The Nameless Heir

When the dust cleared, they all raised their weapons, pointing them at him. Their stances stiffened. Their eyes locked on him. The silence pressed in, thick and unnatural. Every breath felt louder than it should've.

"Who are you?" one of the men in gold armor asked, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of his blade.

But he didn't bother answering.

He stood still, head slightly tilted, as if he hadn't heard the question. His eyes moved past the warrior in gold and shifted toward the ones in silver.

"Who made that armor?" he asked, not looking at the man—just the metal.

The soldier's shoulders drooped. His chest barely moved when he breathed. He looked like a man too tired to lie, even if he wanted to.

"Sir Daedalus," the man said.

Kael's lips pulled into a smile, sharp and slow. Not because he was pleased. Because he finally found what he was looking for. One step closer to his goal.

"Nice," he said, nodding once. "Take me to him."

The man looked tired—his shoulders low, eyes dull, chest rising with shallow breaths.

He wasn't the only.

Kael scanned the area again. Now that he was getting a closer look, the difference was clear.

The ones in silver armor looked worn down. Their movements were slow. Their breathing shallow. Most of them looked like they weren't sure if they could keep going.

The ones in gold were the opposite. Fresh. Sharp. Their stances were steady, clean, almost relaxed. They didn't look like they had even broken a sweat.

Then he noticed the numbers.

There were far more gold-armored soldiers.

A lot more. Not to mention they had the blood of Olympus in their veins. It was enough to shift the entire battle. They had won the battle before it even began.

The silver side wouldn't last long. That much was clear. Most of them could barely stay on their feet. Whatever strength remained wasn't willpower. It was muscle memory.

He paused, just for a moment.

This wasn't his world. These weren't his people.

If they wanted to fight, let them. It wasn't his place to stop them.

He just needed to get what he came for—without getting dragged into someone else's mess again.

While trying to think, the gold-armored man was shouting at him for ignoring him.

"I said—who the hell are you!" the man barked. Frustration cracked through his voice.

Kael stopped. Let out a slow breath through his nose.

Annoyance, sharp and obvious.

He turned to him, lifting a hand in a lazy, mocking gesture.

"Shoo shoo, go away," he said flatly. "No more playing for you kids. Come back tomorrow."

Then he turned his gaze back to the man in silver armor.

"You too. You all played enough for today."

He turned again—but right then, the gold-armored man leapt forward and swung his fist, landing a hard hit across Kael's face.

His head turned slightly from the force. Then he turned it back toward the man, slow and calm, the fist still pressed against his cheek.

He looked at him.

Just silence.

Cold. Steady. Unbothered.

The Sins rose from his shadow the moment the strike landed.

Silent. Immediate.

They didn't speak. They didn't wait.

The sight of their master being touched—hit—was enough. It ignited something in them. Rage. Bloodlust. A quiet fury that rippled through the ground like a pulse.

The man froze.

He could feel it. The weight. The presence. The fact that something godly had just turned its attention to him.

And it wanted blood.

Everyone staggered back. The air felt wrong—too heavy, like something ancient had just noticed them.

Kael didn't move.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

His voice wasn't loud. It didn't have to be.

The look in his eyes said enough.

The man dropped—legs gone weak, eyes wide—as Pride and Wrath stepped forward. They stared down at him—silent.

Kael lifted his hand, enough for the Sins to understand what he meant.

A silent command.

"All of you. Leave. Now," he said.

He sighed—quiet, sharp, worn.

"I don't have time to deal with fools."

He stood there, unmoved, as they fled—pale, shaking, desperate to get away. He never even turned his head.

Before any of the silver-armored men could speak, he cut in.

"Take me to Daedalus."

Daedalus was in the capital city, and the soldiers couldn't risk leaving the base exposed—even though most of them could barely stand. In the end, one stepped forward to escort him.

He was thin—unsteady. One of his legs was missing, replaced by a worn metal rod strapped crudely to a crutch. Every step landed with a dull thud and a wince. His skin looked like it hadn't seen warmth in weeks. He wore hunger the way others wore armor—tight and constant.

They walked to the transport—an old, rust-covered machine they called a truck. Kael recognized the frame. It was like the one from his dream, but this version was worn through, rattling with every movement.

The man said nothing—just gave a slow nod and led the way.

It was worse up close. Rust clung to the frame. One of the tires looked like it was tied together with wire. He had seen it before, in a dream. Or something like it. But this one looked older. Used. Scarred.

They climbed in. The engine coughed to life.

Inside, the space was empty except for a blanket and a box with a few cracked rations. The man didn't touch them. He kept both hands on the wheel.

"My name's John," he said, eyes on the road.

Kael didn't respond.

Didn't need to.

John kept talking anyway.

"I used to teach physics. Wasn't even that good at it. Just enough to keep the lights on. Had a wife. Two kids."

His voice didn't break. Just flattened—like the words had been said too many times to still carry weight.

"First wave hit about sixty years ago. We thought it was just some rogue military op. Maybe a coup. Then one of them lifted a tank with his bare hands. Tossed it like a toy."

He gave a quiet exhale. Not a sigh. Just… release.

"They called themselves Sons of Olympus. Said this world was on trial. Said conquering us was part of it."

John's grip on the wheel tightened.

"We didn't ask for gods. Nobody voted for them. But that didn't seem to matter."

The truck rattled over a broken patch of road.

"I lost my leg pulling a girl out of a collapsed school. Her name was Lira. Nine years old. Kept asking if her mom made it out. She didn't."

His jaw worked—clenched, released, clenched again.

"She made it two days. Infection. Nothing I could do."

Silence sat between them for a moment.

Then he added, quieter, almost like it wasn't meant to be heard,

"I still hear her scream sometimes. Not sure if it's real… or just something my brain won't let go."

He glanced at Kael—just once.

Didn't expect anything back. Just wanted to say it out loud.

"We had cities, you know. Real ones. Clean. Lit up at night like constellations. Music in the streets. Kids running around with slushies and chalk on their hands."

A pause.

Then a bitter laugh, barely there.

"Now? Gardens are gone. Music's dead. Half the time the food trucks don't even show. And when they do, they bring powdered soup and moldy bread."

The engine hummed beneath them—quiet, steady, hollow.

"No idea how you know Daedalus," he muttered, still staring ahead. "But if you're here to help… we'll take it. Doesn't matter what you are."

Then, after a pause—lower now, nearly a whisper:

"Truth is… we're fading. Day by day. Piece by piece. We've been waiting for someone to save us. And I think we stopped believing anyone was coming."

Kael didn't answer.

He just looked out the window, the broken skyline stretching like bones beneath the ash-colored sky.

Then, softly, not unkind:

"Get some sleep."

John was out within seconds.

Kael stayed awake, staring at the broken, run-down cities as they passed. The buildings were crushed, torn apart from the inside. There was nothing left. No light. No movement.

Just silence, and ruins.

Once they reached the main city, John escorted him to Daedalus.

His face was lit with something close to excitement—like he was proud of what he had done. Like he had brought help. Real help. For the first time in a long time, there was hope in his eyes.

When Daedalus stepped out from the small tent, his posture was steady. Then he stared for a moment and asked,

"Who are you?"

He already knew. But he asked anyway. His voice was deep—measured.

Kael walked forward, slow and controlled. Each step felt deliberate, like the ground had to earn it.

"I am Kael Voss. Son of Hades. God of death."

He stopped in front of him, gaze steady.

"And I've come to claim your soul."