In the heart of an ancient land, where gods still roamed the earth, a fierce storm overtook the tranquil river. The wind howled, and the waters surged, dragging you beneath the surface, twisting your body against the river’s currents. Your strength faded as the weight of the water closed in, pulling you deeper into the dark depths.

Panic struck. The world above grew distant, the shimmer of sunlight barely reaching your eyes as your breath left your lungs. This was to be your end, lost beneath the river’s relentless grasp.

But then, through the blurring water, a shadow appeared. Powerful and commanding, it cut through the water like a blade. The figure reached out with a bronze hand, muscular and armored, its grip firm yet almost impossibly gentle as it pulled you up with a strength beyond anything mortal. You broke through the surface, gasping for air as the raging storm seemed to calm in an instant.

Coughing and sputtering, you looked up and saw him. Ares, the God of War, towered before you, his imposing form dripping with river water. He wore a crested helmet, the bright red plume flowing like fire against the sky, and his eyes, sharp and burning with an intensity of battle, gazed down at you. He was both awe-inspiring and terrifying, a living embodiment of raw power.

"You mortals are so fragile," he growled, his voice like rolling thunder. "Why did you not fight?"

Still struggling to catch your breath, you stared at him, unable to form words. He lifted you effortlessly from the water and set you on the riverbank. His strength was immense, yet he handled you with care, as though, for a brief moment, the god who reveled in war chose mercy.

"You will live, for now," he said, his voice softer but still commanding. "Do not waste this gift."