Loser Man Returns As God Of War

Chapter 2

Davion stood atop a rocky ledge, surveying the bustling quarry below. The sun cast a golden glow across the jagged cliffs, illuminating the workers as they toiled away, their pickaxes clinking rhythmically against the stone. Dust swirled through the air, and the scent of earth and sweat lingered like a constant reminder of the day’s labor.

He called everyone together, his voice echoing across the quarry like a low rumble of thunder. The workers immediately dropped what they were doing and gathered around him, their faces etched with respect and admiration.

“I’ll be leaving the quarry for a while,” Davion announced, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze swept across the crowd, searching for any flicker of dissent. “I trust that no one will cause trouble in my absence.”

The crowd erupted with reassurances.

“We’d never cause trouble, Davion!”

“You’ve done too much for us!”

“We’ll keep everything in order until you get back!”

Davion nodded, satisfaction settling over him. These people had once been lost souls, cast aside by society, but he’d given them purpose — and in return, they had given him loyalty.

Just as Davion was about to turn away, the crowd parted like water, and an elderly man slowly made his way forward, leaning heavily on a wooden cane. His frail body trembled with each step, and his thin frame seemed barely capable of supporting itself. The man’s face was a map of hardship — deep lines etched into his sunken cheeks, his skin pale and paper-thin. Liver spots dotted his hands, and his knuckles jutted out like jagged stones beneath the skin. Yet, despite the frailty of his body, his eyes still burned with determination.

It was Herman Bardeen.

Once, he had been a towering figure in Chelster City — the wealthiest man in the region and the mastermind behind Maple’s Corporation. His name had commanded respect, and his presence had exuded power. Now, he was nothing but a shadow of his former self, hunched and broken, the relentless passage of time having stripped him of everything but his dignity.

“Davion,” Herman rasped, his voice like brittle leaves crushed beneath a boot. Without warning, he collapsed to his knees, his cane clattering against the rocky ground. Dust swirled around him as he reached out with shaking hands, holding a crumpled letter as if it were a sacred relic.

“What are you doing?” Davion frowned, immediately reaching out to help the old man up. “You don’t need to kneel, Herman. Come on, let me help you.”

But Herman shook his head, refusing to rise. His bony fingers clutched Davion’s sleeve with surprising strength, desperation radiating from his entire being.

“Please,” the old man whispered, his voice cracking like dry timber. His cloudy eyes filled with tears, glistening as they caught the fading sunlight. “I heard you’re going to Chelster City... My daughter, Natalie... she runs Maple’s Corporation now. I haven’t seen her in years, and I... I don’t have much time left.” His chest heaved, and a violent cough wracked his body, shaking him like a fragile doll.

Davion’s brow furrowed with concern, but Herman pressed on, ignoring the pain that twisted his frail body.

“I need you to give her this letter,” he continued, lifting the trembling paper toward Davion as though he were offering his very soul. “I wrote everything... everything I never got to say. I tried to reach her, but... but she never responds. Maybe she hates me. Maybe she blames me for everything that happened.” His voice wavered, heavy with regret. “And maybe she’s right to hate me.”

Davion crouched down, steadying the man with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Herman, you should deliver this yourself. I’m sure Natalie would want to see you.”

Herman let out a bitter laugh, the sound brittle and broken. “See me? Look at me, Davion. I’m already halfway in the grave. I barely made it here to see you... I wouldn’t survive the trip to Chelster.” His eyes filled with anguish. “I don’t want her last memory of me to be... this.” He gestured weakly to himself — to his frail limbs, his sunken face, the bones jutting sharply beneath his skin.

“I know I can’t make up for the past,” Herman continued, tears streaking his wrinkled face. “I can’t ask her to forgive me. But... but if you deliver this letter, at least she’ll know I never stopped loving her.” He clasped Davion’s hand with both of his, squeezing with what little strength he had left. “Please, Davion. This is my final wish. Help my daughter... in whatever way you can. If she’s in trouble, protect her. Even if she never knows I asked you to.”

Davion stared into the man’s pleading eyes, feeling the weight of his words settle in his chest like a heavy stone. He didn’t know Natalie. He didn’t know what kind of person she had become or what kind of trouble she might be in. But he knew what it meant to carry regret — to wish you’d done things differently when it was already too late.

Without a word, Davion gently took the letter from Herman’s trembling hands. He slipped it into his coat pocket, patting the fabric to ensure it was safe.

“I’ll deliver it,” Davion said quietly. “I promise.”

