Trash Warrior Becomes War God

CHAPTER 3

The Warrior Temple wasn't a temple at all.

Marco stared at the ruins before him, his stomach sinking. Crumbling stone walls choked with ivy. A collapsed archway half-buried in weeds. Shattered statues whose faces had been worn away by centuries of rain. This wasn't just abandoned—it was dead.

"This is it?" Marco's voice came out flat.

Father Dominic's expression was pained. "I'm afraid so. The Warrior Temples across the continent all suffered the same fate. It happened thousands of years ago, during what scholars call the Great Severance."

"What happened?"

"No one knows for certain." The priest picked his way through the overgrown courtyard, gesturing at the broken stones. "One day, every Warrior Temple simply... collapsed. The divine connection severed. The warrior's inheritance was lost. Some say the War God abandoned his followers. Others claim a great curse befell the profession." He paused. "Either way, without divine guidance, without proper techniques and training methods, warriors became shadows of what they once were."

"That's why everyone thinks they're weak," Marco said quietly.

"Yes. For three thousand years, warriors have fought without a true foundation. They're self-taught, desperate, clinging to fragments of a forgotten glory." Father Dominic's gaze held sympathy. "I'm sorry, son. I hoped... but perhaps Sofia was right. Perhaps this path truly is—"

"No." Marco stepped through the ruined archway. "This doesn't change anything."

"Derek—"

"If the inheritance is lost, I'll find it. If the techniques are gone, I'll create new ones. I didn't choose this path because it was easy. I chose it because it's mine."

Father Dominic studied him for a long moment, then smiled sadly. "Such conviction in one so young. Very well. The temple guardian should be somewhere in the grounds. Perhaps he can at least explain—"

"Who the hell are you brats, and what are you doing trespassing on my property?"

A white-haired old man emerged from behind a collapsed wall, his robes stained and tattered, his face twisted in a scowl. He brandished a walking stick like a weapon.

"Guardian?" Father Dominic bowed respectfully. "I am Father Dominic of the Holy Church. This young man seeks—"

"I don't care what he seeks! This isn't a playground for half-blood trash to crawl around in!" The old man jabbed his stick at Marco. "Get lost before I beat you bloody!"

Heat flared in Marco's chest. "I came here to receive the warrior's blessing."

The guardian's laugh was harsh and mocking. "Blessing? BLESSING? Boy, do you have eyes? This temple is dead! There hasn't been a real warrior's blessing in three thousand years!"

"Then I'll be the first in three thousand years."

"You'll be the first corpse I dump in the trash heap if you don't leave!" The old man's stick cracked against a stone. "Stupid, delusional mongrel. The warrior profession is finished. Done. Over. Anyone with half a brain knows that!"

"I have an introduction—"

"I don't give a damn about your introduction! You need an official letter from the Academy Council, signed and sealed. Without it, you're just another piece of garbage wasting my time!" The guardian turned his back. "Now get out before I call the guards and have you dragged away like the worthless half-breed you are!"

Father Dominic placed a restraining hand on Marco's shoulder. "Come. We'll obtain the proper documentation and return—"

"No documentation will help this idiot!" The old man spat on the ground. "Even if every professor at Kensington begged me, I wouldn't waste effort on a mongrel warrior. You want to know why? Because warriors are WEAK! They're dirt! They're less useful than the weeds choking this place!"

"That's enough," Marco said quietly.

"Oh, the half-blood has feelings? How precious!" The guardian's eyes glittered with malice. "Listen well, boy. The warrior profession died because it deserved to die. Because warriors were always the weakest, the slowest, the most pathetic of all the classes. The Great Severance was probably the War God himself saying 'I'm done wasting divine power on failures!'"

Marco's fists clenched.

"Look at you, standing there in your filthy clothes, with your mongrel blood, thinking you can revive a dead profession. You're not just a loser—you're the biggest loser I've ever seen! Now GET OUT!"

The guardian raised his walking stick, and an invisible force slammed into Marco, hurling him backward through the archway. He crashed into Father Dominic, and they both tumbled to the ground outside the temple grounds.

Before Marco could rise, a shimmering barrier materialized across the entrance, sealing them out.

"And stay out!" The old man's voice echoed from within. "Come back when hell freezes over!"

Marco lay on his back, staring at the clouded sky. His body ached. His pride burned. Everything the guardian had said—every insult, every mockery—they were just variations of what he'd heard his entire life in this world. Derek's entire life.

