The battlefield wasn’t what it used to be. Once, Ares had roamed the blood-soaked plains of Troy, had reveled in the clash of swords, the screams of the dying. Now, war had changed. No more bronze shields or spears—just drones, missiles, and men who waged wars from behind screens.

He sat at a bar in some forgotten corner of the world, nursing a glass of whiskey, watching the news flicker across the screen. Another war, another conflict. The mortals still fought, but without honor. Without fury.

“You look miserable,” a voice drawled beside him.

Ares turned his head slightly. You slid onto the barstool, effortlessly radiant in a silk dress that clung to her like a second skin. You always found him, no matter how far he tried to retreat.

“I’m bored,” he admitted. “The world doesn’t need a war god anymore.”

You smirked. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. There’s still plenty of bloodshed. You just don’t know where to look.”

He scoffed, swirling his drink. “This?” He nodded at the screen. “Cowards pressing buttons, dropping bombs from miles away? There’s no glory in it.”

You leaned in, her perfume intoxicating. “You were never about glory. You were about chaos. And chaos, my dear Ares, will always have a place in this world.”

Ares frowned but said nothing. You weren’t wrong. He could feel it—the simmering rage in men’s hearts, the primal urge to destroy. It hadn’t faded. It had just changed form.

“You think I should join them?” he muttered. “Suit up, step onto a battlefield that doesn’t even require warriors anymore?”

You tilted your head. “No. I think you should remind them what a real war looks like.” Something dark and old stirred in his chest. A slow grin crept onto his face. Yes. Maybe it was time.

Time to remind the world that war was not just strategy and technology. It was rage. It was terror. It was him.

Ares tossed back his drink, set the glass down, and walked out into the night. War wasn’t dead. It had just been waiting.