Atrius could not help but sniff the air — the scent was almost… intoxicating.
He looked at the suffering mortals.
Such a pitiful sight.
WHOOM!
Before Atrius could ponder further, something fast barreled toward him. On instinct, he leaned his head back swiftly to dodge.
His hand was already gripping the weapon thrown his way.
CLANG!
A strong wind burst from the contact, forcing all nearby to shield themselves and cover their ears.
It was small for his stature, yet far too large for mortal hands — an axe.
Atrius turned his gaze toward where it had come from — there, he saw a fist hurtling toward him, close to impact. Dropping his helm to the ground in a blur of motion, Atrius's massive hand caught the incoming fist mid-strike, refusing to yield no matter how his assailant pushed.
Now fully turned, Atrius examined the creature with intrigue. He tightened his grip — the creature grunted in pain.
"@#######!" it snarled in a guttural tongue.
Atrius made no effort to understand what the xenos said.
BANG!
The ground shook as he slammed the creature into the earth, creating a crater and throwing up clouds of ashen dust.
RUMBLE!
The earth quaked under the force. The creature wheezed in agony. Before it could recover, a gigantic boot met its skull.
BANG!
CRACK!
All that remained was gore.
Atrius might have been intrigued by these strange creatures he had never seen before, but that did not mean he would refrain from slaughtering them when attacked.
Looking at the creature's armor, Atrius found its resemblance to that of the parademons.
"Same force," he noted silently.
Then his gaze fell to the axe — it was not primitive like a barbarian's weapon. Its craftsmanship appeared advanced. Without sparing it another look, Atrius turned his attention back to the mortals who still cowered behind him.
"Lord, he must have strayed from over there," the centaur said, pointing toward the horizon.
Atrius looked in the direction indicated. His gaze pierced the distance — farther than any mortal sight could reach — and there, he saw what awaited: another field of slaughter.
He remained silent for a while. Until now, he had not seen the vessels these invaders arrived in. None could be seen for miles.
So how were they invading in such numbers?
"Lord?" A voice cut through his thoughts.
Atrius turned to look.
"The injured have been recovered — these were all we could find," a warrior said, gesturing to the unconscious and wounded.
This was the battlefield. Leaving them here meant death — or worse.
Whirrr… whirrr…
Atrius's armor began to hum, its internal gears loosening as stored kinetic tension dispersed. Energy could not be destroyed — only transformed. That was how the contraption he had designed functioned: coils storing tension with every movement, releasing it when needed, or when at capacity.
The sound did nothing to disturb the hope on the faces of the hoplites. Those injured but still conscious refused Hades's embrace, clinging instead to the promise of redemption.
The Oracle had promised them that should they fall in this divine war, Elysium would await them — but still, they yearned to live.
Atrius looked upon them in silent contemplation.
Before they had gathered, he had already counted the warriors present — humans and inhumans alike.
Most could still fight if necessary.
But the few grievously wounded or unconscious were a liability in this land of death.
He looked around at the devastation — the ashen earth, the mountains of corpses — and then at the survivors.
These were the lucky ones.
CLUNK.
"Bring forth the injured," Atrius's voice echoed as he knelt upon one knee, lowering his towering frame so the mortals could see his solemn expression. Such benevolence was rare.
They quickly brought the injured and unconscious before him.
"Here, I give you two choices," he said. "Step forth with the wounded, and I shall send you to safety — or remain and march into slaughter. Know that preservation is not cowardice, for your foes are mightier than your number." His voice boomed over the distant sounds of war.
"Retreat with your injured and live, or stay and fight knowing you may die."
He spoke as a witness to their suffering — to soldiers of many tribes, nations, and kingdoms. Their armies were shattered, their chains of command broken.
"We shall fight, lord," a strained voice answered before the others could respond.
Atrius turned his gaze. A hoplite stood there, supported by another. He was missing an arm — the wound still fresh, the cloth dressing already soaked through with blood. His teeth were clenched, and his eyes burned with the conviction of a broken man seeking death.
"I admire your courage," Atrius said evenly, "but you are in no condition to fight."
"I know my condition well, lord," the warrior rasped. "But this maimed body shall never dull my blade, nor dim my faith. We swore before the oracles — to fight for the glory of Olympus against the crusaders of destruction."
He raised his voice for all to hear. Despite his pain, his tone was fierce — his fire unbroken.
It was a reminder: retreat, when one could still fight, was desertion — even if a god had suggested it.
"I may be broken," he said, shrugging off his comrade's support and standing on his own despite blood loss, "but I will still fight. I am Leandros, the Lion-Hearted of Argos. Today, you are my brothers."
Atrius observed in silence. Devotion — such an admirable trait in a warrior.
"You," Leandros pointed at another soldier, "you are Spartan. Will you and your brothers relinquish your claim to battle because of fear?"
"Never!" the Spartan spat.
"You — Athenians," Leandros called, "will you allow fear to cloud your devotion to the goddess?"
They gave no reply, but their eyes held no fear as their hands tightened around their weapons.
"Will you falter when our nations lie in ruin and mother Gaia bleeds at the hands of these foul creatures? Or will you follow me into the tempest of war, where your fury shall be justified before the lords of the holy mountain?"
"Corinthians! Syracusans! Sons of Thebes! Dwellers of the Tessalian mountains — are you with me?"
Men and inhumans alike looked upon this one-armed warrior named Leandros — and in him, they saw their reflection. The kind of man who could lead armies with nothing but will and conviction.
"I see," Atrius uttered softly. None among them desired retreat. Their devotion to their gods was… admirable.
THUD.
Leandros knelt before Atrius, blood soaking into the ashen ground. "I beseech you, lord. We are willing to follow. Lead us to the slaughter."
"I am no god of yours," Atrius replied, his tone grave yet almost gentle, "but I admire your devotion. Rise, brave warrior — you have earned my favor."
His eyes glowed — not the radiant gold that marked him as the Emperor's son, but a deep, fiery crimson. Looking upon the mortals, something within him stirred — something pleased by their defiance, by their thirst for battle.
And then, as if by instinct, that red light deepened — and fell upon them.
Leandros rose under that gaze — and felt something awaken within him. Suddenly, the bloody stump where his arm had once been began to writhe.
"Aaarrgh!" A cry tore from his lips as cold sweat drenched his brow. He fell to his knees, trembling as flesh began to move.
At the stump, the wound convulsed — sinew and tissue twisting violently as if alive. Blood shimmered and thickened, knitting into new muscle. Tendons coiled and bone fragments grew, pushing outward with sickening cracks until a new arm began to take form.
Before the stunned eyes of these soldiers, the transformation spread — others wounded or dying felt the same agony and awe as their bodies healed themselves, their torn flesh stitching together under Atrius's gaze.