The battlefield that had once been Olympus’ sacred court now burned with chaos and broken stone.
Pillars lay shattered. The statues of the Muses lay decapitated. Once-golden dos were now split and crumbling, and rivers of divine ichor mixed with soot and dust, trickling through the cracks in the floor like the slow bleeding of Olympus itself.
Among the fallen columns, a crater lay freshly born, still hissing with smoke.
And in the middle of it, Ares stood up.
He groaned, cracking his neck and wiping blackened dust from his face. His armor was dented, and blood traced a line down his temple, but his grin never faded.
If anything, the pain only excited him.
The Giant who had slamd him into the ground lood above, a brutish figure made of jagged obsidian and muscle, his massive fists still pulsing with energy.
Ares spat blood and chuckled.
"Before we do this properly," he said, rolling his shoulders, "Tell your na."
The giant flinched, surprised.
Ares pointed at him with a smirk. "Na’s important. That’s what I always tell my children. If you’re gonna kill soone—or if they’re gonna kill you—it’s only right you know who they are."
He cracked his knuckles, fire flickering in his eyes. "? I’m Ares. God of War."
The Giant studied him for a mont before replying. "...Mimas."
Ares grinned wider, stepping forward. "Well then, Mimas. Let’s kill each other properly."
He drew no sword.
Instead, from the aether around him, he summoned two clubs—short, brutal weapons made from celestial steel, thick at the base and tapering with sharp ends.
They glowed faintly with divine sigils etched into their length, thrumming with lethal intent.
He dropped into a low, tight stance. One club high, one low, arms loose but coiled like springs.
Mimas cocked his head. "What is that?"
Ares chuckled. "If you’re talking about my club, then they are made by Hephaestus using celestial steel and forged from the heart of a dying star. Although it’s not as powerful as Zeus’ thunderbolt or Poseidon’s trident, they are the best damn weapon you can find, even better than Athena’s."
He then moved his arms a bit, "But if you’re talking about my stance, then it is a fighting style you wouldn’t understand. Athena gave a book centuries ago—so crap about discipline and reading."
He shrugged. "But inside it was sothing good. A war art from Lord Hades himself. He called it Escrima. Said he invented it during the Titanomachy. Close combat. Brutal. Fast. Efficient."
He smirked and tapped one of the clubs together with a clack.
"Seems interesting, so I learned it. And really, just as you’d expect from the strongest god, this fighting style is insane. Let show it to you."
Then he moved.
A blur of red and steel launched forward.
Mimas roared and raised his arms, but it was already too late.
Ares struck—left club to the ribs, right club to the jaw, then spun low and cracked the inside of Mimas’ knee with a sickening snap.
The Giant staggered back, bellowing in pain.
He never even saw the next blow coming. Ares surged up and smashed both clubs across Mimas’ temple in a crisscrossing strike that knocked him sideways.
Mimas lashed out blindly with a wide swing.
Ares ducked beneath it, laughing the whole ti.
"You giants swing like you’re still trying to club Titans in caves! You ever hear of footwork?"
He darted around Mimas like a storm of iron. The clubs moved like extensions of his limbs—spinning, jabbing, striking from all angles.
Each hit was a hamr, each movent carved from war itself.
Mimas bellowed, trying to catch him, but every ti he lunged, Ares slipped through his reach, leaving welts and dents in the Giant’s flesh.
"Co on!" Ares shouted gleefully. "You’re supposed to be our antithesis! I was expecting more!"
He slamd both clubs into Mimas’ shoulders, forcing the Giant to one knee.
"How boring." He stood before the kneeling giant, "But well, Athena said you lot can’t be killed... let’s test it out shall we?"
He raised his club, aiming for the giant’s head. But just as Ares prepared the finishing strike, a sudden chill raced up his spine.
Sothing ca up behind him.
Without thinking, he twisted and rolled to the side—just in ti.
A giant warhamr smashed into the crater he’d stood in, obliterating the stone and sending a shockwave through the battlefield.
Ares skidded to a stop and whirled around, eyes narrowing.
A new Giant stood tall, even broader than Mimas, armor adorned with the skulls of slain beasts.
His arms bulged like tree trunks, and his grin was wide and crooked.
"And who do we have here?" Ares stood up straight, resting one of his club over his shoulders, "For brutes, I didn’t expect you guys to know sneak attacks."
"I heard what you said," the newcor rumbled. "About nas."
He swung the warhamr casually over his shoulder.
"I’m Pelorus. Try not to forget it."
Ares frowned, turning towards Mimas. "Tch. You bring a second guy? Can’t I have a one-on-one without soone ruining it?"
Mimas pushed himself back up, blood trickling down his broken nose. "You’re good. Too good. I’d be a fool not to accept help."
Ares took a breath and stepped back, both clubs up again. "Fine. Two-on-one. I’ve had worse."
Pelorus laughed. "You really think you can take us both?"
Ares grinned. "Dunno. But you think I’m scared? Not in the slightest. This just make it even better!"
The ground trembled as Mimas and Pelorus stepped forward together.
Ares exhaled slowly. Eyes narrowing in tension. He knew, even for him, fighting two titans was almost impossible.
If this was duel he would’ve already berated for abandoning their honor.
But...
This was not a duel.
This was war.
And in war, no matter what thod you use, as long as you win, that’s all that matters.
They charged at once.
Pelorus ca from the left, warhamr spinning like a cot. Mimas from the right, fists clenched, teeth bared.
Ares moved.
He ducked under the hamr and struck Pelorus in the side, but the second Giant was faster than expected.
He turned with the blow and caught Ares’ club mid-swing, yanking him off balance.
Mimas was there, smashing a fist into Ares’ side, he groaned as he felt his bones cracked.
Ares grunted and twisted, kicking off Pelorus’ knee and flipping backward. He landed hard but didn’t fall.
"Alright," he muttered, "you’ve got so coordination. Not bad."
He charged again.
He leapt high, twisting mid-air, and brought both clubs down in a crushing overhead strike aid at Pelorus’ head.
The giant raised his hamr to block—just as Ares intended.
At the last second, Ares twisted in the air and redirected both clubs—slamming them into Mimas’ chest with brutal force. Ribs shattered.
The air exploded from the giant’s lungs.
But Pelorus was already reacting. He lunged, shoulder-checking Ares and sending him tumbling end over end.
Ares rolled to his feet, blood in his mouth.
He was grinning.
"Oh yeah," he laughed breathlessly. "This is it. Let’s fight so more!"
He feinted left, dashed right, and then danced between them, clubs striking fast and hard.
The giants couldn’t keep up—his speed was too much. The style was too unpredictable. One club cracked Mimas in the ankle. Another bashed Pelorus in the jaw.
But the numbers were starting to tell.
Pelorus caught Ares in the side with a glancing blow from his hamr.
Even grazing, it sent Ares sprawling, ribs screaming.
He coughed, blood splattering the ground. His hands trembled.
The Giants lood over him, both wounded, but not finished.
"This is the end," Mimas snarled. "Even the God of War falls."
Ares coughed again and slowly stood, bleeding, battered—but standing.
He held up one club, barely able to keep his hand steady.
"You know what I always tell my kids?" he rasped. "It’s not how many tis you fall. It’s how many bastards you take down with you."
He roared—and charged again.
Not with desperation.
But with joy.
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