Kratos moved first.
There was no warning, no shift in stance, no tell. One moment he stood ten paces away, the Blades of Chaos hanging loose at his sides. The next, the blades were in the air, chains singing, their edges hungry for flesh.
Adrestus had faced monsters. He had faced bandits. He had faced a cyclops and a fire salamander and a hydra that grew two heads for every one cut off. But he had never faced anything like this. Kratos did not fight like a man. He fought like an avalanche—unstoppable, mindless, inevitable.
The first blade came high, aimed at Adrestus's throat. He dropped into a crouch, felt the wind of its passing ruffle his hair, and the second blade was already there, low, slicing toward his knees. He leaped—not back, not to the side, but over the blade, his absolute body control coiling his body into a tight ball that cleared the edge by a finger's width. He landed in a roll, came up with his spear thrusting.
The tip struck Kratos in the shoulder. It should have sunk deep. The spear was sharp, the thrust was perfect, and Adrestus had put his full weight behind it. But Kratos's muscle was like iron cable. The spear pierced only an inch before stopping. Kratos grunted—not in pain, but in annoyance—and grabbed the shaft with his free hand.
Adrestus tried to pull back. The spear did not move. Kratos held it like a twig, his grip unbreakable.
"You're fast," Kratos said. "But speed without strength is nothing."
He yanked. Adrestus flew forward, his feet leaving the ground, and Kratos's knee came up to meet his chest. The impact drove the air from his lungs. He heard something crack—a rib, maybe two—and then he was on his back in the mud, gasping, the world spinning.
Get up, he told himself. Get up or you die.
He rolled. Kratos's boot slammed into the mud where his head had been, sending a spray of black filth into the air. Adrestus scrambled backward, found his spear lying in the dirt, and snatched it up. He rose, his chest screaming, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Kratos did not pursue. He stood over the spot where Adrestus had fallen, his head tilted, his eyes cold. The Blades of Chaos dripped with mud and blood—not Adrestus's blood yet, but the blood of the villagers he had killed before this fight began.
"You should have stayed in whatever hole you crawled out of," Kratos said. "This is not your war. Ares demands tribute. I collect. That is all."
"Tribute," Adrestus spat. "You call murdering children tribute?"
"I call it obedience." Kratos raised the Blades. "The gods do not ask for our understanding. They ask for our service. I serve. That is what makes me stronger than you."
He attacked again.
This time, Adrestus did not try to meet him head‑on. He could not match Kratos's strength. He could not match his reach. What he had was speed, precision, and a mind that recorded everything. He dodged the first blade, sidestepped the second, and thrust his spear at Kratos's thigh. The tip bit deep. Kratos's leg buckled for a fraction of a second—and then the Spartan swung his forearm across Adrestus's chest, sending him crashing into a burning cart.
The wood groaned. Sparks flew. Adrestus's back screamed, and he felt the heat of the flames licking at his cloak. He rolled away, slapping at a small fire on his sleeve, and came up with his sword drawn. The spear was still embedded in Kratos's thigh, but the Spartan had pulled it out and tossed it aside. Now he faced Adrestus with only the Blades, and his eyes were hungry.
"You bleed," Kratos observed. "You hurt. You are no different from any other man."
"I'm not trying to be different," Adrestus said. "I'm trying to stop you."
He charged.
The next exchange was a blur of steel and desperation. Adrestus threw everything he had at Kratos—slashes, thrusts, feints, kicks. His absolute body control let him move like water, flowing around the Spartan's defenses, finding gaps that should not have existed. His eidetic memory recorded every movement, every tell, every pattern. He was learning.
But learning and surviving were different things. Kratos was faster than he looked, stronger than any man had a right to be, and experienced. He had fought a thousand battles, killed a thousand men. He did not telegraph. He did not repeat. He adapted as quickly as Adrestus did, closing gaps, punishing mistakes.
A Blade caught Adrestus across the ribs, opening a gash that spilled blood down his side. He gasped, stumbled, and Kratos followed with a backhand that sent him spinning into the mud. His sword flew from his hand. His head struck a stone. The world went white, then red, then dark.
When his vision cleared, Kratos was standing over him, one Blade raised for a killing stroke.
"You fought well," the Spartan said. "But well is not enough."
Adrestus looked up at the Blade, at the firelight reflecting off its edge, at the face of the man who was about to kill him. He thought of Odomantike. He thought of Lysandros. He thought of the system, the fame coins, the titles he had earned. None of it mattered if he died here in the mud of a burning village.
Not yet, he thought. Not like this.
He reached for his sword. It was too far. He reached for his spear. It was on the other side of the clearing. He had nothing but his hands, his body, and the desperate knowledge that he had one chance.
Kratos brought the Blade down.
Adrestus rolled. The Blade buried itself in the mud where his chest had been. He grabbed Kratos's wrist with both hands, planted his feet on the Spartan's chest, and pushed. It was a technique from another life—a sweep, a reversal, a move that used leverage instead of strength. Kratos's eyes widened as his own weight betrayed him. He fell forward, and Adrestus rolled with him, coming up on top.
For a single heartbeat, Adrestus straddled the Spartan's chest, his hands pinning Kratos's wrists to the ground. The Blade was still embedded in the mud, useless. The other Blade was trapped beneath Kratos's back. For that single heartbeat, Adrestus had won.
Then Kratos roared.
He threw Adrestus off with a surge of strength that felt like a thunderclap. Adrestus flew through the air, crashed into a pile of rubble, and lay there, broken and bleeding. His arm was twisted at an angle that was not natural. His ribs were on fire. His lip was split, and he tasted copper.
Kratos rose. He pulled the Blade from the mud and walked toward Adrestus, his limp barely noticeable now. The firelight cast his face in shadows, making him look like something from a nightmare.
"Yield," Kratos said. "And I will make your death quick."
Adrestus coughed. Blood sprayed from his lips. He tried to rise, but his body would not obey. His absolute body control could not fix broken bones. It could not replace lost blood. It could only do what his body was capable of, and his body was failing.
"No," he whispered.
Kratos raised the Blade.
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