Sorry once again for the delay. My recent chapters are requiring a lot of rewrites because the character portrayals were not to my liking.
Please make sure to leave a review!
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The frantic sounds of metal colliding against mud and stone in infrequent intervals cut through the naturally serene atmosphere prevailing in the forest.
This wasn't Kratos' first time digging a pit. Believe it or not, this was one of the many skills a soldier had to learn during their training. This pit had many functions, after all; it could be a latrine, a trench, a trap, or even a grave. Apart from a spear and shield, every Spartan had to know how to use a shovel. It had to become third nature.
If his paidonomoi were here and saw Kratos' current haphazard attempt to dig a hole, they would surely whip him till his skin cracked and his back was painted in his blood.
The Agoge was the brutal training program every Spartan boy had to undertake starting from the age of seven. It covered everything from physical training, weapons training, and survival training to mental conditioning in which the concept of discipline, obedience, and loyalty was drilled into their skulls.
The paidonomoi were the elected officials responsible for ensuring that the boys followed through with the training. In these training camps, they were the gods. The boys' lives and destinies were in their hands. Their sole purpose was to deliver results, come hell or high water.
It was expected that by the end of the Agoge, every Spartan boy would have these skills ingrained to the point of becoming muscle memory.
Such was the case for Kratos as well. And the fact that his form right now was so poor was a testament to his inner turmoil. Optimally, nothing should shake a Spartan's will. But the sight of the Blades of Chaos bubbling up from the molten rocks and landing once again in his grasp certainly accomplished that.
General practice followed that a shallow grave of a two-meter depth -between three to six feet - would be sufficient to hide items in short notice. If allowed additional time, Spartans were taught to dig at least twice that. Kratos dug twice of that.
He crawled out of the pit, frantically tossed the blades and chains into it and started to hurl back the unearthed soil. After the hole was filled in, he carried over a large boulder and dropped it above. For good measure, he punched the top off and stacked two more boulders on top of it, forming an impromptu monolithic structure.
All the while he did this, Kratos couldn't help but let out a wry smile. If the damned weapons could follow him across space, what use was burying it beneath eight meters of common soil and stone?
Did hiding them away offer him any comfort? Not at all. He just didn't know what to do with them. He definitely didn't want to carry them around.
At this juncture, a myriad of thoughts started to swarm through Kratos' mind. Why had they returned? How did they return? What did this all mean?
The answer to all of them stemmed from a crucial realisation and fact, which was excruciatingly hard to digest. The weapons had now become a part of him somehow and could be called whenever he needed them, much like the axe.
He delved back into the memories of his fight with the demon and remembered that when he grasped the nature and extent of the Rakshasa's powers, he sorely wished that he had the Blades of Chaos in his possession as they were the perfect counter.
This theory was very easy to prove. All Kratos had to do was express a strong desire to wield the Blades of Chaos again. And yet, as he looked at his scalded wrists, Kratos couldn't bring himself to embody that emotion.
He didn't want those chains around his forearms again.
The change was gradual. The farms that blanketed the earth in beautiful green started to form steps, like a giant's staircase ascending towards the heavens. Slowly, the green faded, yielding to a cushion of white snow. Eventually, all that remained was barren grey stone and the dark, sombre green of coniferous trees clinging to the steep slopes.
Navigating this transformed landscape proved a formidable challenge. The once gently flowing river now tumbled down rocky slopes as its course became a series of treacherous waterfalls and rapids. The terrain itself was unforgiving. The uneven ground, strewn with loose scree, threatened to give way beneath Kratos' feet at any moment. The air grew thin and icy and bit at his exposed skin, while the wind howled through the narrow passes, carrying with it swirls of snow that obscured his vision. Even the most basic movements demanded intense concentration and effort, with each step turning into a battle against the unforgiving forces of nature.
Despite the arduous conditions, Kratos pressed on, his Spartan training kicking in. He was forced to abandon the relative ease of following the river's course and instead chart a path through the treacherous mountain passes. Moving forward had taken an additional dimension of verticality. He had to now climb up the perilous mountain and cliffsides.
