Chapter 66: Parting Ways and New Beginnings
A few days had passed since Alarcus had regained his strength. The rebel base, hidden beneath the city's labyrinthine sewer system, was abuzz with activity. Rebels were training relentlessly under Seraphine's stern but effective leadership.
Alarcus stood at the entrance to the training grounds, watching as Seraphine drilled a group of fighters. Her strict demeanor was matched only by her unwavering determination. She shouted instructions, corrected stances, and even barked prayers for focus and strength.
He winced as he saw one unlucky recruit fail to block a strike and end up flat on their back. Seraphine offered no sympathy, her voice echoing: "Get up! The enemy won't wait for you to catch your breath!"
Alarcus chuckled softly to himself. Torture by training and faith—classic Seraphine.
Camilla approached him, her eyes soft but filled with unspoken questions. "Are you sure you won't stay a little longer?"
He shook his head, his expression firm. "They've got Seraphine. Besides, my path leads elsewhere. I need to return to my boss—he'll have another plan for dealing with the nobles who started this mess."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Will you ever come back?"
A smirk tugged at his lips. "Knowing my boss? Probably. And when we do, we'll make sure those corrupt nobles pay for everything."
With that, he turned and began his ascent to the surface, leaving behind the dim, suffocating confines of the rebel base. The sewers were damp, the stench of mildew lingering in Alarcus' nostrils as he made his way up the ladder to the surface. He looked back one last time, hearing faint echoes of Seraphine's training drills. The distant clang of weapons and harsh commands served as a reminder of what he was leaving behind—a fight still in progress.
Once outside, the sunlight momentarily blinded him, a sharp contrast to the darkness below. The open road stretched endlessly ahead, lined by forests and hills. Despite the challenges he knew lay ahead, the fresh air filled his lungs with a sense of renewal.
Over the following months, Alarcus traveled through untamed forests, desolate plains, and quiet villages. He encountered groups of bandits and the occasional pack of monsters, but these skirmishes felt like a distant echo compared to his battle with the sloth demon.
One time, Alarcus stumbled upon a village nestled in a valley, its tranquility marred by signs of recent strife. The charred remains of homes stood as silent witnesses to a bandit raid. Villagers worked tirelessly to rebuild, their faces lined with exhaustion and despair.
Approaching a group of workers, Alarcus offered his assistance. Using simple earth magic, he helped repair a crumbled section of the village wall. The elder, a frail woman with sharp eyes, approached him afterward.
"Traveler, we don't have much to offer, but you have our thanks," she said, pressing a small loaf of bread into his hands.
Alarcus smiled faintly. "Keep it. Just make sure the next group of raiders thinks twice before returning."
Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "With men like you passing through, perhaps there's still hope for this land."
Then as Alarcus continued westward, the landscape became more rugged. Dense forests covered the hills, and the canopy above cast long shadows that danced in the breeze. One evening, while setting up camp, he noticed strange markings on a nearby tree—deep claw marks and faint scorch marks in the bark.
The following night, he encountered the source of the markings. A wyvern, its scales glinting in the moonlight, descended upon him. Its piercing screech sent birds scattering into the night.
Zetsuei hovered silently by his side as Alarcus faced the beast. The battle was grueling, with the wyvern's fiery breath scorching the ground around him. Alarcus used every ounce of his skill and magic, launching precise bursts of energy at its wings to ground it. Eventually, the creature retreated, leaving Alarcus breathing heavily and covered in soot.
"Even the wilds are against me," he muttered, shaking his head.
The forests gave way to open plains, where golden fields of grain swayed under a clear blue sky. The sight was a welcome change, and Alarcus took the opportunity to rest at a small roadside inn. The innkeeper, a cheerful woman named Mirabel, served him a hearty meal of stew and bread.
"You're lucky to be traveling now," she said, setting down a mug of ale. "The western region's been peaceful lately, but you never know when that'll change."
Alarcus nodded, thinking of the chaos he had left behind. "Peace is fleeting. Best enjoy it while it lasts."
After months of travel, Grey Castle finally came into view. The city was a marvel, with its towering stone walls and bustling gates. The drawbridge was lowered over a wide moat, and merchants streamed in and out, their wagons laden with goods.
As Alarcus entered, the city's energy enveloped him. The streets were alive with activity—children darted between stalls, bakers shouted about fresh bread, and smiths worked tirelessly in the forges.
Hungry from his journey, Alarcus' attention was drawn to a quaint but lively restaurant, Eleanor's Hearth. Its warm, golden glow spilled onto the street, and the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked bread and roasted meats drew him inside.
The interior was alive with conversation and laughter. Alarcus managed to find a seat at a small table near the corner, and a cheerful waitress approached, offering him a menu filled with hearty dishes.
He ordered a platter of roasted venison with herb-crusted potatoes and a frothy mug of ale. As he waited, he couldn't help but overhear a heated debate at a nearby table.
