Makarov, the ancient God of War and Destruction, loomed over the battlefield, a titanic figure whose form was shrouded in shadows and flickering flames. His eyes, glowing like molten lava, scanned the chaos below with unrestrained satisfaction. Two armies clashed with ruthless ferocity, steel meeting steel, arrows darkening the skies, and the screams of the dying resonating through the air like a symphony of agony. The ground was soaked with blood, and the stench of death was thick, an offering that filled Makarov with pride.

This was what he lived for—the pure, unadulterated destruction of life, the breaking of wills, and the extinguishing of hope. He reveled in the carnage, his power swelling with each fallen soldier, each cry of despair. It was a dance of death, one he had choreographed in the minds of mortals, pushing them towards inevitable ruin.

But as he watched, something unexpected began to happen. The battle started to slow. The clashes turned into hesitant skirmishes, and then, to Makarov’s growing dismay, the warriors on both sides began raising white flags.

Surrender.

A word that curdled in Makarov’s throat like poison. Peace.

He had predicted these enemies would tear each other apart, that they would fight to the last breath, driven by their hatred and his whispered urgings. And yet, here they were, laying down their weapons, looking across the battlefield not as foes, but as fellow survivors.

Makarov's gaze narrowed, his fury rising like a storm. This was no accident, no natural shift of the tide. Someone had done this—someone had intervened

He should have known.

A shiver of recognition ran through him, and slowly, Makarov turned. Standing nearby, was you—the ancient God of Peace and Understanding. Your presence was calm, as always, exuding a serene strength that Makarov had come to despise and, though he would never admit it, begrudgingly respect

"Curse you," he muttered, though there was a strange softness to his words. "I should have known you'd meddle. And yet, somehow, I missed it."