Of course, with the axe's offered immortality, failure was very much an option. Kratos lost count of the number of times his grip or the geography failed him and sent him tumbling down like a ragdoll.
And with increasing altitude, he started to face another problem. The issue of breath. The air grew increasingly thinner. A single breath no longer satisfied his lungs, making suffocation another frequent cause of death, adding to the ever-present danger of hypothermia.
Ultimately, though, these were just minor hindrances - irrelevant roadblocks in his journey forward and upward.
Finally, through a break in the swirling snow, he saw it.
Even from afar, the mountain dominated the landscape. It was a titan amongst peaks, its summit piercing the heavens, disappearing into a thick shroud of clouds that perpetually wreathed its upper reaches. The snow-covered slopes gleamed with an ethereal luminescence, reflecting the sunlight like a beacon.
From afar it looked odd. It was like a pyramid, unusually even on all sides, but as Kratos drew closer, the sheer scale of the mountain became even more apparent. It was a monolith of rock and ice, its flanks scored with deep ravines and gullies. The air thrummed with an almost palpable yet latent energy.
The source of the river lay hidden up high on the mountain's slopes. As Kratos approached, he was struck by the deafening roar of the cascading water. The river emerged as a waterfall from within the clouds, descending as a torrent of freezing water thundering down the mountainside, carving a path through the rock and ice.
The air was thick with spray, and rainbows danced in the mist, creating an ethereal spectacle. Despite the awe-inspiring beauty of the scene, Kratos felt a growing sense of unease. The oppressive weight of the mountain, the raw power of the river, and the palpable energy that permeated the air all hinted at a presence far older and more powerful than anything he had ever encountered.
But the emotion was fleeting. His destination was close, and there was no point in giving up after making it so far. So, with a resolute motion, he pushed his palm into the mountain side, creating a dent large enough to get a solid grip, and propelled himself upwards.
The ascent was agonizing. He could split the process into two halves. The first half was the duration of the climb below the clouds. As he ascended, the wind grew stronger and the air thinner. At a certain point, Kratos started to feel as though he was physically and mentally fighting against the weather itself. It was stopping him from going any higher, but he fought through nonetheless.
As he climbed, he reached the second half, wherein the shroud of clouds encasing the peak enveloped him, dulling his senses and obscuring his vision. It was like being thrust into a blinding white void - a deluge of wool where all sense of direction vanished. Only the relentless pull of gravity remained, acting as a constant reminder of which way was down.
As he continued his gruelling climb, the muscles in his arms and legs started to scream in protest. Time lost all meaning; every upward heave felt like an eternity. But Kratos knew there was no stopping, no turning back, and no option to respawn because in doing so, he would have to redo the climb all over again.
Kratos waded through the uncertain barrage of white for what felt like an eternity. In this atmosphere, not only did the air grow sparser in breathable gases, but it grew denser with condensed water. This in turn required more frequent rest stops. But due to the lack of proper footing, he was forced to press himself precariously against the perilous mountainsides to recover his breath and energy.
The white around him dispersed light. It made it difficult for him to understand whether the day had passed. His internal clock was already in shambles following his unhealthy lifestyle of avoiding sleep and rest altogether, so he couldn't estimate it on his own either.
The only thing that offered an inkling of certainty, that he was going in the right direction, was the ever-present splashing sound of water against rock, and the downward pull of gravity.
Maybe it was just a few hours or a few days. Definitely not an entire week, though. But ultimately, Kratos could sense a difference in the atmosphere, it was gaining regularity - breathing was no longer a struggle!
His experience told him that such a phenomenon was highly irregular - generally, it should grow harder and harder until it was impossible to breathe altogether. His experience also warned him that anything irregular as such, that deviated from what is considered natural, is usually the handiwork of a powered individual.
His body and mind tensed up with caution as he lowered his rise to a measured and controlled pace. Minutes later, he found the blanket of white thinning down into a faint mist before disappearing altogether. A few metres above, he could not see an end to the cliff, a potential end to his ascent.
But Kratos did not hurry to fling himself over and onto the stable ground. This was his muscle memory urging him to observe and calculate his next move into a potentially unknown battleground.
