2025-07-11 03:22:59The stale taste of cheap coffee clung to Ares Kane’s tongue as he stood outside the courthouse. The city had changed since he’d last walked its streets as a free man, but the scent of power — old marble, polished wood, and lies thick enough to choke on — stayed the same.
He rolled his shoulders beneath the jacket that hid the scars across his back. The world thought he was dead. The world thought he was nothing. Let them. It kept him alive. It gave him time to watch, to learn, to sharpen every jagged edge they’d left inside him.
A passing lawyer brushed his shoulder, muttering an apology without looking up. Ares didn’t move. He watched the man hurry up the steps, briefcase swinging like a judge’s gavel. Here, truth was currency only the powerful could afford. The rest paid with their souls.
He stepped through the courthouse doors as drizzle tapped the stone behind him. Inside, security guards gave him the look they saved for nobodies who didn’t belong. He didn’t glance back. If they knew who they were staring at, they’d drop their radios and run.
He paused at the hallway’s end, eyes narrowing at the sign above the heavy oak doors: Courtroom 3B. A brass plaque, worn smooth by trials where guilt and innocence were auctioned.
Inside, his sister sat in chains — alone, terrified, her life dangling from the lips of men who’d never dirtied their hands with anything heavier than a pen.
Ares’s fists clenched until his knuckles cracked. He heard Duke’s old voice: “Ain’t no medals in this dump, soldier.” He didn’t need medals. He needed justice. Or vengeance. Some days they tasted the same.
. . .
The bailiff barely looked up as Ares pushed the doors open. Rows of benches were packed with reporters, photographers, and vultures who called themselves friends. None lifted a finger to help her. They came for blood.
At the front, behind a battered table, sat Leah Kane. Her hair tied back in a knot, wrists shackled to steel armrests. The lights turned her skin pale. Her eyes found him the instant he stepped inside, wide with disbelief and hope.
The prosecutor’s voice droned on about evidence, betrayal — again and again. Blurry photos flashed on a projector. Grainy statements waved like execution papers. The judge, an old man with liver spots and cold eyes, pretended to listen while his fingers tapped the bench.
Ares scanned the room — faces from another life. The family lawyer, hunched over useless files. The prosecutor’s smug grin. And near the back, leaning against the wall in an immaculate suit, stood Caleb Thorn — heir to the Thorn Consortium. The man who’d made this happen.
Ares’s jaw tightened until his teeth nearly cracked. Caleb raised an eyebrow when their eyes met, then turned away like Ares was dust. Ares promised Caleb would choke on that arrogance before this was over.
. . .
“Objection, Your Honor!” the lawyer rasped. “These allegations are circumstantial —”
“Sustained,” the judge sighed, but his tone said it didn’t matter. The verdict was sealed before Leah sat down. This was theater for cameras.
Leah’s shoulders slumped. She didn’t even cry. Fear hollowed her out. Her spirit drained out of her on that cold floor.
Ares stepped forward, boots echoing on marble. He didn’t belong here — oil under his nails, scars on his neck. A ghost in a room that thought it was real.
The bailiff put out a hand. Ares brushed past him.
“Sir, you can’t —”
He didn’t hear him. He only saw Leah.
She shook her head slightly. Don’t. Please. You’ll get hurt. But she didn’t know — he’d been hurt enough. Nothing left for them to break.
. . .
The judge cleared his throat. “Who are you?”
Ares stopped at Leah’s side, rested a calloused hand on her shoulder. He felt her bones through thin fabric. He remembered carrying her when they were kids. Her laughter lit up shadows. He wouldn’t lose her now.
He turned to the bench. “Ares Kane.”
A ripple spread through the gallery — soft gasps, clicks of cameras. Caleb Thorn’s smirk vanished, replaced by disbelief.
“Ares Kane?” the judge repeated, squinting. “You have no authority here, Mr. Kane.”
Ares ignored him. He slipped a battered phone from his pocket and tapped the screen. One call. That was all.
It rang once. A crisp voice answered: “Shadow One.”
The room froze. Even the prosecutor stopped mid-sentence.
Ares spoke softly. “Is the line secure?”
“It is, sir.”
“Execute Protocol Seven.”
A pause. Then, “Understood.”
. . .
Outside, black SUVs glided to the curb like sharks scenting blood. Men in dark suits stepped out, earpieces snug. Every camera snapped to attention as the courthouse doors swung wide. Security stepped aside. They always did.
Inside, the judge’s gavel struck wood. “What do you think you’re —”
His words died when a new figure entered — an older man in a tailored suit, silver hair slicked back, eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses. He moved with the certainty of someone who’d never heard no.
He handed the judge an envelope. The judge tore it open, read it, read it again — his face drained of color.
“Court is adjourned,” he croaked.
The prosecutor stammered, “But, Your Honor —”
The gavel slammed down. “Charges dismissed. The defendant is free.”
Cameras exploded. Reporters barked questions. Caleb Thorn slipped away, phone to his ear, barking orders no one could follow.
Ares bent and unshackled his sister’s wrists. Her breath caught when his fingers brushed hers.
“How?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. He brushed hair from her forehead and gave her a smile — soft but dangerous.
“Let them wonder.”
. . .
He guided Leah through the chaos, his hand firm on her back as they stepped into the hallway where black suits parted like the Red Sea. Cameras flashed. Reporters shouted his name like they were conjuring a ghost. The world had seen him rise — and they’d remember.
At the courthouse steps, Ares paused. The drizzle turned to steady rain, cold and clean, washing the city in silver streaks.
He glanced back, eyes finding Caleb Thorn in the doorway — pale, powerless behind glass walls he’d built.
