"Isn't this just the greatest battle of your damn life?" Napoleon said softly, breath ragged as blood soaked through his uniform. He closed his eyes, steadying himself. "We end it here…"
Ares' smirk widened, cruel and certain.
"You think you're ending this?" he growled. "Not if I move first."
The air shuddered.
"Divine power. enkopí."
Time fractured.
Ares vanished in a blur of crimson light, reappearing in the same instant directly in front of Napoleon. His spear moved faster than thought, no wind-up, no warning, just a single, perfect slash forged from pure war itself.
FWSSHHHH!
The strike carved across Napoleon's chest.
Fabric tore, Flesh split.
A deep, brutal gash ripped from shoulder to ribs, blood erupting violently as Napoleon's body was lifted off the ground and hurled backward. He crashed onto the arena floor, skidding helplessly as a dark trail followed him.
The crowd screamed.
"NAPOLEON!!!"
"No—NO—!"
Napoleon gasped, choking as pain exploded through his body. His chest burned, every breath a knife. Blood poured freely now, pooling beneath him as his hand trembled, trying and failing to push himself up.
Ares stood tall, spear lowered, divine energy still crackling around the blade.
"That," he said coldly, "is the difference between a god and a human."
High above, the gods leaned forward.
Even Zeus' expression darkened.
Because that strike should have killed him.
Napoleon lay on the stone, vision blurring, heartbeat slowing.
But his fingers still clenched around his sword.
And somewhere deep within him, the same fire that had carried him across Europe flickered again.
"This is fucking brilliant." The Japanese Buddhist god King Enma leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees as his sharp eyes tracked every drop of blood on the arena floor.
He was a dark-skinned man with jet-black hair cut into a short, high-top style, clean and deliberate. Small glasses hung low on the bridge of his nose, catching the divine light as he watched. A neatly kept beard, light brown in colour, framed his jaw, giving him the composed appearance of a man used to passing final judgment.
Those eyes, though, they were not kind.
They were deep, dark, and absolute, the eyes of the one who decided where souls went after the scream.
King Enma wore a simple black jacket over a crisp white button-up shirt, a black tie pulled tight around his neck. His business shoes were polished to perfection, reflecting the chaos of the arena like a mirror. No armour. No crown.
He didn't need them.
"This," Enma continued calmly, adjusting his glasses, "is the purest form of judgment."
Beside him, lesser gods shifted uncomfortably.
"A human refusing death," Enma said, watching Napoleon struggle to breathe.
"and a god being forced to justify his existence." A thin smile crossed his face.
"Either outcome satisfies the scales."
He leaned back slightly, hands folding together.
"But I will say this…" his eyes narrowed, gleaming. "If that man rises again after that strike…"
He glanced briefly toward Zeus' throne. "Then even death may need to reconsider its loyalty. This will take longer then we expect.
"Silence, Enma… at once. I'm trying to concentrate."
The Slavic god Perun raised his fist, irritation crackling through the air like static.
"Ugh… so boring." Enma huffed.
Perun was a well-built, youngish-looking man, broad in the shoulders, carrying the raw presence of a storm given flesh. His hair was short, a rough mix of grey and brown, as if lightning itself had scorched it over countless battles.
One sharp yellow eye burned with intensity, while an eyepatch covered his left.
He wore a simple red robe, trimmed with deep blue along its edges, the colours rippling subtly as if moved by an unseen wind. In his hand, he idly twirled a small piece of wood, a splintered stick no longer than his palm.
But it was no ordinary stick.
Each time his fingers tightened around it, the air hummed. Sparks leapt and died in the space between his knuckles. Thunder rolled faintly overhead, not from the sky, but from him.
"A god bleeding is hardly entertainment," Perun muttered, glancing toward the arena where Ares loomed over Napoleon. "Either crush the human… or stop dragging this out."
He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms.
"Mortals always break eventually."
The stick cracked softly in his grip.
"Look at you," Ares sneered. "Your heart is exposed. One thrust and you're done."
Napoleon laughed.
A dry, broken sound, but a laugh nonetheless.
"You gods," he coughed, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth, "always think men fight with flesh alone."
Ares raised his spear again. "Then die proving me wrong."
He lunged.
The spear screamed through the air, aimed straight for Napoleon's heart.
At the last possible instant, Napoleon twisted.
The spearhead tore past his ribs, grazing bone, missing the heart by a finger's width. Pain exploded through his body, white-hot, nearly stealing his vision, but he was already moving
.
Napoleon stepped into Ares' reach.
Too close.
Ares' eyes widened.
"Impossible."
Napoleon drove his blade upward.
Steel met divine armor with a shriek. The sword punched beneath Ares' breastplate, sliding between god-forged plates, biting deep into muscle.