And a good thing too, because upon silent observation, he could hear the sound of metal striking against stone echoing from above. This was infrequently emphasised by grunts that felt juvenile almost. There was definitely someone up there. They were wielding a weapon of some sort. And they were young. An armed, unknown entity. A potential danger.
But then another thought overrode Kratos' caution. The axe, which was hanging by his waist, reminded him that there was no consequence to rashness. Since he'd confirmed that there was an end to the ascent, even if he was tossed back down, he could potentially make his way back up. Furthermore, if whoever stood waiting above managed to kill him through his immortality, then it was also a victory in his books.
So, with a loud grunt, Kratos pushed himself up and leapt over the cliff's edge, rolling unceremoniously onto the stable and flat ground.
The first thing Kratos noticed was the pleasant ground he'd rolled onto. It was soft; it was a patched carpet of grass. The weather had also grown tamer, as he no longer felt the biting cold assaulting his senses. The air, as before, had normalised, with each breath filling his lungs with an abundance of breathable gases. And then there were the pleasant symphony of chirps and whistles by the birds.
It was at this moment that an agonising pain started to course through him. The after-effects of his gruelling journey started to make themselves known with the immediacy of the flip of a lever. It was so excruciating that Kratos contemplated killing himself to simply respawn and overcome the process altogether.
Biting through it all, Kratos rolled over and stood upright.
"Who are you?" A teenager's voice spoke up.
Kratos squinted as his vision sharpened. It was a boy, reaching barely up to his chest. He was shirtless and his long and curly locks were tied neatly into a bun. He stood with overbearing confidence, his arms resting over the golden spear that was lying over his shoulders. The teen approached him with partial caution, with his eyes narrowed into a suspicious glare.
Kratos' eyes, though, were honed in on the golden spear. His senses were blaring out in warning as he drew closer. Instinctively, Kratos' arms reached towards his waist, only to realise that the axe had fallen off at some point. He flicked his wrist, calling the weapon subconsciously.
"Oh, you're one of them," the boy said with a tired sigh, his posture relaxing completely. He then gestured for Kratos to follow him as he said, "Come on then, follow-"
At that moment, the axe returned to Kratos' grasp.
The boy's eyes darted towards the weapon in his arms. His eyes widened with recognition. They then locked in on Kratos, turning from recognition to unrestrained anger. A boy pulled his lips up with a snarl, twisted the spear around his neck and whipped it toward Kratos' torso.
All of this transpired in mere fractions of a second, yet it was not fast enough for Kratos to be overwhelmed. He took a single step back and extricated himself from the spear's attack reach. The boy did not rest, though, as he allowed the momentum of the spear to carry itself around. He twisted his body as he rewound the weapon and tossed it like a javelin.
Kratos could estimate its trajectory even before the boy released the weapon, and brought the axe to intercept the toss and redirect it.
The paidonomoi would ream Kratos if he'd attempted something like this in any of his spars. The only condition in which one could use their weapon as a projectile was if the kill was guaranteed and could be retrieved immediately - that is to say one must never throw their weapon at the opponent! This was especially true if the opponents themselves were armed.
Consider the boy's current position. He was now unarmed against an armed opponent who was also physically stronger than him.
Yet just as Kratos mentally berated the boy, he heard a pop followed by a snap and whoosh. He tilted his head just in time to miss another spear hurtling his way. This one, however, clipped his ear lobe causing a spurt of blood to blossom out.
He growled as he squeezed the injury. He looked at his opponent and noticed the golden spear materialising within his grasp out of nothing. The boy stamped the spear base into the ground, eliciting two consecutive mini-explosions from behind him. Through his peripheral vision, Kratos could no longer track the previously thrown spears.
The boy lowered his centre of mass and held the spear in his hands in an overgrip, tilting upwards. A standard stance for those using a spear without a shield. He grasped the spear's base with his right palm, using it as the mode of providing the thrust. The left grasped the spear a third of the way up from the base, to steer the trajectory of the thrust.
The reason why every Spartan is trained with the spear first is because of its versatility. A spear is long, flexible, and sharp. Its length ensures that the wielder has superior reach. Flexibility ensures that attacks can have more nuanced trajectories. And sharpness ensures that whoever is struck down with the pointy end doesn't get back up.
