The battlefield was no longer a war zone—it was a slaughterhouse.
A cursed land where death was not the end, but a lingering, torturous whisper that refused to fade.

Velmor’s soldiers, battered and exhausted just moments ago, now fought like rabid beasts unshackled from their chains. Their blades didn’t just cut—they tore through flesh, split bone. They felt no weight from their armor, no ache from old wounds. Only an insatiable need to kill.

They should have been dead.
They knew they should have been dead.
But they were not.

Instead, they were reborn—by a force that defied reason. Their wounds had vanished. Their lungs no longer burned with fatigue, but with fury. A primal, relentless rage turned once-struggling warriors into something else entirely.

Daelus, sword slick with gore, barely recognized his own men.
They didn’t hesitate.
They didn’t flinch.
They struck with unnatural precision, unholy strength.

One soldier, a boy no older than eighteen, gutted a Xandrian warrior and stared at the blood-streaked steel—not with horror, but grim understanding. Another, breath ragged with adrenaline, drove his blade into a fallen enemy—only then realizing he’d moved before his mind had even caught up.

Something inside them had changed.

And the worst part?

They did not resist it.

The Xandrians—the proud, undefeated Xandrians—were breaking.
They had come to Velmor expecting another conquest. Another crown to shatter beneath their boots.
Instead, they had walked into a nightmare.

Screams filled the air. Not the cries of soldiers in battle, but the wails of dying animals.
Some tried to run.
But the ground was slick with blood, with the torn remains of the fallen.
They slipped. Crawled. Cried.
Begging. Pleading. Praying.

But the gods would not answer.
The gods could not save them now.

The Xandrian general—the warlord who had conquered over fifty kingdoms—stood frozen.
Hands trembling.
Mouth agape.
No words came.

This isn’t happening.
It cannot be happening.

His army—his unstoppable, god-blessed army—wasn’t just losing.
It was being erased.

Had the gods abandoned him?
Or worse—
Had they never stood beside him at all?

He turned, trying to call out, to rally the men, but what he saw shattered him:
Soldiers who once stood unshaken now whispered prayers—not for victory, but survival.

Then—
He saw her.

A vision. A nightmare.
A Queen.

Medusa.

Her gaze alone turned battalions to dust.
His chest tightened.
His heart pounded.

Just a moment ago, they had been winning.
And now—
They were the ones being butchered.

The warriors around him—men who had stood against giants and gods—wept.
Some dropped their weapons. Fell to their knees.
Others stood paralyzed, watching their brothers be ripped apart like paper.

The warlord clenched his fists.
He wanted to shout. To command.
But he knew—

They weren’t fighting a kingdom anymore.
They were fighting the will of a Queen.
One known and feared across realms.

Victory was no longer in question.

Only the number of bodies it would take to end this war.

And Xandria was running out of bodies.

Back in Velmor—

Within the grand halls of the castle, King Eldors sat frozen on his throne.
His fingers dug into the armrests.
His breath came shallow.

He had just witnessed the impossible.

“This is...” he whispered, voice hollow. “This is…”

Across the chamber, Ares stood motionless. Arms crossed. Golden eyes distant.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken truth.

Then—

A sharp smirk curled on Ares’ lips. “Fools.”

The word was soft, but it sliced the air like steel.

“They should have known,” he muttered. “The moment those soldiers rose again with Medusa’s mark burning into their flesh…”
He exhaled.
“That was the time to kneel. To beg. To plead for mercy.”

He scoffed.

“But instead, they chose to fight.”

Another smirk, crueler this time.

“They deserve everything that’s coming to them.”

The Velmorian soldiers stood in stunned silence, eyes glowing with awe. Their hands traced the radiant marks etched into their skin—not in fear, but reverence.
They didn’t recoil.
They didn’t resist.
The power coursing through them was real. Permanent.
A gift.

Some trembled, uncertain.
Others grinned, eyes shining with something… feral.

Ares knew what it meant to fight in Medusa’s name.

King Eldors swallowed hard. He understood now.
He just couldn’t say it aloud.

Velmor was no longer just a fragile kingdom.

It was under the protection of one of the most feared beings in existence.

And that meant one thing.

Victory was no longer a possibility.
It was a certainty.

Ares let out a breath. The smirk faded.

His gaze drifted toward the battlefield—toward the dying wails of Xandria’s once-proud army—and then back to the mark glowing on the soldiers’ skin.

“I have waged wars across eternity,” he said quietly. “But this…”

He clenched his fists.

Eyes gleaming.

“This was not war.”

A pause.

“This was judgment.”