Ares roared.
He slammed his shield into Napoleon's side, sending him skidding across the arena, stone shattering beneath his body. Napoleon rolled, coughing violently, barely managing to push himself back up with one arm.
The crowd was on its feet.
"HE'S STILL MOVING!!!" Mercury screamed, voice cracking. "THE HUMAN REFUSES TO DIE!"
Ares ripped the blade from his chest, golden blood dripping down his torso. He stared at it. At the wound, then at Napoleon.
His grin was gone.
"So," Ares growled, cracking his neck, divine aura flaring violently around him, "you do have teeth."
Napoleon wiped blood from his lips, standing tall despite everything screaming for him to collapse.
"I conquered Europe," he said quietly. "You think a god of war frightens me?"
Ares' aura detonated outward, pressure cracking the arena floor.
"Then face war itself."
He hurled the spear.
Not at Napoleon's heart but at the ground in front of him.
The spear struck and exploded in a shockwave of divine force, hurling Napoleon skyward. His body spun helplessly through the air.
Ares leapt after him.
Mid-air.
Fist drawn back
.
"For Olympus!" The punch landed.
Napoleon crashed down like a meteor, carving a crater into the arena floor, dust and debris swallowing him whole.
Silence.
For half a second then a hand burst from the rubble.
Napoleon dragged himself out, coughing, staggering, barely standing, but standing.
Ares froze.
High above, Enma's eyes burned brighter.
"…He still stands," Enma murmured.
Napoleon raised his blade once more, pointing it at the god of war.
"Come on then," he rasped. "Finish me… if you can."
Napoleon's chest heaved, blood dripping from the jagged wound across his ribs. His coat was shredded, his uniform soaked red, every breath a struggle.
And yet, he smiled.
A small, crooked, bloody smile, but it was there. Not of relief. Not of fear.
Joy.
The kind that only comes from standing at the edge of death and realizing you are not afraid. The kind that only warriors, survivors, and legends understand.
He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand, leaving crimson streaks across his pale skin, and his eyes gleamed.
"I… I love this," he murmured, voice low, almost to himself. "The chaos. The fight. The impossibility of it all."
Ares' eyes narrowed. Divine fury flared like a storm ready to devour the arena, but Napoleon's smile did not waver.
Then like a coiled spring he surged forward.
His blade lifted high, catching the flickering divine light of Ares' aura. Every step he took sent sparks of energy skittering across the stone floor, his movements sharp, precise, unpredictable.
"Come," Napoleon called, voice ragged but full of life. "Come and try me!"
Ares roared, lunging with divine speed, spear swinging in a deadly arc.
But Napoleon didn't back away. He danced into the strike, twisting and slashing with a ferocity born of centuries of conquest, desperation, and now, pure, unshakable joy.
Steel clashed. Sparks flew. Blood and divine energy mixed, hissing against the arena stones.
Napoleon's smile widened.
He stumbled back slightly, blood pouring down his chest, one hand clutching the battered blade he had been wielding. His eyes darted across Ares' stance, reading the divine fury in every line of muscle, every flare of aura.
Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he reached behind his back.
Fingers closed around a second weapon.
This one was different.
It hummed. A low, vibrating resonance that seemed to ripple through the very air of the arena. Its blade was black as night, etched with runes that glowed faintly with a golden fire, the markings shifting and writhing like molten sunlight.
The hilt was wrapped in deep crimson leather, and the crossguard bore symbols of both mortal and divine origin, an artifact forged in secrecy, one mortal could never claim if not by sheer will and cunning.
Napoleon held it up. The light from the blade shimmered across his face, illuminating the blood and dirt, the cracks in his coat, and the unbroken fire in his eyes.
"This…" he whispered to himself, voice steady despite pain, "…is the one that ends gods."
Ares froze.
His aura flared violently, crackling like a storm. Even the god of war could feel the difference, the unnatural weight of a weapon designed not for mortals… but to slay immortals.
The arena seemed to hold its breath.
High above, Sun God Ra leaned forward, amber eyes widening, his solar disk flaring ever so slightly. Even Perun's yellow eye flickered with intrigue.
Napoleon's grin widened. Pain, blood, and exhaustion faded from his expression, replaced by something darker, joy twisted with inevitability.
"Let's finish this, Ares," he said, voice low, yet carrying across the arena like a promise of death.
Ares snarled, spinning his spear, divine power roaring around him. But Napoleon didn't hesitate.
He charged.
The divine blade hummed with energy, hungry for blood, for the essence of gods themselves. Every step he took sent a ripple of anticipation across the pantheon.
Because now… the balance had shifted.
And the mortal had drawn the weapon capable of killing the god of war.