Yet by no means should one consider the spear as an easy tool. The length and flexibility can just as easily turn into a hindrance. This is because the spear tip has to move a distance proportional to the spear's length, and the flexibility adds an additional delay to the impact.
Unlike with ranged weapons, there is no straightforward calculus a warrior can perform to predict and manoeuvre themselves to overcome these challenges. The only solution is through practice and repetition.
As the boy cautiously approached Kratos, he let out a smirk. In an instant it all started to unravel in front of his eyes - every single error the boy committed was amplified tenfold. While the kid wasn't an amateur, he was still green behind the ears.
"You exude bloodlust, like a tiger. But you lack the claws and the fangs," Kratos mocked in an attempt to bring a rise out of the boy - a frustrated opponent was an unfocused opponent.
"Shut up!" The boy snapped back. "You dare show your face here again after what you did?"
"Again?" Kratos murmured. "Boy, what are you-"
He sidestepped a thrust and ducked as the attack swept over him. He growled audibly as he strode forward, voluntarily entering into the boy's attack range. He took another and entered a distance that was half the length of the spear, just in time to see the boy fumble.
While the spear has a much longer reach, it has an equally large "blind spot". In close ranges, inexperienced wielders would struggle to maintain control and press the attack.
The boy executed a textbook manoeuvre and retreated two steps. Like an intimate dance, Kratos followed.
The boy then lunged thrusting his spear like a viper. Kratos swayed aside, the spear tip barely grazing the base of his chest. He ducked under the boy's wild overhead swipe, and then, like a predator entering the kill zone, he closed the distance and stepped well past the spear's reach. The boy's eyes widened – too close!
Kratos saw panic tighten the boy's grip. He parried a desperate thrust with the axe and his other hand whipped out in a blur. A left hook connected with the boy's jaw, causing a sickening crunch to echo through the air. The boy's head snapped back, and he tumbled backwards, landing hard on his backside.
"What are you on about, boy?" Kratos asked again.
"What?!" The kid responded with a nasal voice.
"What do you mean 'again'?" Kratos said with a rumbling grunt.
"What?" The teenager snapped while squinting. He then rolled backwards and continued to attack.
Kratos sighed while approaching the lad again. "You said-"
Jab right. "Who do you think-"
Low sweep. "Boy-"
Consecutive jabs followed by a downward sweep. "Listen-"
The boy whipped the spear through the air, and it blurred past him like a golden arc aimed at Kratos's head. Kratos ducked, and the spear whistled past like a hawk. In that instant, the boy materialized another spear, stomping it into the ground decisively and an explosion roared beside Kratos's head like a concussion of sound and light.
A ringing filled Kratos's ears as the world tilted into a dizzying blur. He felt a warm trickle down his cheek, and the coppery tang of blood danced on his tongue. The explosion had ruptured his eardrum turning the world into a muffled echo.
He snarled, lunging forward with a roar. His axe, a blur of silver, missed its mark by inches. He stumbled, clearly evident that his sense of balance was shaken. With a grunt, he steadied himself and locked his gaze onto the boy. This time the axe found its mark and deflected the boy's spear with a clang of metal - he had recalibrated himself.
Kratos continued pressing the attack with a whirlwind of tame fury. He would not maim the boy, but he would end this fight. The axe turned into a familiar partner in this dance of death, deflecting the opponent's spear's frenzied thrusts. And while the two weapons were occupied, Kratos' fists hammered into the boy's ribs, each blow echoing like a thunderclap against flesh.
The boy's breath hitched with each strike and his face contorted in pain. Slowly, a tinge of fear started to bleed into the kid's eyes under Kratos' relentless advance.
Within two exchanges, Kratos noticed an opportunity. The boy's guard had faltered and his spear dipped for a brief moment. He took a long stride forward and drove his foot forward with the intensity of a piston. Kratos' right foot made full contact with the boy's chest, and a sickening wheeze escaped the boy's lips as the air was driven from his lungs. Then the momentum carried through and the boy was flung backwards. His body bounced against the hard-packed earth before landing in a crumpled heap.
