Chapter 13: 13 The god of war

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13: The god of war 13: The god of war While Kairan learned to fight without moving, Misael learned to fight without stopping.

Her master was not like Kaldreth; in fact, he was his exact opposite.

Gralash was not just a warrior: he was the living embodiment of conflict.

His body, massive and sculpted like a mountain of flesh and bone, bore witness to centuries of battle.

His every gesture, his every breath, spoke of a lifetime spent in the art of killing.

They called him the God of War, and no one ever laughed at the title.

His name was whispered in the shadows, revered and feared in equal measure.

He had fought wars that had changed the course of history, felling entire armies with a single wave of his hands.

His skin was a living map of scars, each telling an anecdote of spilled blood, of torn bodies, of broken souls.

The lower half of his face was mortal flesh, marked by age; The rest was something older, harder, that the torchlight could never fully illuminate.

When Misael first met him, there were no words of welcome, no courtesy.

Gralash peered at him with eyes that burned like two red flames, his gaze penetrating like the force of a landslide ready to overwhelm everything.

Then he attacked.

The first lesson was immediate, brutal, devoid of any consideration.

Misael didn’t have time to understand what was happening: a huge hand grabbed him and hurled him against the rock face with such force that the stone cracked.

The punch that followed tore his flesh and made every bone in his body vibrate.

The pain was excruciating; Misael fell to the ground, coughing up blood, his eyes wide.

“Get up,” Gralash commanded.

It wasn’t a request.

Misael stood up, and the other struck him again.

And again, and again, powerful, merciless blows that seemed never-ending.

But amidst the pain, something began to change.

Gralash didn’t look at him with contempt, nor with cruelty.

He looked at him with the cold assessment of a master watching his disciple endure a test of survival.

And that pain, Misael understood, wasn’t a punishment.

It was a construction.

“Every blow you take,” Gralash explained, his voice like a distant rumble of thunder, “makes you stronger.

Every broken bone knits itself together harder.

The body is a carcass, boy, and the heart and mind are the essence of the true warrior.

I will break your body until your heart is the only thing left intact.” Every day from that moment on, Gralash subjected Misael’s body to tests that bordered on madness: exhausting labors, blows that would have killed a full-grown demon.

She never gave him a break, never a moment’s respite, and the boy took blows and then parried them more and more.

Day after day, the frail child who had crossed the threshold transformed into a demonic boy forged in war: his flesh turned to steel, the scars multiplied on his body like medals, and each new wound seemed to fuel his determination.

“Whenever you think you’ve reached your limit,” Gralash roared one day, “I will push you further.

Because a warrior like you has no limits.

You are the limit.” Misael understood.

His existence became a storm of steel and blood.

Every enemy he encountered, in his eyes, was no more than a stepping stone on the path to a single goal: to become strong enough to never be looked down upon again.

By anyone.

Especially by his brother.

Months passed, and the two brothers grew in strength under the guidance of their masters.

One day, while Kairan was in the Library studying a new meditation technique that would allow him to sense dangers from miles away, even before they manifested, Misael was training with Gralash deep within the Tower.

That day, however, Misael wasn’t simply training.

He was attempting something forbidden.

Immersed in absolute concentration, sweat dripping from his brow and the veins in his arms pulsing beneath his taut skin, the young prince had gathered around him a dark energy that swirled in spirals of black flame.

This was no simple summoning.

It was an ancient and dangerous ritual, one that books always described with the same warning: “Don’t try it.” From atop his pedestal, Gralash watched him, arms folded.

And for the first time, in the gaze of the God of War, something appeared that he had never shown before.

Uneasiness.

“Misael,” he said, a new note vibrating in his fiery voice.

“What are you summoning?” The prince didn’t answer.

He was just uttering the last syllable of the spell when a roar erupted in the room.

The ground cracked with a shrill sound, as if an ancient creature was clawing at reality itself to emerge.

From the cracks in the hellish earth, a sickly greenish glow erupted, a halo of primordial energy that sent shivers down everyone’s spine.

A clawed hand rose: the fingers, long as swords, clad in bone armor, the tendons beneath the blackened skin throbbing with liquid fire.

A head followed: a demonic phoenix, ancient, and its eyes, two globes of blinding green light, burning like stars in a forgotten sky.

Finally, a giant phoenix body emerged from the abyss, and the entire room shook.

The colossus rose to its full height, lowering its head so as not to hit the ceiling.

Gusts of incandescent fire sprang from the monster’s mouth, distorting the air.

Its powerful legs shattered the ground with every movement.

Gralash gritted his teeth and took a step back.

“What have you done, Misael?” The God of War, who had never feared anything, was frightened.

Misael remained silent.

In that instant, he had understood the truth, and the truth had chilled him.

He was not the one controlling the Beast; it was the Beast that had used him to return to the world.

The phoenix roared, a sound that was not a sound, but an earthquake that shook the bones of his chest.

A blast of wings slammed into the room, and the shockwave slammed Misael against the wall like a doll.

The young prince felt his ribs crack, his breath leaving his lungs.

He tried to get up, but he couldn’t: his body wouldn’t respond to his commands.