2025-07-11 02:34:58Ares Kane bent over the battered hood of an old sedan, its engine coughing out the last sighs of life while sweat dripped from his brow into the grime below. He could smell burnt oil and stale coffee mixed with the sour reek of cheap cologne - the signature stench of men who thought they were better than him just because they never fought in a real war.
Behind him, Duke leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, pretending to inspect a spark plug but really just waiting to find something to laugh about. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Hey, soldier boy,” Duke barked, his grin crooked like the toothpick wedged between his teeth. “You gonna finish that carburetor today, or you need air support for that too?”
The other mechanics hooted, banging wrenches on metal benches just to make the sound echo longer than the joke deserved. Ares didn’t look up. He wiped sweat from his temple with the back of his forearm and kept his eyes on the rusted engine.
He’d seen men shot, bleeding in sand that burned hotter than hell itself. He’d dragged brothers back from places that didn’t have names. He’d tasted betrayal on the edge of his own tongue. But nothing stung quite like the petty cruelty of small men who thought a uniform was just something you wore at Halloween.
Duke stepped closer, his breath warm with stale beer. “Maybe you wanna salute me, huh?” He raised two fingers to his forehead in a sloppy, mocking salute. “What was it they used to call you? General? Captain? Hero?”
Ares didn’t flinch. He twisted a wrench, felt the bolt slip into place. His silence only made them louder.
“Maybe I should call you dog. That’s what you are now, right? Crawling under cars for scraps. Ain’t no medals in this dump.” Duke’s voice dipped to a low hiss. “Ain’t no one left to salute you now, Kane.”
For a heartbeat, Ares’s vision blurred. He could almost feel the desert heat again, smell the iron tang of blood and cordite, hear the ragged breathing of men who called him brother. Who trusted him to bring them home.
But that was years ago. Ghosts didn’t fix engines. They just watched the living ruin their own hands.
…
Break time hit around five. Ares sat alone on an overturned bucket near the back of the garage, the cheap instant coffee in his cup barely warm. The others clustered inside, laughing about some fight on TV last night, their voices bouncing off the concrete walls like distant gunfire.
He stirred his coffee with a bent plastic spoon, listening to the steady drip of oil from an old filter into a rusty pan. Each drop echoed in the silence he’d carved for himself—one place where no one barked orders, no one begged him for miracles he no longer believed in.
A gentle vibration in his pocket broke the quiet. He pulled out a battered flip phone—an ancient relic, like him—and flipped it open.
A single message:
“Call home. It’s Emily.”
His sister.
Ares stared at the words, the letters swimming for a moment as the world seemed to tilt under him. He hadn’t spoken to her in months, maybe a year. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he didn’t deserve to.
6
He remembered her as a kid—bright eyes, hair in braids, chasing him barefoot through their mother’s garden before the world turned savage. Before he became what he became.
He flipped the phone shut. Pocketed it. Finished his coffee in one bitter gulp.
…
By the time the sun dipped low behind the auto shop’s cracked sign, Ares had cleaned up the tools, mopped the oil streaks, and nodded politely at the others as they filed out to their cars and motorcycles. Duke lingered, as always, hoping for one last shot.
“Don’t forget to lock up, hero,” Duke sneered, tossing his greasy rag at Ares’s feet. “Wouldn’t want you to mess that up too.”
Ares didn’t answer. He simply bent down, picked up the rag, and dropped it in the trash. He’d learned long ago that some battles weren’t worth fighting - yet.
When the last taillights faded into the dusk, Ares stood alone in the hollow quiet of the garage. He pulled out the flip phone again, thumb hovering over the call button.
Emily.
He wondered if she’d even want to hear his voice. If she’d remember the way he’d promised, once upon a time, that no one would ever hurt her. A promise he’d broken the moment he let the world swallow him whole.
He hit ‘Call.’
The line rang once, twice. On the third ring, her voice - small, strained - answered.
“Ares?” she breathed. He could hear the tremor in her throat, the way she tried to hold herself together.
“Hey, Em.” His own voice cracked like old leather. “What’s wrong?”
A beat of silence. Then a sob.
“They’re trying to ruin me, Ares. They said I stole money - Dad’s old company - these people, they forged everything. They want me in prison. Twenty years. I didn’t do it, Ares. I swear - ”
His jaw tightened until his teeth ached. Memories of battlefields - real ones - flashed behind his eyes. He saw the traitors again, the false smiles, the men who patted his back while sticking knives between his ribs.
And now they wanted his sister.
“Where are you?” he asked, voice low, flat as a knife’s edge.
“The city courthouse. They’re dragging me in tomorrow. Ares - no one believes me. No lawyer wants to touch it. They’re all bought. I don’t - ”
“Emily,” he said, soft but steel. “Listen to me. Look around. See that door they’re trying to push you through?”
A sniffle. “Yes.”
“Don’t walk through it alone. I’m coming.”
“But - ”
He ended the call before she could finish. Some words didn’t need saying. Some promises didn’t break twice.
He took off his coveralls, wiped the grease from his hands, and stared at his reflection in the greasy window of the garage door. For a moment, he thought he saw a ghost staring back - ragged, tired, forgotten.
But then he caught it—the glint in his own eyes that once made enemies flinch in the dark. The God of War never really died. He’d just been sleeping, deep beneath skin and bone and grief.
Ares Kane turned off the lights. Locked the garage behind him. And walked into the night, the shadows bending to make way for something they’d thought was gone forever
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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