The clash of metal against metal thundered throughout the divine forge.
Three colossi of bronze —the Talons, automatons created by Hephaestus— surrounded Ares with heavy steps that made the incandescent ground tremble. Each one wielded curved blades the size of a war chariot, their copper eyes burning with an artificial glow.
Ares wore no armor, no helmet, no weapon of any kind. Only his fists.
—Come on, heaps of scrap! —he roared with a savage grin—. Show me something worthy!
The first attacked with a descending slash. Ares stepped forward instead of back. The impact of his fist against the blade sent sparks bursting like a solar storm. The bronze dented. The Talon staggered.
The second charged him from behind.
Without looking, Ares spun on himself and unleashed an uppercut that struck beneath the metallic chin. The automaton's skull warped with an unnatural crack, lifting it off the ground before smashing it against a wall of molten obsidian.
The third grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to immobilize him with its mechanical strength.
The god's muscles tensed like war cables.
—Is that all?
With a roar, he broke free through sheer strength, grabbed the automaton by the torso, and lifted it as if it weighed nothing. He slammed it against the ground once. Twice. Three times.
The divine metal gave way.
Ares drove his fist into the Talon's chest until it pierced through. The energy core exploded in a shower of light and burning fragments.
Silence.
Three bronze giants lay shattered around him.
The god of war exhaled, vapor rising from his skin. Then he ran a hand through his blood-red hair, soaked in sweat, brushing it away from his face with a careless gesture.
—Ahh… that was better.
At the back of the forge, Hephaestus had not stopped working for even a second. His hammer fell with a steady rhythm upon a still-incandescent spear, each strike precise, almost indifferent to the previous chaos.
Ares walked toward him, cracking his neck.
—So… —he said with barely contained excitement— the Heromachy is finally going to begin. I've been waiting for this for centuries. Watching the strongest mortals tear each other apart… it's going to be glorious!
Hephaestus grunted something unintelligible, without looking up.
—I suppose —said the smith without lifting his gaze from his work— that you'll choose one of your girls
—The Amazons —Ares replied with a proud smile—. Perfect warriors. Born for war. I knew you liked them.
Hephaestus snorted. Ares raised an eyebrow, surprised.
—Really? I'm surprised you're even going to participate. —He leaned a little closer to him—. So… do you have someone in mind?
—Yes.
A single word. Short. Cutting.
The curiosity of the god of war ignited instantly.
—Oh, really? —He smiled, baring his teeth—. Someone I know?
The hammer stopped falling. For the first time, Hephaestus looked up. He said nothing, only looked at him… and smiled. It was a small smile. Crooked. Satisfied.
Ares's enthusiasm froze.
His eyes narrowed. The savage smile returned, but this time it was different: darker, more interested.
—It can't be…
He remembered the battlefield, the spear, the wound. The mortal who had achieved something almost unthinkable.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________
The stands of the divine coliseum rose like a sea of marble and gold suspended in the sky. Gods, nymphs, and the shades of ancient heroes occupied their seats as the murmur grew like the sound before a storm.
In one of the upper boxes, Ares remained standing, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the arena.
Down there was him.
Diomedes.
The very same mortal who, on the burning fields of Troy, had dared to wound a god.
Ares narrowed his eyes. He had not forgotten the spear piercing his divine flesh. He had not forgotten the burning pain. Nor the humiliation.
At his side, Hephaestus watched the arena with apparent indifference, leaning on his hammer.
Ares barely turned his head toward him.
—You're resentful.
Hephaestus did not respond immediately.
—For choosing him? —he asked in a dry tone.
—Oh, come on —Ares let out a short, rough laugh—. Of all the possible heroes… you pick the very one who pierced me with a spear; me and your ex-wife. What a coincidence.
The god of the forge finally glanced at him from the corner of his eye.
—He is strong —he said simply—. And he has courage.
Ares returned his gaze to the arena. His smile came back, but now it was fierce.
—Yes… he does.
The combat arena lay in an unnatural silence, as if the world itself were holding its breath. In the center, Achilles and Diomedes stared at each other without blinking, with that dangerous calm possessed only by those who have survived too many battles.
There was no hatred between them, only recognition: two predators who knew exactly how lethal the other was.
Achilles took a step forward, with the natural ease of someone moving toward something that belongs to him by right.
—We are the first to stain this arena —he said, and his voice rang clear and vibrant—. There could be no better beginning. If I am to inaugurate this war of heroes, I would rather it be against someone whose name does not shame me to pronounce.
A faint smile curved his lips.
—I will grant you a gift, for old times' sake: you may surrender now. Keep your honor… and your life. What do you say?
Diomedes watched him without agitation. In his gaze there was no mockery, but there was an ancient patience, that of someone who has seen arrogance bloom and wither more than once.
—Ever since you were a boy —he replied with steady calm— you have mistaken greatness for noise. I appreciate the gesture, Achilles. But I do not need your compassion.
He then lifted his face toward the sky.
—Besides, you are not the only one who brings a gift.
The firmament cracked.
An incandescent radiance tore through the clouds and, like a rain of stars forged in metal, dozens of weapons began to fall. Swords with many edges, spears that flashed like lightning, shields engraved with ancient symbols, maces, bows, axes… All of them struck into the sand in a succession of crashes, sending up dust and sparks.
The ground transformed into a field of steel.
—You were chosen by your mother, Thetis —Diomedes continued, walking among the weapons like someone strolling through a familiar hall—. I was chosen by the lord of the forge, Hephaestus. And that… has certain advantages.
He picked up one of the fallen blades, tested its balance, and let it fall again with disinterest.
—I am not selfish. This blessing will not be mine alone. Choose. Take the weapon that pleases you most.
Achilles looked over the improvised arsenal with a spark of excitement in his eyes. There was no surprise in his expression, only challenge. He bent down and pulled from the ground a sword whose blade reflected the light as if it were alive. He held it with ease, testing its weight. He smiled, pleased.
—So be it.
Diomedes, for his part, closed his hand around the handle of a single-bladed axe. He lifted it without effort; the metal emitted a deep hum, as if recognizing its owner.
For an eternal heartbeat they looked at each other again.
Two veterans. Two unbreakable wills. Two different ways of understanding glory.
The wind crossed the arena.
And then, without the need for another word, both advanced at the same time, steel in hand, as if fate itself had pushed them toward one another.