Trash. Mongrel. Worthless. Loser.

"Perhaps..." Father Dominic climbed to his feet, brushing off his robes. "Perhaps we should reconsider, Derek. If even the temple guardian refuses—"

"No." Marco stood, but his voice lacked conviction. "I just need that letter. Once I have the documentation—"

"Will it matter?" The priest's expression was gentle but sad. "Son, I admire your determination. But sometimes wisdom means knowing when to change course. The warrior path is closed. It has been for millennia. Fighting against that truth won't—"

Light exploded across the sky.

Pure, blinding, divine light that descended like a falling star. It slammed into the ruined temple with such force that the ground shook. The barrier shattered. The weeds caught fire and disintegrated. And from the heart of the ruins, something began to rise.

Marco's breath caught.

It was a statue—massive, towering, carved from white stone that gleamed like moonlight. A warrior in full armor, dual blades crossed over his chest, his face fierce and proud. Every detail was perfect, from the intricate engravings on the armor to the determined set of the jaw.

It was Marco's avatar. His War God from Sky Game, rendered in stone and divine power.

"Impossible," Father Dominic whispered. "That's... that's the War God! The true War God!"

The statue's eyes opened.

Golden light poured from them, blazing across the courtyard. The stone began to crack, pieces falling away to reveal not rock beneath but pure divine energy. The War God's form dissolved into golden mist that swirled like a living thing, gathering, condensing, and then shooting forward.

Straight into Marco.

The impact drove him to his knees. Power flooded his body—burning, overwhelming, absolutely real. Not game stats or virtual buffs. This was divine essence, the raw power of a Heavenly God, coursing through every cell.

Marco screamed.

His chest ignited with pain. Light burst from beneath his skin, and when he tore his shirt open, he saw them—two massive blades, crossed in an X pattern, burning themselves into his flesh. The mark was intricate, beautiful, and terrifying. Each blade was as long as his forearm, their edges sharp enough that they seemed to cut reality itself.

Words echoed in his mind, ancient and absolute:

"SHATTER. THE WAR GOD'S DIVINE ARSENAL. FORGED TO BREAK WORLDS. WIELDED BY THE CHOSEN."

"No... no, this can't be..." The guardian's voice, thin with shock, came from somewhere nearby. "A true inheritance? After three thousand years?"

The divine mist continued to pour into Marco, and with it came knowledge. Fighting techniques. Battle strategies. The foundation of the warrior path—not the broken, scattered fragments that existed now, but the real thing. The complete thing.

When the light finally faded, Marco collapsed.

Father Dominic caught him, lowering him gently to the ground. The priest's hands were shaking. "Blessed gods. He received... he actually received..."

"The War God's mark." The guardian stood before them, his earlier arrogance completely gone. He was on his knees, his forehead pressed to the ground. "The Divine Arsenal. Shatter. One of the twelve Heavenly Weapons."

"I don't understand," Father Dominic said. "How is this possible?"

"I don't know." The old man's voice trembled. "But this boy... this half-blood mongrel I mocked... he's done what no one has accomplished in three millennia. He's reopened the warrior's path."

Marco drifted in and out of consciousness, the guardian's words echoing strangely in his ears. His chest still burned where the mark had been carved, but beneath the pain was something else. Power. Real, tangible, undeniable power.

"Bring him inside," the guardian commanded, his voice suddenly strong. "Quickly! The divine energy needs time to settle, and he's vulnerable right now."

"Will he survive?" Father Dominic asked as they lifted Marco.

"Survive? Boy, he just became the first warrior in three thousand years to receive a genuine divine inheritance. He didn't just survive—he's going to shake the entire world."

As darkness claimed him, Marco's last thought was of the statue dissolving into mist, and the War God's eyes meeting his with something that might have been recognition.

Or perhaps approval.

When he finally woke, he was lying on a cot in what must have been the guardian's quarters. The old man sat beside him, his expression transformed.

"Welcome back," the guardian said softly. "Forgive my earlier... discourtesy. I didn't know. I didn't understand." He bowed his head. "I am Benjamin Carter, last guardian of the Warrior Temple. And you, young master, are the one we've waited three thousand years for."

Marco touched his chest, feeling the mark beneath his skin. Still there. Still real.

"The warrior's path," Benjamin continued, "has been reopened. And you, Derek, are its bearer. The world doesn't know it yet. But they will." His eyes gleamed. "Oh, they will."