I Am Zeus

The air atop the mortal peak of Mount Olympus was thin and cold, tasting of ice and ancient stone. But today, the very atmosphere shimmered with stolen warmth and borrowed light. The gods had come down to earth.

They appeared not with crashes, but with subtle shifts in reality. A patch of mist coalesced into the form of Artemis, her silver huntress' garb seeming to draw the moonlight from the day itself. A ripple in a rock pool became Aphrodite, rising with a grace that made the very air seem to sigh. One by one, they manifested on the natural ledges and outcrops that formed a vast, amphitheater-like arena around a flat, stony plain.

In the place of highest honor, three thrones of solid cloud had been formed. Zeus sat central, his expression unreadable, a king awaiting a performance. To his right, Poseidon lounged, smelling of salt and deep places, his trident resting against his shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched the gathering crowd. To Zeus's left, Hades sat in silence, his dark presence seeming to absorb the light, his face a mask of stoic observation. The chill of the underworld clung to him, a stark contrast to the vibrant energy around them.

Beside Zeus, on a smaller seat of woven light, sat Metis. Her eyes, deep pools of wisdom, scanned the arena, missing nothing. She leaned close to Zeus, her voice a whisper only he could hear. "The pieces are on the board, my husband. Let us hope your Spartan pawn is sharper than it appears."

Zeus gave a barely perceptible nod, his stormy eyes fixed on the empty arena below.

---

In a sheltered alcove away from the main gathering, the air hissed with a different kind of tension. Ares stood like a statue of wrought iron and fury, his customary black armor being fastened by an unexpected pair of hands.

Atena's fingers, usually busy with strategy or weaving, worked with efficient grace on the straps of his chest plate. She adjusted a pauldron, her touch clinical and precise.

Ares watched her, his eyes narrow slits within his helmet. "Since when do you play the armorer, sister?" he grumbled, his voice a low rumble. "This reeks of one of your schemes."

Atena didn't look up, her focus on a stubborn clasp. "Don't get used to it. I'm just here to make sure you don't forget the plan in your usual… enthusiastic haze."

She pulled a strap tight, perhaps a little tighter than necessary, making him grunt. "The plan," she continued, her voice dropping, "is for you to win. But to win cleanly. Do not toy with him. Do not make a spectacle of his suffering. Crush him quickly, decisively. Show father, show all of them, that the power of Olympus is absolute, and that his… experiment… was a failure."

Ares flexed his arms, the newly secured armor groaning in response. "He is a mortal. A bug. I will splatter him across the rocks and be done with it. The 'plan' is an insult. I do not need one for this."

" You always need a plan, brother," Athena said finally, stepping back to survey her work. "Especially when you think you don't. This is not just a fight. It is a message. Now, remember. Do not screw it up."

She turned and walked away, leaving him alone with his simmering rage. Ares clenched his fists, the fiery glimmer of his massive blade beginning to ignite in his grasp. He didn't like being managed, but the promise of violence, any violence, was a potent distraction.

---

The gathering murmurs of the divine crowd hushed as a flash of gold and white streaked into the center of the arena. Hermes landed lightly, dusting off his tunic as if he'd just arrived from a casual stroll rather than a cross-dimensional sprint. He grinned, a wide, charming smile meant for everyone and no one at once.

"Alright, settle down, you magnificent, eternal, and—let's be honest—terribly gossipy beings!" he announced, his voice magically amplified, echoing off the mountain peaks. A few nymphs tittered. Apollo rolled his eyes, but a smile touched his lips.

"We're here for the main event! A little… family disagreement that needs to be settled with sharp, pointy things!" Hermes continued, pacing with theatrical flair. "On one side, we have a son of Olympus! The master of carnage, the symphony of slaughter, the big guy in the scary black armor who makes mortals wet themselves at twenty paces… give it up for the God of War himself… ARES!"

A wave of mixed applause and respectful silence moved through the crowd. Ares did not emerge. He simply appeared at the edge of the arena, a sudden, hulking monument of menace. The air around him wavered with heat haze and the silent screams of countless battlefields. He stood, his burning greatsword held casually, point digging into the stone.

"And facing him," Hermes cried, his tone shifting to one of dramatic mystery, "a newcomer! A mortal with more nerve than sense! He's got a tragic past, a serious ash problem, and a pair of blades that give our dear Hades over there a sense of déjà vu!" He winked toward the silent god of the underworld, who did not react. "He's the ghost of Sparta! The man who shouted at the sky and got an answer… let's see if he's all talk! Give a warm, Olympian welcome to… KRATOS!"

A different kind of energy filled the arena. Curiosity. Condescension. A few muttered jokes. There was no applause, only a heavy, waiting silence.

From the opposite side, Kratos walked into the arena.

He did not appear. He did not teleport. He simply walked, each step measured and heavy on the stone. The Blades of Chaos hung from his back, cold and dormant. His eyes were not on the cheering gods, not on Hermes, not even on Ares. They were fixed on the ground before him, as if reading a path only he could see. He looked small. Mortal. Profoundly out of place amidst the glittering, immortal spectators.

He stopped in the center, finally lifting his gaze to meet the burning pits of Ares's helmet.

The God of War let out a chuckle, a sound like grinding boulders. "So this is the beast you have become ? You are less than I imagined. I have crushed insects with more presence."

Kratos said nothing. He reached over his shoulders, his hands closing around the familiar, infernal grips of his blades. With a soft, metallic shriek, he drew them, the chains slithering like serpents. The blades themselves flickered, then burst into flame, casting a hellish, dancing light across his ash-white skin.

High on his throne, Zeus leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. The storm was finally here.

Hermes, seeing the fighters were ready, zipped back to the edge of the arena. "Well, you know the rules! There are no rules!" he shouted. "So let's get this party started!"

The only sound was the wind whistling over the mountaintop and the hungry crackle of divine fire.