The relief that flooded Herman’s face was instantaneous. His body sagged, and he gripped Davion’s hand like a lifeline, weeping openly. “Thank you... thank you...” he whispered over and over again, his frail body shaking with every word.

Davion helped him back to his feet, steadying the old man as he struggled to stand. He didn’t say anything else — there was nothing more to say. But as he watched Herman shuffle back toward the workers, supported by one of the younger men, Davion found himself gripping the letter tightly in his pocket.

He didn’t know what awaited him in Chelster City. But one thing was certain: He would find Natalie Bardeen. And he would deliver her father’s final words — no matter what it took.

******

The airport buzzed with life — a chaotic mess of rolling luggage, echoing boarding calls, and people rushing like their lives depended on it. Davion lounged in a corner of the terminal, flipping lazily through a crumpled magazine. The sharp smell of burnt coffee and overpriced fast food lingered in the air, clinging to his clothes like an unwelcome guest.

He wasn’t in a hurry. His flight to Chelster City wouldn’t board for another hour, and he wasn’t exactly thrilled about spending it pacing around overpriced souvenir shops.

He turned a page, skimming over an article about luxury resorts he’d never visit, when a voice he wished he could forget cut through the noise like a blade.

“I should’ve known a rat like you would show up here.”

Davion sighed and lowered the magazine, already feeling a headache forming. Standing in front of him, with all the grace of a viper, was Irene Rosenberg. She stood with her arms crossed and her weight shifted onto one hip, like she was posing for a fashion shoot. Her cold green eyes gleamed with annoyance, and her lips twisted into that signature sneer she always wore around him.

“What do you want, Irene?” Davion muttered, leaning back in his seat.

She tilted her head, her sleek black hair falling over her shoulder. “Are you following me, Davion?”

He blinked, then snorted. “Wow. You seriously think I have nothing better to do than stalk you? That’s cute.”

Irene’s laugh was sharp and mean. “Please. You probably booked your ticket the second you found out I was flying today.”

“Trust me,” Davion said, rubbing his temples, “if I never saw your face again, it’d be too soon.”

Irene scoffed. “Pathetic.” She spun on her heel, her boots clicking loudly on the tile floor as she walked away like she owned the entire terminal.

Davion picked his magazine back up, hoping that was the last of her. But, of course, life wasn’t that kind.

Because not even a minute later, chaos erupted.

Gunfire exploded through the terminal, loud and sharp, like fireworks going off in his skull. People screamed and scattered, scrambling for cover as a group of masked men stormed in, rifles raised and fingers itching on the triggers.

Davion’s body moved on instinct. He dove behind a row of seats, heart pounding. His eyes locked on the thugs as they spread out like wolves, shoving people aside and barking orders.

“Everyone down!” one of the men shouted, his voice rough and scratchy. “Nobody moves unless you wanna get shot!”

Security tried to intervene, but the moment one of them reached for his weapon, bullets tore through the glass windows, shattering them into deadly rain. The officers hit the ground, hands raised in surrender.

The leader of the thugs stepped forward, towering over everyone. He had a jagged scar slicing down his cheek and eyes as cold as steel. He scanned the crowd like he was looking for something — or someone.

Or maybe someone.

“There she is,” he sneered, pointing a gloved hand. “Irene Rosenberg.”

Davion’s heart sank. Of course.

Irene, to her credit, didn’t even flinch. She pushed herself up to her feet, brushing invisible dust off her jacket. “And you are?” she asked, like she was bored out of her mind.

The man’s mouth twisted into a cruel grin. “Someone who remembers what you did to my boss.”

One of the other thugs laughed, stepping closer. “You don’t look so tough now, sweetheart.”

Davion peeked over the seats, wondering if he could make a break for it — maybe crawl to the nearest exit or try to grab one of the security guard’s guns. But before he could come up with a plan, one of the men grabbed his shirt and ripped it open.

And strapped to his chest was a bomb.

The terminal fell deathly silent. The only sounds were the distant wail of sirens and the quiet whimpers of people clutching their loved ones. A mother shielded her daughter, tears streaming down her face. A teenager gripped his little brother’s hand so tightly their fingers turned white.

The bomber grinned, his finger hovering over the trigger. “Make a move,” he whispered. “I dare you.”

Irene’s entire body tensed, her usual arrogance melting away. Slowly, she raised her hands, her sharp eyes darting around the room, searching for an opening. But there wasn’t one. One wrong move, and they’d all go up in flames.