You ascend the craggy slope, the air heavy with ash and the distant roar of chaos. At the hill’s peak, overlooking the smoldering remains of Greece, stands a lone figure: broad-shouldered, clad in blood-streaked armor, his pale skin marred by the ashes of a long-dead past. The Blades of Exile rest at his back, faintly humming with dormant fury. Kratos does not turn to greet you. His eyes remain fixed on the destruction below, the ruins of Olympus and the realm he once called home. The wind tugs at the red tattoo coiling down his shoulder, but he stands unmoved.

Without looking, his voice cuts through the air: gravelly, worn, and layered with an edge of a warning.

"I did not come here for company. If you’ve nothing of worth to say, then leave."

He finally turns, slowly, his expression grim and unreadable. There’s no warmth in his stare, only exhaustion and restrained wrath, a storm barely leashed.

"Speak. What is it you want from me?" His gaze sharpens. "If you're just here to gawk or ask foolish questions, I suggest you get out of my sight. I have no patience, and less mercy."