A burly man was arguing passionately with an older woman. Their heated discussion quickly caught Alarcus' attention.
"Listen, old lady," the burly man bellowed, pointing his tankard of ale for emphasis. "Kratos isn't some noble hero. He slaughtered innocent people and betrayed everyone who trusted him!"
The older woman scowled, clearly unimpressed. "You're simplifying it. Do you think anyone can live through the things he did and not change? His rage is understandable—every god on Olympus wronged him!"
"Oh, come on! Killing Zeus? Sure, I get it. But what about all the collateral damage? Destroying towns, killing civilians, unleashing Pandora's Box? That's not redemption—that's madness!"
A younger man at the next table, clearly eavesdropping, chimed in. "He didn't unleash Pandora's Box! The gods forced his hand. If anything, he was their victim from the start. Zeus feared him because he was destined to overthrow him!"
A new voice joined the fray—a woman sitting at the bar with her arms crossed. "Zeus feared him because he knew he was a terrible father and an even worse ruler! Honestly, Zeus deserved everything he got. The man couldn't keep it in his toga for five minutes!"
The crowd erupted into laughter.
"She's not wrong!" someone shouted from the back.
The burly man groaned. "Oh, here we go with the Zeus hate. Sure, he was... a little unfaithful—"
"A little unfaithful?" the bar woman interrupted, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "The man turned into animals just to seduce women! Swans, bulls—you name it! He wasn't just a bad ruler; he was a huge pervert!"
The older woman slammed her hand on the table in agreement. "Finally, someone gets it! Zeus thought being king of the gods gave him the right to do whatever he wanted. Kratos taking him down was poetic justice!"
Nearby, a storyteller stood at the center of a small crowd, reciting the tale of God of War III from a worn leather book. His voice carried through the restaurant, drawing Alarcus' attention.
"And so," the storyteller began, his voice steady and commanding, "Kratos ascended Mount Olympus, rage burning brighter than Hephaestus' forge. He was no mere mortal now, but a godkiller, armed with the Blade of Olympus and vengeance as his shield."
The crowd leaned in closer, captivated.
"With each step, the air grew heavier. Hera's gardens withered at his touch, and the cries of Hades' damned echoed through the air. But Kratos did not falter. His goal was clear—topple the gods who had betrayed him."
"What happened next?" a young boy asked eagerly, his eyes wide.
The storyteller grinned. "Ah, patience, child. Next came Poseidon, god of the seas. From the depths, the earth shook as a titanic wave crashed against the mountainside. Poseidon himself emerged, wielding his trident, his voice booming like thunder: 'Mortal, you dare defy the will of Olympus?'"
The audience gasped as the storyteller raised his arms, mimicking Poseidon's power.
"But Kratos, undeterred, roared back, 'Your gods have abandoned honor and justice. Today, Olympus falls!' And with that, the two clashed, earth-shattering blows that made the heavens themselves tremble."
As the storyteller paused to take a sip of water, the argument at the other table grew even more heated.
"I'll admit," the burly man grumbled, "the fight with Poseidon was epic. But that doesn't make Kratos a good guy! He didn't just fight the gods—he doomed the world when he killed Zeus!"
"And good riddance!" the bar woman shouted, raising her mug. "Zeus wasn't just a pervert—he was a tyrant! Remember what he did to Prometheus? Chained him to a rock just for giving fire to mortals!"
The younger man nodded eagerly. "Exactly! The gods exploited humanity for centuries. Kratos gave us a chance to break free!"
The burly man rubbed his temples, clearly frustrated. "You people have too much faith in Kratos. He wasn't a savior; he was a weapon. The gods used him, and he destroyed everything in the process."
"Better a weapon of chaos than a ruler of oppression," the older woman countered.
In another part of the restaurant "I'm telling you," a portly man with a ruddy complexion declared, "the roast boar with honey glaze is the best thing on the menu. Perfectly cooked, tender, and that glaze? Heavenly!"
A slender woman sitting across from him scoffed. "You clearly don't have taste buds if you think that. The wild mushroom and truffle soup is leagues ahead. It's refined, complex, and doesn't leave you feeling like a stuffed pig."
"Oh, give me a break!" a younger man interjected, his arms crossed. "The best dish here is clearly the hearth-baked bread with spiced butter and the venison stew. You can't beat simplicity done perfectly."
"Simple?" the woman retorted, raising an eyebrow. "Why not just eat porridge if you're so into 'simple'? This place is famous for its creativity, not its 'rustic charm.'"
"Creativity or not, the boar beats all of that," the portly man argued, stabbing the table with his fork. "You can keep your mushroom soup. This is real food!"
Alarcus, listening intently, couldn't help but chuckle under his breath. The passion these people had for a fictional story and good food was infectious, and it reminded him of the discussions he had back at the rebel base.