Trash Warrior Becomes War God

CHAPTER 4

Marco's eyes opened to filtered sunlight and the scent of aged wood. His body ached in ways that felt both foreign and familiar—the deep, bone-weary exhaustion of someone who'd pushed past their limits. But beneath the fatigue, something new thrummed through his veins. Power. Real, tangible power.

"Awake at last," Benjamin's voice came from nearby. The old guardian sat cross-legged on a cushion, his earlier hostility completely vanished. "You've been unconscious for six hours. How do you feel?"

Marco pushed himself upright, wincing. "Like I got hit by a truck."

"A what?"

"Never mind." Marco touched his chest, feeling the raised ridges of the divine mark through his shirt. "It's real. All of it."

"More real than you understand." Benjamin rose and retrieved an ornate bottle from a nearby shelf. The liquid inside gleamed golden even in the dim light. "Here. Drink this."

Marco accepted the cup Benjamin poured, eyeing the contents suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Elven fruit wine. Reserved for imperial royalty and extremely rare. I've been saving it for forty years, waiting for..." Benjamin's voice caught. "Waiting for someone worthy of the warrior's legacy."

The wine burned going down, but warmth spread through Marco's chest, easing the ache. "Why are you treating me so differently? Earlier you called me trash."

"Because I'm a bitter old fool." Benjamin sat heavily, suddenly looking every one of his years. "I've guarded these ruins for fifty-three years, boy. Fifty-three years watching the warrior profession die by inches. Fifty-three years of hopefuls arriving with dreams in their eyes, only to leave broken and empty-handed." His gaze sharpened. "Do you understand what you've accomplished? You received a formal blessing. The War God's direct favor. Do you have any idea how rare that is?"

"You said no one's received it in three thousand years."

"Not three thousand. Nine hundred and seventy-three years, to be precise." Benjamin's hands trembled slightly. "The last warrior to receive divine blessing was Gregory the Unbreakable. After him, the War God's voice went silent. The temples crumbled. And warriors... we've been clinging to scraps ever since."

Marco leaned forward. "What do you mean, scraps?"

"Without divine blessing, the only way to become a warrior is through Fighting Spirit infusion." Benjamin's expression darkened. "An elder warrior transfers their accumulated power directly into a novice's body. The process is agonizing, dangerous, and has a success rate of less than one in ten. Most candidates die screaming. Those who survive are often crippled."

"That's insane."

"That's necessity." The old man's voice was bitter. "But even those who succeed are hollow echoes of true warriors. They have the title but lack the foundation. The skills, the techniques passed down through divine inheritance—all lost."

"Even the strongest warriors?"

"Especially them." Benjamin stood and paced. "Thomas Brennan, the emperor's War General. The strongest living warrior in the entire empire. Level eighty-seven, commander of a hundred battles, feared across three kingdoms." He laughed harshly. "But he's crippled compared to what he should be. At his level, a properly trained warrior should have access to dozens of advanced skills. Thomas has maybe four that actually work properly. The rest? Gone. Forgotten. Lost when the temples fell."

Marco's mind raced. In Sky Game, by level eighty-seven, he'd had access to over fifty different warrior skills. Combinations, chains, devastating finishing moves. If warriors here were operating with only a fraction of that...

"No wonder everyone thinks warriors are weak," he said quietly.

"Weak?" Benjamin's laugh was harsh. "We're cripples playing at warfare. Knights mock us because we can't execute proper skill chains. Mages laugh because we lack the burst damage we should have. Even archers pity us, because without our mobility skills, we're just slow, heavy targets." His eyes burned. "But you, boy. You received the real thing. The complete inheritance. You have what they've been denied for nearly a millennium."

"I need to test something." Marco stood, his legs unsteady. "Is there a training area?"

Benjamin gestured to a door at the back of the room. "The old practice yard. Nothing fancy, but it should suffice."

The yard was small, surrounded by crumbling walls, with a few training dummies that looked like they'd survived the Great Severance itself. Marco approached the nearest one, his hand moving instinctively to his hip where a weapon should be.

"Here." Benjamin tossed him a practice sword. "Show me what the War God granted you."

Marco caught the blade, feeling its weight. Too light compared to his weapons in Sky Game, but it would do. He closed his eyes, reaching for the knowledge burning in his chest.

And there it was. Not fragmented or incomplete. The full warrior skill tree, blazing in his mind like a constellation.

His eyes snapped open.

