The night split with fire.
Athens burned.
Stone houses collapsed under falling spears of flame. Statues toppled, their marble faces breaking against the streets. The screams of men and women tangled with the clash of steel, and through it all moved one figure—bare-chested, scarred, chains rattling as the Blades of Chaos sang in his hands.
Kratos.
His eyes were not mortal eyes anymore. They burned red, not with wine or rage alone, but with the curse of the god he had served. Ares's mark seared across his flesh, binding him to the weapons that dragged behind him like anchors.
And now those anchors tore through everything.
–––
The first squad of soldiers met him in the square, bronze shields raised, spears thrust forward. Their commander shouted, voice lost in the fire's roar. Kratos answered with silence.
He swung.
