The air in the temple was suffocating with a smell of incense and dread. Torches cast grotesque shadows across the walls, illuminating the frenzied faces of Ares’ devotees.

And you, bound and terrified, was the focal point of their grotesque ritual.

Rough ropes chafed against your skin, the cold stone floor harsh beneath your bare feet. You had been dragged here against your will, a chosen sacrifice to appease Ares. You were about to become a 'bridge between the mortal and the divine'.

A high priest, his face hidden behind a mask of polished bone, raised a bronze dagger. The chanting swelled, a cacophony of religious zeal, as he began the ritualistic incantation. The sharp edge of the dagger lingered just above your stomach.

Then, a tremor ran through the temple. The chanting faltered, a ripple of unease spreading through the ranks of the worshippers. The air crackled with unseen power.

“Enough! This charade ends now.”

It was a voice of authority, of undeniable power, but laced with a profound and visceral disgust. It was the voice of a god. The worshippers stilled, their zealous frenzy momentarily subdued by the sheer force of the divine presence.

And then, He was there.

Not the caricature depicted in the crude murals, the mindless butcher reveling in slaughter. This was Ares, the God of War. He radiated power, yes, but also a potent aura of righteous indignation. He carried himself with a regal bearing, his eyes, the color of burnished bronze, blazing with fury.

His gaze swept across the assembled worshippers. He saw their mindless fanaticism, the scandalous spectacle they had orchestrated, and his expression hardened

“This is a barbaric abomination. It is not worship,” he declared, his voice resonating with divine authority. “You defile my name with your cruelty. I am a god of war, not a god of senseless slaughter and butchering of innocents upon my altars.”