"War Challenge!" His voice rang out, and power surged through him. The skill activated perfectly—a buff that increased his attack power and drew enemy aggression. In Sky Game, it had been essential for tanking bosses.

Benjamin gasped. "That's... that's a Level 3 skill! How are you—"

Marco didn't answer. He was already moving, his body flowing into the next attack. "Cleave!" The practice sword swept in a wide arc, and even without a real target, he felt the skill's area-of-effect trigger. Energy rippled outward.

"Impossible," Benjamin whispered.

"Sand Explosion!" Marco slammed his fist into the ground. Dust and small stones erupted around him—a crowd control skill designed to blind and disorient multiple enemies. In the game, it had saved his life countless times in PvP matches.

But Marco wasn't done. He'd practiced this combo ten thousand times. War Challenge into Cleave, cancel the animation with Sand Explosion, then—

"Fatal Strike!"

He lunged forward, the practice sword driving toward the dummy's center mass. The skill activated with devastating precision, and the dummy exploded into splinters.

Silence.

Marco stood in the settling dust, breathing hard. His Level 1 body couldn't sustain that kind of combo for long, but he'd done it. He'd executed a four-skill chain that shouldn't be possible for someone his level.

Benjamin was on his knees.

"Master," the old man said, his voice thick with emotion. "Please accept this worthless disciple."

"What? No, get up—"

"You don't understand!" Tears streamed down Benjamin's weathered face. "Fatal Strike. That's a Great War Master skill. Level sixty-five minimum requirement. I've spent my entire life searching for even a hint of how to perform it properly, and you... you just executed it perfectly at Level 1!"

"It's not that impressive—"

"Not impressive?" Benjamin's laugh was half-sob. "Boy, you just demonstrated skills that haven't been seen in this world for centuries! War Challenge, Cleave, Sand Explosion—those are foundation skills that every warrior should know, but don't! And Fatal Strike? Thomas Brennan would sell his soul for the proper technique!"

Marco rubbed his face. "Benjamin, I can't be your master. I'm barely a warrior. I just got blessed yesterday!"

"You possess the complete inheritance!" The old man's hands trembled. "Everything we've lost, everything we've searched for—it's in you! In your movements, your execution, your understanding!" He pressed his forehead to the ground. "I am seventy-eight years old. I have watched the warrior profession rot from within my entire life. And now, finally, the War God has sent us salvation. Please. Let me serve you. Let me help you restore what was stolen from us."

Marco stared at the prostrate guardian, feeling the weight of his words. This wasn't Sky Game, where he could log out when things got too heavy. This was real. These were real people whose profession, whose entire way of life, had been crippled for nearly a thousand years.

And somehow, he held the key to fixing it.

"Fine," Marco said quietly. "Get up, Benjamin. But we're doing this as equals, not master and disciple."

"I cannot—"

"Yes, you can. Because I'm going to need your help." Marco extended his hand. "I know the skills, the techniques, the combinations. But I don't know this world. I don't know its politics, its dangers, its rules. You do. So we work together. I teach you the lost skills, and you teach me how to survive here."

Benjamin took his hand, his grip surprisingly strong. "You would share the divine inheritance? Freely?"

"What good is knowledge if it dies with me?" Marco pulled him to his feet. "The warrior profession fell because the inheritance was lost. We're going to make sure that never happens again."

"Where do we start?"

"Fatal Strike." Marco retrieved the practice sword. "You said Thomas Brennan would kill for the proper technique. Well, I'm going to teach it to you. Then you're going to teach it to every warrior who proves themselves worthy. Slowly, carefully, we rebuild the warrior path from the ground up."

"That will take years. Decades, perhaps."

"Then we'd better get started." Marco took his stance, feeling the divine mark on his chest pulse with approval. "Watch carefully. Fatal Strike isn't just about power—it's about timing, about reading your opponent's breathing, about finding the exact moment when their guard shifts and their heart is exposed..."

As the sun climbed higher, Marco's voice filled the practice yard, explaining techniques that hadn't been taught in centuries. Benjamin listened with the intensity of a starving man at a feast, occasionally asking questions, often just staring in wonder.

Neither of them noticed Father Dominic watching from the temple entrance, his expression thoughtful.

"The War God's chosen," the priest murmured to himself. "Not just a warrior. A teacher. A rebuilder." He smiled. "Kensington Academy has no idea what's coming."

In the practice yard, Marco demonstrated Fatal Strike again, his movements precise and deadly.

The warrior's path, dormant for nearly a millennium, had finally awakened.

And the world would never be the same.