Chapter 196: “ZEUS!”
The hilltop was a lonely place, a bare crown of earth and stubborn grass overlooking the sprawl of a broken land. Kratos stood at its peak, his back to the world below. The wind here was clean, tugging at his red markings and the ash ground into his skin.
The old man’s words were an echo in his skull, a persistent drip wearing away at stone.
A quieter world. A smaller one.
The idea felt like a betrayal. His entire life was a single, sharp note—rage. It was the fuel in his veins, the purpose in his step. To imagine a life without it was to imagine being hollowed out, a shell with nothing inside. Yet, the memory of the ruined city was a cold weight in his gut. The old man was right. The destruction was the outside of him. And it had brought no peace. Only more silence.
A soft, slithering sound, subtle as a whisper, approached from behind. He didn’t turn. He knew the scent of sun-warmed stone and ancient dust.
"You are a long way from your temple, Gorgon," he said, his voice rough from disuse.
Medusa moved to stand beside him, not too close. Her serpentine hair coiled and uncoiled slowly, their hisses a quiet counterpoint to the wind. Her lower body, a powerful cascade of scales, gleamed in the fading light.
"I pass where I wish," she replied, her voice a smooth, melodic thing that held a hidden sting. "And I saw a mountain of a man, standing so still he might have turned himself to stone. I thought I should investigate. A new statue for my garden, perhaps."
He finally turned his head to look at her. Her beautiful, petrifying face was unreadable, but her eyes, those famous green orbs, were sharp with a curiosity that wasn’t entirely hostile.
"What thoughts are so heavy they can root the Ghost of Sparta to the earth?" she asked.
For a long moment, he said nothing. He found, to his own surprise, that he wanted to voice it. To test the words in the air. "An old man... spoke to me. In the ruins."
Medusa’s eyebrows lifted slightly. "And did you kill him?"
"No."
"A rare day." She tilted her head. "What did this fortunate old man say that has you... thinking?"
Kratos looked down at his hands. They were made for holding blades, for breaking bones. The old man had spoken of holding tools for building. The image would not leave him. "He spoke of a path. A different one."
Medusa followed his gaze to his scarred knuckles. "The only path you know is painted red, Spartan. It is the only color that suits you."
"Is it?" he growled, the frustration bubbling up. He gestured out at the horizon. "I have painted the world red. And what is left? Emptiness. Ash. It is a feast that leaves you starving." He was repeating the old man’s words, and he hated it, but they fit the hollow feeling inside him perfectly.
Medusa was silent for a time. "So what will you do? Lay down your blades? Take up farming?" The mockery in her tone was gentle, almost probing.
"No," Kratos said, his voice dropping, becoming decisive. The confusion was crystallizing into a single, clear point. The old man’s words hadn’t shown him peace. They had shown him the dead end of his current road. And there was only one other road he could see.
He lifted his head, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the empty sky. "There is another who offered me a path. A straighter one."
A cold dread seemed to seep from Medusa. "Kratos..."
He ignored her. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs, and the sound that tore from his throat was not a scream, but a challenge, a name thrown at the heavens like a spear.
"ZEUS!"
The name echoed across the hills, a shockwave of sound that sent birds scattering from distant trees.
Medusa recoiled, her serpents hissing in alarm. "Have you lost your mind? You do not call the King of Olympus like a dog! What could you possibly want from him?"
Kratos kept his eyes on the sky, his body tense. "He offered me a choice. True chance. To destroy a god."
Understanding dawned on Medusa’s face, followed by sheer disbelief. "Ares? You would challenge the God of War? For Zeus? Kratos, you are a pawn in their games! He will use you and break you!"
"I am already broken!" Kratos roared, turning on her, his eyes blazing with a fire she hadn’t seen before—not just rage, but a desperate, grim purpose. "What else is left for me? To wander and rot in the quiet? To build a farmhouse on a foundation of skulls? No. If I am to be a weapon, I will be aimed at the throat of the one who made me this way!"
The air began to hum. The clean scent of the wind vanished, replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of a gathering storm. The clouds above swirled, darkening from a soft grey to a bruised purple.
"It is too late for warnings," Medusa whispered, her body coiling, ready to flee. "You have already called the storm."
A bolt of lightning, pure and white, struck the center of the hilltop not ten feet from them. The thunderclap was instantaneous, a physical force that shook the ground and left Kratos’s ears ringing. The light didn’t fade but coalesced, pulling itself together into the form of a man.
Zeus stood there.
He was not in his simple robes. He wore armored greaves and a chest plate, a deep blue mantle draped from his shoulders. His beard was neatly trimmed, his hair a mane of white. The storm was in his eyes, but it was a controlled, focused tempest. Power radiated from him, not as a crushing weight, but as an undeniable fact of the world, like gravity.
His gaze swept past the terrified Medusa, who was already slithering backward, and fixed on Kratos.
A slow, approving smile spread across Zeus’s face. It was not a kind smile. It was the smile of a gambler who has just seen his chosen piece move exactly as he’d hoped.
He took a step forward and extended his hand, not in friendship, but in partnership. In contract. His voice was deep and clear, cutting through the fading echo of thunder.
"Good choice, son."