The boy coughed, a spray of blood staining the ground. He looked at Kratos, his eyes burning with a murderous rage.
"That's it!" He yelled as he wound his arm back, holding his spear like a javelin.
Kratos braced to dodge, but a gasp escaped his lips as an ethereal glow enveloped the spear's tip. A shimmering lattice of golden energy pulsed with an inner light, like a miniature sun radiating power.
The boy unleashed the spear, and the golden lattice exploded outwards, causing the air to ripple with energy. In its wake, a swarm of identical spears materialised, each a perfect replica of the original, each shimmering with deadly intent. They filled the air like a golden storm converging on Kratos, leaving him with no room for escape.
Kratos closed his eyes and welcomed the deluge. The impact was instantaneous, a thousand tiny explosions of pain erupting across his body. The world became a kaleidoscope of light and agony before a final spear tip shot through his eyes and brain.
The world was a blur of pain and disorientation, then clarity. Kratos surged back to life, and the moment he did, he moved with unperturbed speed and efficiency. He immediately flung the axe, which had returned into his grasps during his resurrection, towards the base of the spear just before the boy stomped it into the ground.
The axe struck its target, destabilising the boy who was just about to trigger the spear explosion attack. But Kratos wasn't done. While the axe was hurtling towards the boy, he wrenched the spear from his eye, ignoring the fresh agony, and hurled it in the boy's direction.
The spear pierced the boy's dominant palm, which held the spear. And while the kid was yelling out in pain, Kratos moved like a phantom, rapidly plucking the spears from all over his body and and charged towards the teenager. He tackled the boy to the ground and followed up by nailing his dominant arm with one of the spears.
"Now-" Kratos said while nailing the boy's flailing left leg into the ground with another spear.
"Let us talk without interruption."
Kratos ignored the teenager's wailing and thrust another spear through the boy's palm. The screams subsided and were replaced by whimpers. Kratos held the boy's gaze with a cold and merciless glare.
"Who do you think I am?" Kratos asked, factually. But right as he was about to crucify the boy, a sound like a trumpeting elephant tore through the air. It echoed through the mountains, growing louder by the second.
Kratos squinted his eyes and followed the assumed source. At that moment, he felt both his arms and legs being pulled backwards as the same ethereal, golden geometric designs formed around them like cuffs. As he tried to extricate himself, he felt the tethers growing stronger.
The trumpeting grew louder as though it was approaching him. The thing that he saw flying towards him started to gain clarity and the trumpeting reached a fever pitch. And then he saw it - a sight so absurd he almost laughed.
It was a boy, no older than the one he had just pinned to the ground, riding a rodent the size of a bear - it wasn't the species of rodent that was large, but a regular rat magnified manifold. And if that wasn't weird enough, the boy's head was that of an elephant's. And if that wasn't weird enough, the rodent was running on air, with golden particulates forming temporary footholds for it. And if that still wasn't weird enough, the boy had two additional ethereal arms made of the same glowing golden particulates extending out from behind him.
The rat screeched to a halt between Kratos and the crucified teenager, shrinking back to the size of a common rodent as the elephant-headed boy hopped off. In the meantime, the elephant-headed teen tended to the injured lad, his ethereal arms casting out additional ethereal geometric particulates that settled on the exposed injuries and healing them at a pace visible to the eye.
"I apologise for my brother's insolence, dear guest," the elephant-headed boy said, his voice surprisingly deep, melodic and human. Kratos stared back with a dumbfounded look. Brothers? This bizarre creature and the human boy? They looked nothing alike! Maybe they were brothers in name?
"cough Why are you apologising to this man, brother?!" The injured boy sputtered, blood flecking his lips. He gestured weakly towards the elephant-headed boy's broken left tusk, which carried the remnants of an attack. "After what he did to you?"
"He's not the same," the elephant-headed boy interrupted, his voice heavy with a weary understanding.
"B-But... The axe-!"
"The weapon's the same," the boy conceded, his gaze fixed on Kratos, who hung suspended and spread-eagled in the air, "but he's different."
A beat of silence passed as they both stared at Kratos. Then, in unison, they demanded, "Who are you?"