Rain dripped from Ares’s hair, slid down his neck, soaked his collar. He lifted his chin, feeling the storm build inside him. They thought they’d buried him. They’d only given him time to sharpen his blade.
The God of War had taken his first step back into the light.
And the world would tremble.
...
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GHOSTS IN THE DARK
He opened his eyes. The weight of a nation pressed against him. And he carried it without breaking.The windowpane was cold beneath his palm as he leaned forward, gazing out at Lin City’s broken sprawl. Smoke from half-burnt factories curled into the dawn sky, mixing with fog until the skyline looked like a graveyard of bones. To the untrained eye, the city looked finished - half-starved, leaderless, waiting to be conquered.But Ares knew better. Beneath the cracks, Lin City still breathed. And that breath was about to turn into fire.He pulled away from the window and descended the steps. The Resistance Hall was quieter now, most of the men sprawled on benches or curled in corners catching what little rest they could. Hawk had slumped against the wall with his rifle across his knees, eyes closed but hands gripping the weapon as if sleep might try to steal it. Reyes sat at the map table, scribbling notes in a battered ledger by candlelight, his jaw tight with thought.Mira stood near
THE WEIGHT OF A NATION
“Now the war would test its soul.”Ares’s voice lingered in the air long after it left his mouth, and the hall seemed to shrink into silence. Every set of eyes - scarred fighters, old men with trembling hands, women clutching rifles too heavy for their frames - was fixed on him. In that stillness, he felt the truth of his own words press against his chest.Mira stood at the far side of the room, Elijah drowsing in her arms. The boy’s small hand twitched in his sleep, reaching for something unseen. Ares caught the gesture, and for one dangerous second the mask cracked - he was just a father, not the commander everyone expected to save them.But the war did not care about fathers.He straightened, pushing that softness back into the locked room of his heart. His gaze swept across the Resistance Hall. “They believe Lin City has already surrendered,” he said, voice low but sharp. “That we are too divided, too hungry, too broken to fight. They think fear is enough to keep us crawling.”His
THE GATHERING STORM
The war had only begun.And the air already carried the weight of it. Even standing high on the walls of Lin City, Ares could smell it - iron and smoke, like an echo of the storm that had just passed. The torches guttered along the ramparts, throwing long shadows across stone scarred by fire. Somewhere far below, a hammer rang as someone repaired a shattered gate. The sound was steady, almost defiant.He leaned on the cold stone, cloak brushing his boots, watching the horizon. He wasn’t really seeing the fields. He was seeing the road beyond them, the one that would soon crawl with banners and blades.A creak of boots drew close. Reyes joined him, flask in hand, the lines around his eyes deeper in the torchlight. He didn’t say anything at first, just leaned on the wall beside him. The two men stood in silence, listening to the city breathe.Finally Reyes lifted the flask, offering it out. “You’ve got that look again.”“What look?” Ares didn’t move his eyes from the horizon.“The one t
SHADOWS ON THE HORIZON
Because that was the oath he carried.And oaths, Ares knew, were heavier than chains. They pressed into the marrow, they bent the spine, and they did not let go. A man could abandon his fortune, his name, even his blood - but not his oath. His oath was the last truth that followed him into the grave.The Resistance Hall stood quiet after the storm. Torches guttered along the walls, their smoke curling upward, filling the rafters with a faint haze. Outside, the square still bore scars of the battle: shattered carts, burned cloth, blood crusted into the cracks of the stone. Yet life stirred there again. Merchants swept their stalls. Children kicked stones across the cobbles. The city, stubborn as bone, refused to stay broken.Ares leaned against the window frame, his silhouette cast in the flicker of firelight. His eyes traced the city’s outline - its crooked streets, its battered walls, the stubborn glimmer of lanterns being lit one by one. He should have been exhausted. Instead, rest
THE GATHERING STORM
And as long as he carried its heart inside his chest, no crown would ever break them again.The square emptied slowly, like a tide retreating after a storm. People moved with heavy steps but lifted shoulders, their voices rising in half-finished plans - timber to be hauled, roofs patched, food shared. Life had cracked, but it had not bled out.Ares stood still, Elijah pressed against his side, Mira silent beside him. The rain had faded to a damp mist, leaving the city reeking of smoke and wet stone. In the distance, a church bell rang once, broken in tone but steady, as if to remind them the city was still breathing.Ares finally turned to Mira. Her eyes were searching him again, the way they always did after battles - looking for the part of him that war hadn’t stolen.“You should take Elijah inside,” he said. His voice was quiet, but the edge was there.Her brow tightened. “And you?”“I’ll walk the city,” he answered. “See what’s left.”Her lips pressed thin, but she didn’t argue. S
OATHS IN THE ASHES
The storm had raged. The city had answered. And now its heart beat with his.Ares stood still for a long moment on the steps of the Resistance Hall, rain dripping from his shoulders, listening to that unseen heartbeat. It wasn’t the pounding of drums or the clash of steel - it was the stubborn rhythm of a city that refused to kneel.The square below was littered with debris, with faces too pale and eyes too hollow, yet no one left. They lingered, as if his presence was the one stone holding a crumbling arch. He could feel it pressing in on him -the need, the hunger, the desperate search for something solid.Elijah pressed against his leg, small hand clutching at damp fabric. Mira hovered close, her eyes following every twitch of his face, as though afraid he might vanish like smoke.Ares drew a breath, steady but not gentle. The air still stank of fire and lightning. His voice came rough, unpolished, but it carried.“You bled,” he said, eyes sweeping the battered crowd. “You lost home
