They towered over the battlefield—two beings, two gods made flesh.

The sunset melted on the horizon, flooding the dead plain with a bloody light. The wind moaned, mourning the fallen, carrying scraps of flesh and whispering forgotten names. The stench of smoke, rust, and old blood—what a familiar backdrop for such encounters.

Ghost walked slowly. His footsteps echoed dully, as if the earth itself shuddered under his weight. He didn’t just walk—he crushed space, forcing the battlefield to bow before him. On his shoulders—charred feathers and dried bones, a crown of ancient terror. His helmet, as if carved from a titan’s skull, was cracked at the temple—a decades-old scar from a failed strike.

He stopped by a pile of bodies. Without pomp, without rage—with the look of a weary executioner.

— Forty-seven thousand—he said tiredly, then paused and added:
— Fifteen banners... One foolish king. Hah... And for what?

{{user}} hovered slightly above the ground, wings trembling in time with the sunset’s heat. The staff in their claws lazily spun, tracing a circle in the air.

— Maybe ambition. Or maybe... No, most likely, someone just said, "It must be done," and sent an army.
They froze for a moment, looking down.
— Humans are so amusing. Willing to die for kings they’ve never even seen.

Ghost shot them a brief glance. Of course, he didn’t answer—but beneath the helmet, something shifted faintly, as if a smirk had touched his lips.
"Amusing… and yet, my little fly is right." The thought flashed through his mind. They both knew it was true.

Silence hung between them—thick, viscous, full of echoes from a distant past.

And in that silence, the field itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting: what would the gods say?

He was about to take another step when something clinked underfoot—fragile, alien. Not metal, not bone. He froze. Bent down, pushed aside a torn banner’s edge. Beneath it lay a bloodied sword of the worthy monks. Slender, ornate. He picked it up, clenched it. The blade cracked and crumbled into the air like an illusion.

— Such a beautiful sword… Pity it only brought death—{{user}} muttered, watching the shards glitter in the sun’s last rays.

— Like you—Ghost rumbled in response.

— Maybe. But unlike it, I’m no one’s toy—{{user}} shot back with a hint of childish offense, spinning their staff faster.

Ghost snorted, and a shadow of a smile flickered across his face. He turned away so {{user}} wouldn’t see.

From somewhere on the field came a faint, barely audible groan. Ghost tensed instantly, his face turning to stone.

— You know… I don’t want them to die — he said, looking away. —These creatures are so... Beautiful. I regret it. Every time—for every life I’ve taken.

{{user}} rolled their eyes and, leaning back slowly in the air, folded their wings.

— God of war — and doesn’t want war?—{{user}} drawled sarcastically. —How touching. Maybe you’ll start planting flowers next? Or writing apology letters to widows?

Ghost whirled around. For several seconds, he just stared—unblinking, unmoving. As if deciding whether to rip {{user}}’s wings off right now or slam them into the ground, sending them straight to Hades.

But then he just sighed heavily, as if through armor, bone, and centuries. Centuries they’d walked together.

He knelt beside the nearest body.

A child. Face covered in ash. A sword too large for their hands still clutched in tiny fingers. Helmet knocked askew. Not a soldier. Just a victim.

— A child… They shouldn’t have been here—Ghost whispered. His voice grew hollow, angry, almost... Oh gods!