A guttural growl vibrated through the ravaged landscape. Ares stood his ground, the immense, winged horror before him a grotesque testament to Xenia's decay. Its eyes, twin pools of swirling shadow, fixed on him with predatory intent. Ribs, sharp as blades, jutted from its chest, skeletal wings unfurled, blotting out the already dim, ash-choked sky. “So, the little Reaper has arrived.” Its voice was a grinding cacophony of stone and bone, echoing the despair of the ruined world. “You’re even less impressive than predicted.” Ares said nothing. His gaze scanned the creature, seeking weak points, analyzing its movements. The air around it crackled with malevolent energy, a chilling aura that spoke of ancient, corrupted power. This was not a mere beast; it was a general, a construct of the Shadow Monarch's will. “Did you think this was some fortunate accident?” the monster continued, a horrifying grin splitting its boney snout. “This torn reality? This fragile bridge between worlds?” Its massive head tilted, a mocking gesture. “Foolish boy. You were lured. All of you. A moth to a flame, a predator to fresh kill.” Lyra’s frantic words from his dream slammed into Ares’s mind. *“It’s a trap, Ares! The rift… it’s bait!”* Bait. The word resonated with a dark, sickening truth. He felt the cold touch of manipulation, a puppet on strings he hadn't even seen. “The Monarch anticipated your kind,” the beast sneered, its eyes flickering with dark amusement. “Predicted your insatiable hunger, your mindless drive for power. A perfect lure to draw out… a champion.” A champion. The implication was a slap across the face. Ares, the harbinger of death, the empty vessel, was nothing more than a tool. A pawn in a game far grander and more insidious than he could have imagined. He, who had always commanded, was being commanded. Muscles in his jaw tightened, a tremor running through his usually impassive frame. A cold fire ignited deep within his chest, a sensation he rarely felt: fury. Not the wild, uncontrollable rage of a berserker, but a quiet, dangerous burn. He despised being controlled. He despised being used. His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his scythe. For countless lifetimes, he had moved through existence with an indifferent detachment, a reaper of souls, an observer. Now, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, a purpose, dark and unyielding, began to coalesce within him. He would not be a pawn. He would dismantle this game. He would tear down the board and shatter the pieces. The Shadow Monarch would regret playing him. “You talk too much,” Ares said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. A dangerous quiet settled over him, the calm before a storm. The beast’s taunts faded, replaced by the rising tide of his cold resolve. With a snarl, the winged creature lunged, its skeletal claws extended, aiming to rend him apart. Its speed was astonishing, a blur of shadow and bone. Ares met it not with a panicked retreat, but with a calculated, precise counter. He didn't dodge backward. He moved *into* the attack, a blur of his own. His scythe arced, a dark crescent moon, intercepting the beast’s claw. Steel shrieked against hardened bone, sparks erupting in the gloom. The impact sent a jolt up his arms, but Ares held firm. This was a creature of immense physical might, but also arrogance. It expected him to flee, to be overwhelmed. He wouldn't give it the satisfaction. Dark energy pulsed around the beast's other claw, forming a razor-sharp blade of pure shadow. It swept horizontally, a wide, devastating arc designed to bisect him. Ares bent backward, almost touching the ruined ground, the shadowy blade whistling inches above his chest. He straightened swiftly, a black mist trailing from his form. A cohort of skeletal warriors erupted from the ash-laden earth, their boney hands clutching rusted swords. They rushed the beast, a frantic, suicidal wave. The creature roared, a sound of annoyance more than pain. It swatted the skeletons aside like bothersome flies, sending bone and dust scattering. But their sacrifice wasn't for damage; it was for distraction. A precious second. In that brief window, Ares manifested two more spectral chains, wrapping them around the beast’s immense legs. The chains, forged of necromantic energy, dug into its shadowy flesh, burning and hissing. The creature staggered, thrown off balance, its roar turning to one of genuine fury. “Clever,” the monster hissed, its voice laced with venom. It snapped one of the chains with a violent tug, its power immense. But Ares had anticipated this. He wasn't trying to bind it permanently, only to slow it, to analyze its reactions. He needed more information about this ‘champion’ and the Monarch’s full scheme. He needed to understand the scope of this manipulation. The beast was a key, a broken, taunting piece of the puzzle. Another surge of shadow erupted from the creature, forming grotesque, distorted faces that screamed silently as they lunged for Ares. These were not mere constructs; they were fragments of trapped souls, twisted into weapons. Ares raised his free hand, and a barrier of solidified shadows rose to meet them, absorbing the impact. The screams faded as the shadowy faces dissipated against his defense. He was adapting, using his powers in ways he hadn't needed to before, forced by the sheer overwhelming strength of his opponent. He needed to inflict damage, not just defend. He needed to show this creature, and by extension, its master, that he was not a mere pawn to be discarded. A new ruthlessness hardened his features. The emptiness that usually defined him was momentarily filled with a cold, burning purpose. He lunged again, not at its claws, but directly at its chest. The beast shrieked, perceiving his recklessness as weakness. Its remaining chain-bound leg flailed, its wing beating frantically, stirring up a storm of ash and debris. As he closed the distance, Ares concentrated his energy. His scythe glowed with a dark, necrotic light. He didn’t aim for a fatal blow, not yet. He aimed to wound, to cripple, to gain leverage. The key was information, and pain often loosened tongues. The creature’s skeletal hand shot out, attempting to impale him. Ares twisted, the scythe a blur of motion. He brought it down, not on the hand, but on the joint of its forearm, where bone met shadow. A sickening crunch echoed. A spray of black ichor erupted as the scythe bit deep, severing tendons of darkness and cracking hardened bone. The beast shrieked, a sound of pure agony, its arm hanging uselessly. Its remaining chain snapped taut, digging deeper into its flesh. “You… you think this changes anything?!” it roared, its voice ragged with pain and disbelief. “The Monarch’s will is absolute! The champion is coming! Nothing you do can stop it!” Its words fueled Ares's resolve. The Monarch’s will. He would break it. He would make the Shadow Monarch suffer for daring to use him. He prepared to press his advantage, to extract more details, to turn the creature's pain into answers. The beast, wounded and enraged, gathered its strength, its remaining arm glowing with an ominous surge of dark energy. It prepared for a final, desperate attack, an all-or-nothing blow. Its eyes, still filled with malice, narrowed on Ares, promising oblivion. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and decay. As the beast prepares to attack, a blinding flash of divine light erupts from the distant horizon of the ruined world, and a figure, cloaked in radiant aura, strides purposefully towards them, carrying a sword wreathed in holy fire.

The Champion's Bait