Tales of the God of war

Nightfall blanketed the village in shadows, the only light coming from the fire in the longhouse and the faint glow of the moon. The elder entered quietly, his staff tapping against the wooden floor. He was alone, his presence calm but commanding. Kratos rose from the bench as the elder approached, but the older man gestured for him to remain seated.

"You carry a name weighted with legend," the elder began, lowering himself onto a chair opposite Kratos. "Kratos, the Ghost of Sparta. Slayer of gods. These are not idle claims."

Kratos remained silent, his expression unreadable.

The elder leaned forward, his weathered hands clasping his staff. "This village has survived on the edges of chaos for years. The gods abandoned us long ago, but their absence brought no peace. The land itself is restless, torn by energies we do not understand. And now, you appear—a man who claims to have undone the gods themselves."

"I do not claim," Kratos said, his voice steady. "The gods are gone because they were unworthy of their power."

The elder studied him intently. "And what of your power? Do you claim to be worthy?"

Kratos's eyes darkened. "I claimed nothing. The power of the gods was thrust upon me, and I destroyed it to end their tyranny. Now I am nothing more than a man."

The elder raised an eyebrow. "A man who walks into a world fractured by forces beyond mortal comprehension? A man who still bears the scars of battles fought beyond this realm? You may call yourself 'only a man,' but I see more."

Kratos's jaw tightened, his memories flashing—Olympus aflame, the realms sundered, the faces of those he had lost. "You see only what remains," he said. "Not what was taken."

The elder nodded slowly. "Loss shapes us as much as power. Perhaps more. You speak as one who has carried both, but this village does not deal in the past. We survive by facing what is in front of us." He gestured toward the longhouse door. "And what lies ahead for us is uncertain. The land fractures, storms rise without warning, and creatures we do not know stalk the forests."

Kratos frowned. "The Nexus still bleeds into this world."

"The Nexus?" the elder asked, his eyes narrowing.

Kratos hesitated before answering. "A point where all realms converged. Its power was unstable, born from the gods' greed and my... actions."

The elder considered this, his gaze flickering to the flames. "Then it is not just the gods you've unmade. You've unmade the foundation of the world itself."

Kratos's fists clenched, but he said nothing.

The elder sighed. "If this Nexus is the source of our plight, then you are tied to it as surely as this village is. Whether we like it or not, you are part of this new world."

Kratos met the elder's gaze. "What do you want from me?"

The elder leaned back, his expression resolute. "Help us. If what you say is true, then you understand this chaos better than anyone. You have the strength to face what we cannot. Be the shield we need while we learn to rebuild."

Kratos's instinct was to refuse. He had spent lifetimes fighting battles for others, only to be betrayed, used, and left with nothing. But as he looked into the elder's eyes, he saw not manipulation, but desperation—and a faint glimmer of hope.

"You ask much of a man who seeks no purpose," Kratos said.

The elder's lips curled into a faint smile. "Perhaps purpose has found you, whether you seek it or not."

Kratos sat in silence, the firelight casting shadows across his scarred face. At last, he gave a single, slow nod.

"I will face what comes," he said. "But I will not lead. This is your world to shape, not mine."

The elder inclined his head. "That is enough."

Outside, the wind howled, carrying with it the distant sounds of creatures prowling the night. The village was vulnerable, but for the first time in years, it had something more than survival—it had a protector.