. "I'm trying to stop you. Let the woman go. Walk away. And I'll let you live."
Kratos laughed—a short, bitter sound. "Let me live? Boy, I've killed men who could make you cry for your mother. You got lucky. That's all."
"Maybe." Adrestus raised his sword, the red lightning gathering at the tip. "But lucky still counts."
They circled. The woman by the tree watched with wide eyes, her gag muffling her sobs. The fire crackled. The wind whispered through the valley.
Then Kratos did something unexpected. He lowered his blades.
"The woman means nothing to me," he said. "Take her. I'll find another."
Adrestus did not trust the words. He did not lower his guard. "Why?"
Kratos shrugged, a gesture that seemed almost human. "Because you're not worth dying for. And I have other villages to burn." He sheathed the Blades of Chaos—the chains retracted, the blades locked against his forearms—and limped toward his tent. "She's yours. Don't follow me."
Adrestus watched him go. Every instinct screamed that this was a trap, that Kratos would turn and strike the moment he looked away. But the Spartan did not turn. He gathered his things, slung a pack over his shoulder, and walked north into the mountains, his limp growing more pronounced with each step.
When he was gone, Adrestus cut the woman free. She collapsed against him, weeping, and he held her until the sobs faded.
"It's over," he said. "You're safe."
She looked up at him, her face bruised, her eyes red. "Who are you?"
"My name is Adrestus. And I'm going to take you home."
He helped her onto Skotadi's back—the unicorn allowed it, though she snorted her displeasure—and mounted behind her. The journey back to Doberos took the rest of the day. The woman's name was Thaleia, a weaver's daughter, and she had been taken from her burning home just before dawn. Her family was dead. Her village was gone. She had nothing left except her life and the stranger who had saved it.
Adrestus left her in the care of a farmer's wife in the nearest surviving settlement, along with a pouch of silver and a promise to send word if he heard of any other survivors. Then he flew back to Odomantike, alone with his thoughts.
The system updated as he landed.
```
[SYSTEM UPDATE – Age 20 (six months after acquiring Bow of North Wind)]
Public feats detected:
- Confronted Kratos of Sparta, champion of Ares
- Rescued a captive from his camp
- Fought the Spartan to a standstill (first exchange)
Witnesses: Thaleia (the rescued woman), possibly Kratos himself (but he will not spread the story favorably)
Fame increase calculated: Moderate (Thaleia will tell others, and word of a warrior who stood up to Ares's champion will spread slowly)
Popularity: Hero → Hero (increased recognition, but not yet Legendary)
Fame Coins Earned: +1 (for a significant confrontation)
Total Fame Coins: 8 (previous 7 + 1)
No new titles from this encounter.
NEW STATS:
- Strength: 36 → 38
- Speed: 42 → 44
- Agility: 45 → 47
- Magic: 27 → 28
SKILL LEVELS (raw proficiency):
- Spearmanship: Journeyman (Level 21 → Level 22)
- Swordsmanship: Journeyman (Level 20 → Level 21)
- Hand‑to‑Hand Combat: Journeyman (Level 26 → Level 27)
- Marksmanship (Bow): Journeyman (Level 25)
- Riding: Journeyman (Level 17)
- Aura Manipulation (Red Lightning): Untrained (Level 8 → Level 10)
BATTLE EXPERIENCE:
- Combat encounters survived: 11 (added confrontation with Kratos)
- Significant battles: 6 (hydra, bandit fortress, fire salamander, cyclops, harpy nest, Kratos)
- Monster kills: 8
- Human opponents defeated: 17 (added Kratos – though he retreated, counts as a defeated opponent)
- Lethal human kills: 16
- Near‑death experiences: 3
- First confrontation with a named demigod: YES (Kratos, son of Zeus)
- First time sparing an enemy who would later become a threat: YES
System note: You have crossed paths with Kratos earlier than expected. He is not yet the Ghost of Sparta, but the seeds of his rage are already planted. He will remember you. He will seek revenge or respect. Unknown which.
Your aura manipulation has improved through real combat. The red lightning responded well, though you still lack fine control. Continue practicing constructs and blasts.
Your settlement of Odomantike is now recognized by nearby villages as a safe haven. Population: 312. Defenders: 45 trained militia, led by Lysandros. Fame spreads through their stories.
Time remaining until the events of God of War 1: Approximately one year. Use it wisely.
```
Adrestus dismissed the screen and sat on the steps of his longhouse, staring at the stars. The confrontation with Kratos had been a test—not just of skill, but of will. He had not killed the Spartan. He had not wanted to kill him. The man was a monster in the making, but he was not yet beyond saving. Or so Adrestus told himself.
One year, he thought. One year until Kratos kills his family. One year until the world breaks.
He would be ready. He had to be.
Lysandros appeared beside him, silent as a cat. "You're back early. I expected you to be gone for days."
"He let the woman go. Walked away."
"That doesn't sound like the stories I've heard."
"It's not." Adrestus stood and stretched his sore muscles. "He's not the monster yet. He's just a soldier. A brutal one, but still just a man."
"And when he becomes the monster?"
Adrestus looked east, toward the mountains where Kratos had disappeared. "Then I'll stop him. Or die trying."
Lysandros was quiet for a long moment. Then he clapped Adrestus on the shoulder. "Well, when you do, try to come back alive. I hate training militia."
Adrestus almost smiled. Almost.
He walked into his longhouse, hung his spear on the wall, and lay down on his bed. The red lightning purred in his chest, content for now. The system counted down the days.
Outside, Skotadi spread her wings and watched the horizon, her burning eyes reflecting the light of a world that did not yet know it was about to burn.
---
End of Chapter 16