The Battle at the Pass of Thermopylae raged on. The entire Spartan army was cornered at their final line of defense. From all sides, the Persian host advanced, and their dark magic devoured countless lives without Atreus's protection, the darkness became devastating.
Leonidas the king who fell during Sparta's war against the coalition of city-states had fought until the very last moment, his body pierced by countless spears. And even then, he stood tall, staring down his enemies, undefeated. Now too, he had no intention of retreating. Yet he would not throw away the lives of Spartans in a hopeless battle where they had no advantage.
In a flash of light, Geron appeared beside him.
"What's the situation?" he asked, stricken by the weight of what was unfolding on the frontlines.
"Atreus had to fall back. We're losing ground. The enemy is everywhere. Did you find any help?" Leonidas asked, with little hope in his voice.
"No. Most of Greece's forces are already engaged in battle. Athens is under siege. I've brought only food and some equipment," Geron replied.
Leonidas was silent for a moment, then finally spoke:
"Get every living warrior out of here, Geron."
"We can't just leave. I won't abandon my brothers to die," Geron said firmly.
"You are not abandoning us. I order you: retreat with the Spartans. We, the dead, will hold this pass," Leonidas declared.
"You can't give me orders I outrank you," Geron countered.
"Have you forgotten who your king is?" Leonidas replied calmly. "Save Sparta. Nothing matters more than her warriors. As long as they live, Sparta endures. And tell my son… he is unworthy of rule. He must relinquish his claim. He has no right to be called my heir if he has not earned it."
"But what of your souls? They'll destroy you," Geron asked, desperation in his voice.
"We are already dead. Eternal bliss is pleasant, but we are warriors it is not meant for us. Eternal oblivion... doesn't sound so bad," Leonidas said with a sorrowful smile. Then he added,
"Atreus is in danger. The only way we can help him now is through your faith let it make him stronger. He thinks he is alone. And his strength... is not as great as he believes. He's a fine warrior and a worthy man of Sparta, but still a boy. Watch over him."
"I will. I swear it," Geron answered.
Drawing his compass once more, he opened a path. Behind him, the Spartan army began its retreat.
Leonidas watched them go, silently praying that his homeland might one day withstand whatever trials fate had in store.
"Brothers! Today is the day all shall remember the spirit of Sparta! Every last moment of ours will be a nightmare to our foes!" Leonidas roared.
"Aouh!" The war cry thundered from the throats of the armored golems.
Had he still been alive, Leonidas would have smiled with pride. There was no more time to delay the battle awaited. He surged into the front lines.
Their detachment was trapped on both sides of the pass. Now, only they stood in the way of the army that sought to break through.
Wave after wave of Persian soldiers pressed forward, relentless. Black magic claimed one Spartan after another. Every second became a horror for both sides.
"Why can't we destroy this handful of soldiers?!" the Persian king growled.
"These golems are crafted too well. They won't fall easily," replied the new general. The previous one had been executed days ago for failure on the battlefield.
"Don't disappoint me. Or you'll be replaced just as swiftly," the Persian king said coldly.
"I will do all I can, my king," the general murmured with a bow, then turned to the commanders and ordered the assault to intensify.
Every Spartan life faded within minutes. Their souls, torn apart by dark magic, received neither mercy nor forgiveness only eternal oblivion.
Hours passed, and still the pass held. Wave after wave of Persian soldiers crashed helplessly against the indomitable handful of warriors. Thousands died for every dozen steps gained.
During the chaos of battle, Leonidas spotted the Persian king far too close to the frontlines.
"Spartans! Today we end this war! With me!" Leonidas roared.
Like a crashing wave, two hundred Spartans surged forward, an unstoppable tide of steel and fury. Their wrath and unyielding spirit carved a bloody path through the enemy ranks.
At first, the Persian king stood proudly, watching what seemed like a pitiful last attempt by the Spartans. But then fear flashed in his eyes. His legs moved before his mind could command them, carrying him away, fleeing through his own army.
Dozens of Persia's finest warriors formed a desperate shield between their king and the oncoming tide. But in Leonidas's hands, the spear was an extension of his will swift and precise, it struck down foe after foe with deadly grace. Each thrust was like a whisper of death, the weapon guided not by brute force, but by mastery born of a thousand battles.
There were too many enemies. The Persian king was slipping away Leonidas could not let him escape. For a single breath, time seemed to freeze. He narrowed his gaze, lifted his spear, and hurled it with all his might.
Even the air thickened as the weapon flew the world held its breath.
At the very last moment, a whisper of instinct saved the Persian king. Sensing death, he jerked his head aside but not fast enough.
The spear grazed the left side of his head, slicing through flesh near the ear. A spray of teeth burst from his shattered jaw as the blade tore through his cheek, splitting it open and severing part of his tongue. His mask flew from his face, revealing his true self broken and bloodied.
He screamed, drowning in his own blood.
Leonidas's throw had missed its fatal mark. There would be no second chance the Spartans were surrounded. The Persian tide pressed in, and despite the ferocity of their resistance, the warriors of Sparta were falling, one by one.
Leonidas blamed himself for the failed strike but there was no time for regret.
Hours later, Leonidas was the last to fall.
At last, the battle at the gates of the pass came to an end. The Persian army had claimed victory but at a cost: nearly one hundred and fifty thousand of their soldiers lay dead. Yet could they truly be called men? Twisted by dark sorcery, they had long ceased to be who they once were.
In a dimly lit healing chamber, the Persian king writhed in agony. His mangled face was being stitched together from scraps of other men's flesh by a dark sorcerer. The reconstruction was monstrous a patchwork of mismatched skin, bound with crooked seams. The king had become something unrecognizable, a thing so grotesque that even glancing at him stirred revulsion.
"What have you done to me, sorcerer?!" the king snarled, catching sight of his reflection.
"I healed you," the mage replied coldly, "but I never promised to preserve your beauty."
"You've turned me into a monster!" the king screamed, slamming his fist into the mirror.
A thousand shards reflected his deformed visage. Gripping the shattered frame, he hurled the remains to the floor anything to escape the horror of his new face.
"Guards! Execute him!" he roared.
But the soldiers didn't move.
The sorcerer's voice was calm as he walked toward the exit.
"You forget, King. They do not obey you. They serve the Darkness."
A day passed.
The Persian army had broken through the pass. Now, they burned their way through Greece. All that stood before them turned to ash.