Tales of the God of war

The forest path led to a clearing where the village came into view—a cluster of crude huts made from timber and stone, their roofs thatched with grass. Smoke curled from a few chimneys, and villagers moved about, their expressions tired but purposeful. This was a place born of survival, its people hardened by a world that demanded resilience.

Fenrik waved Kratos forward, his steps quickening as they approached the settlement. "Stay close. They're... cautious about strangers."

Kratos followed, his towering presence drawing attention as they entered the village. Conversations hushed, and villagers stopped their work to stare. Some clutched tools as makeshift weapons, while others whispered among themselves, their eyes darting nervously between Kratos and Fenrik.

An older man stepped forward, leaning heavily on a staff carved with simple runes. His face was weathered, his eyes sharp with both wisdom and suspicion. He regarded Kratos for a long moment before speaking.

"Fenrik," the elder said, his voice firm but not unkind, "who is this man you've brought to us?"

"This is Kratos," Fenrik replied, glancing nervously between the elder and the Spartan. "I found him in the forest. He's… different. Not like anyone we've seen before."

The elder's gaze narrowed. "Different, indeed." He took a step closer, studying Kratos's scars and the weight in his eyes. "You carry a burden, stranger. One that seems heavier than most. What brings you here?"

Kratos met the elder's gaze without flinching. "I walk to understand this world. Nothing more."

The elder frowned. "A simple answer for a man who does not appear simple."

Before Kratos could respond, a woman stepped forward from the crowd, her eyes wide with recognition. "I've seen him before," she said, her voice trembling. "Not him, but... someone like him. In the old stories. The Ghost of Sparta."

The villagers murmured, their unease growing.

The elder raised a hand, silencing them. "The Ghost of Sparta is a legend—a tale of gods and their undoing. This man is flesh and blood, no myth." He turned back to Kratos. "Yet there is truth in legends. Tell me, Kratos, are you a god?"

"I am no god," Kratos said, his voice low but firm. "I have unmade gods. That is all."

The elder's eyes widened slightly, but he did not falter. "If that is true, then your presence here is both a blessing and a curse. The gods once ruled this world with cruelty, but their absence has left us to fend for ourselves. We have no need for another power to rise in their place."

"I seek no power," Kratos replied. "The gods are gone because they deserved to be. What remains is for you to shape, not me."

The elder considered this, his expression unreadable. Then he gestured to the villagers. "Leave us. Return to your work. Fenrik, take this man to the longhouse. We will speak further when the sun sets."

The crowd dispersed reluctantly, their eyes lingering on Kratos as they returned to their tasks. Fenrik tugged at Kratos's arm, leading him toward the largest structure in the village.

Inside the longhouse, the air was thick with the scent of wood smoke and dried herbs. Fenrik motioned for Kratos to sit on a bench near the hearth.

"You really fought gods?" Fenrik asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Kratos nodded, his gaze fixed on the flames.

"Why?" the boy pressed.

Kratos's expression hardened. "Because they left no choice."

Fenrik fell silent, sensing the weight of the answer.

As the fire crackled, Kratos allowed himself a moment of quiet. The village was small, its people wary, but it was a place where life endured. This world, fragile as it was, carried a spark of something worth protecting.

When the sun set, the elder would seek answers. But for now, Kratos rested, preparing for the challenges yet to come.