Chapter 8

Raezel stepped forward, arms crossed, eyes cold. He didn’t look afraid.

He didn’t even look impressed.

"You know, Ares," he began, his voice casual—too casual. "You’re not the first god who’s wanted me dead."

Ares narrowed his eyes.

Raezel’s smirk grew. "Actually, there’s barely a god or demi-god who hasn’t tried to kill me." He gestured lazily around the hall. "And yet, the moment they step in front of my mother—" he tilted his head toward Medusa, whose eerie, knowing smile remained untouched— "they suddenly forget how to look me in the eye while speaking."

Ares clenched his fists.

"And yes, exactly," Raezel continued, his voice dropping slightly, almost mocking. "You think it, and I state it. Your life is my one wish away, God of War."

The weight of those words settled in the air like a thundercloud.

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For the first time in his immortal existence—Ares felt envy.

Raezel stood before him, arms crossed, gaze unwavering.

He did not flinch.

He did not bow.

He simply was.

Ares had faced warriors, kings, and gods. He had seen power in all its forms—raw, refined, divine.

But Raezel carried something else.

Unshaken certainty.

Even Ares had never stood with such certainty.

Raezel did not need to prove himself. He did not need to demand respect. He existed beyond fear, beyond doubt—beyond Olympus itself.

For all his strength, for all the wars he had won, Ares had never stood before anyone like this.

He had always been a god of conflict, a weapon forged for war.

But Raezel?

He was his own force, which changed fate itself.

He had already done what no one else could—he had rewritten fate.

And that… that was what Olympus feared.

Ares' fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, though he did not raise it.

He exhaled slowly, voice low, edged with something he had never spoken aloud before.

"What a terrifying thing you are, boy."will.”

FAR FROM THE GILDED HALLS OF VELMOR, WHERE GODS AND LEGENDS PLAYED THEIR GAMES, ANOTHER BATTLE WAS BEING WAGED AT THE BORDERS OF VELMOR. ONE OF BLOOD, STEEL, AND SURVIVAL.

The battlefield was a sea of chaos.

Velmor's warriors, outnumbered a hundred to one, clashed against the might of Xandria—an empire forged in blood and conquest, its name spoken in whispers across the mortal realm. A nation so ruthless, so absolute, that kingdoms did not fight it—they surrendered. The sky was thick with the smoke of burning banners, the ground soaked in blood, and the screams of the dying echoed across the valley.

The Xandrian soldiers fought like a tidal wave, merciless and unrelenting. Their war machines rained fire, their cavalry trampled through the ranks of Velmor’s defenders. It was not a battle. It was a massacre.

Velmor's soldiers fought bravely, but they knew the truth.

They will fall today.

Commander Daelus, one of Velmor’s strongest warriors, wiped blood from his brow and looked toward the horizon.

No reinforcements. No miracles.

Velmor was alone.

And then—

The battlefield… shifted. Not by man. Not by strategy. But by something far older. Far greater.

At first, it was just a shiver. A faint tremor across their skin. Then—heat. Blazing, searing heat.

One by one, the Velmorian soldiers gasped, clutching their arms, their chests, their faces. Their breath hitched.

And then—the marks appeared.

Glowing, twisting serpent insignias burned into their flesh. Some on their arms, some across their chests, some along their faces. A mark of protection.

The Xandrian warriors hesitated.

Then, they started to notice something was… wrong.

Velmor’s warriors stood taller.

Their wounds? Sealing.

Their exhaustion? Gone.

Their fear? Erased.

Commander Daelus flexed his fingers. No pain. No exhaustion. No fear. He clenched his fist. Power surged beneath his skin.

He looked up—into the eyes of his soldiers. He saw it there, too. That same realization.

They had become something else.

The Xandrian general, a warlord who had conquered over fifty kingdoms, watched in growing horror. His warriors, trained from birth, were now falling to mere farmers and foot soldiers.

He had seen war in all its forms.

But never this.

And then—he saw her.

A vision. A nightmare. A woman with serpent hair and eyes that burned through the soul.

Medusa.

And in that moment, he knew.

They were fighting against the will of a Queen, one known and feared across realms.

Victory was no longer a question.

Only the number of bodies it would take to end this war.