Blood of the Godslayer

The night was still deep.

The ruins of Rhodes Island whispered in the wind.

The once-glorious city was now nothing but broken walls and rubble. The air was thick with the smell of ash and blood after the burning. Beneath the night sky, the Colossus of Rhodes stood silently in all its towering majesty.

The shadow of the Colossus of Rhodes covered most of Rhodes Harbor.

Every movement it made unleashed an earthquake-like roar, grinding more buildings into dust. Spartan soldiers and Greek soldiers caught in the melee suffered everywhere across the ground.

But the greatest number of dead were the civilians. Their bodies lay silently amid the ruins, as though still telling of how fragile ordinary lives were beneath the war between gods and men.

Ian had arrived too late.

He could not save any of this.

Kratos felt not the slightest pity for the civilians either. He stood there like a statue tempered by war. The scars beneath his bald head were like brands, while the deep wound at the corner of his right eye seemed to speak of past madness. His bronze skin was covered in the marks of battle, his muscles knotted like stone.

Every inch of him was etched with the will of a Spartan warrior.

Ian knew this character as well.

Kratos had once been an ordinary Spartan warrior. In a desperate battle, he had been deceived by Ares, the God of War, and sacrificed his soul in exchange for power. When he discovered that Ares had used him to slaughter his innocent wife and daughter, the flames of vengeance consumed his reason. He killed Ares and ascended to the throne of Olympus's God of War.

Yet none of it ended there. Kratos discovered that he had long been bound by the shackles of