Rest did not last long.
The village had settled into a fragile quiet, the kind that follows disaster but never quite feels safe. Fires had been reduced to smoldering embers, and the wounded lay scattered through homes and makeshift shelters. Ares remained awake, as he often did, seated at the edge of the village where the dark forest began.
The silence pressed in.
But beneath it, the familiar echoes stirred—distant battlefields, clashing steel, the low hum of endless war threading through his mind like a second heartbeat.
He did not move.
Not until footsteps approached.
An elderly man, bent with age but steady in purpose, stopped a few paces from the group. His hands trembled slightly, though whether from fear or exhaustion was unclear.
"I… I would not ask this," he began, voice worn thin, "not after all you have already done."
Ignis and Heracles both turned toward him. Ares lifted his gaze last.
"A small group of our fighters left before the attack ended," the elder continued. "They went into the forest… to gather what food and supplies they could. They have not returned."
His eyes lowered.
"We fear the worst. But if there is even a chance…"
He did not finish.
He did not need to.
Ignis glanced at Ares, then Hercules. There was no real discussion.
"We'll go," she said.
Hercules gave a short nod. "Point us in the right direction."
Ares had already stood.
—
The forest greeted them with the same unnatural stillness.
No insects. No wind through the leaves. Only the quiet tension of something wrong lingering just beneath the surface.
Ignis moved ahead slightly, her hand hovering over the ground as faint traces of magic guided her. "They came this way," she said, her voice low. "Not long ago."
They followed.
The deeper they went, the heavier the air became. A faint scent of decay clung to everything, growing stronger with each step.
Then—
They found them.
The fighters lay scattered across a clearing, their bodies twisted, torn, lifeless. There had been a struggle—signs of it marked the ground—but it had ended quickly.
Too quickly.
Ignis' expression tightened. Hercules' posture shifted, his usual ease gone.
Ares said nothing.
At the center of the clearing stood the cause.
A figure draped in rotting robes, its body little more than bone wrapped in decay. Its empty eye sockets burned with a sickly light, and the air around it pulsed faintly with dark magic.
A lich.
It turned slowly as they entered, its gaze settling directly on Ares.
As if it had been waiting.
The ground shifted.
Bones erupted upward at its command—skeletal forms dragging themselves free, assembling into soldiers in an instant. More followed, rising in waves, their hollow movements guided by a single will.
"Of course," Hercules muttered, stepping forward. "Wouldn't be simple."
Ares moved first.
His weapon formed mid-step, a blade cutting cleanly through the nearest skeleton before it had fully risen. He did not slow, pushing straight through the forming ranks, his focus locked entirely on the lich.
The skeletons closed in around him.
Hercules met them head-on, tearing through the mass with brute force, clearing space with every strike. "Go!" he called, holding the line as more rose from the ground.
Behind them, Ignis began casting, her magic flaring outward in controlled bursts, breaking apart clusters before they could overwhelm.
The lich did not retreat.
Instead, it raised a hand.
Dark energy surged outward in a sudden wave.
Ares felt it hit—not as force, but as weight. His body slowed for just a moment, his movement dragged as if the air itself resisted him.
That moment was enough.
A skeletal blade caught his side, another striking his shoulder.
He didn't stop.
Weapons formed around him again, intercepting incoming strikes, forcing a path forward through sheer persistence. He closed the distance, step by step, each movement heavier than the last.
Hercules roared behind him, breaking through another wave, forcing the pressure back.
Ignis' magic flared brighter, disrupting the flow of dark energy just enough.
Ares reached the lich.
It raised its hand again—
Too late.
Ares' weapon shifted, becoming heavier, sharper—an axe forming in his grip. He swung without hesitation.
The blade struck.
For a moment, resistance.
Then—
It broke.
The lich's body split, the glow in its hollow eyes flickering violently before fading entirely. The magic sustaining the undead faltered instantly.
The skeletons collapsed where they stood.
Silence returned.
Ares stood over the remains, his breathing steady, his expression unchanged.
Behind him, Hercules exhaled, glancing around the now-still clearing. "That one… was different."
Ignis approached slowly, her gaze moving over the fallen fighters. "…It was controlling everything."
No one argued.
—
They returned to the village before dawn.
The elder met them at the edge, hope already fading as he read the answer in their faces before they spoke.
Ignis stepped forward quietly, explaining what had happened.
There were no cries.
No outbursts.
Only a heavy, quiet grief that settled over the village like a second night.
Ares watched it for a moment.
Then he turned away.
—
They did not stay.
As the village began to mourn, the trio gathered their things without ceremony. There was nothing more they could do here.
The road ahead remained.
The war continued.
And somewhere beyond it—
Hades waited.
Ares stepped forward first.
The others followed.
The village faded behind them.