God of Storms |The Anak Series| [COMPLETED!]

Fifteen

"Good. Storm King, draw your weapons and fight. Win, and you are one step closer to your eternal glory!" Tartarus boomed.

Perseus flinched. His voice, it was if he was everywhere, though Perseus supposed he was everywhere. Here, Tartarus reigned everlasting, his red dust tainting every creature in existence.

What was Perseus here?

He breathed, summoning Celestion and Maros for perhaps the last time. There was always that chance.

"You style yourself a King. Prove it, and you will have your desire."

Desire? Glory means nothing. Power ... even power is meaningless when I fight for nothing. See, no one fights beside me.

I'm Alone. This is not new.

Perseus bowed his head.

I have to fight for myself because if I don't, well, who is there to fight for me? I'm alwa—

He almost missed it. Trapped in his own damned self-loathing, he almost missed it—the sudden shift in the wind and the tremble of the Earth—Perseus cursed. There was no time. He braced, raising Maros.

In a single show of power, he lost his breath, his footing, and almost his life. The impact, Gods, Maros was literally steaming. Gasping, Perseus narrowed his eyes.

Someone just launched half a mountain at him ...

This is the Arena. This is the Challenge. This is my victory.

"HA, HA, HA, LITTLE GODLING! WE MEET AGAIN!"

Perseus clenched his jaw. Literally blind, Perseus charged. He ran, and then he flew, screaming some insanity. Maros took a hit, and then another, and mountains fell on him like rain. What was Perseus here? The answer was obvious. He was nothing more than a gnat fighting a storm.

He had to be fighting a thousand monsters, or at the least, several hundred. But that wasn't true—Perseus knew that much.

At least he still fought. Already, ichor slipped down his face, streaming down his face like tears. When was the last time he cried?

Perseus roared, and thunder crashed from the heavens, exploding in a golden fury. In that flash, for but a moment, the Winged Lion spread its wings, curling shadows over its prey.

Stop. Just let it be over. Just standing, Perseus breathed heavily. Oh, the weight. His shoulders ached, screaming for a savior.

"Come on, boy, have you already forgotten?"

Despair bloomed in Tartarus. Perseus raised Maros once more. Think. Think. Damnit. He couldn't just charge again. Time, he needed time.

"I don't care who you are!" He shouted. Even to Perseus, his voice was weak, tired, armored only with broken resilience.

Tartarus laughed maniacally, and Perseus shivered.

"You will care, fool. Remember what you owe me, godling!"

Perseus shuddered. And then he was falling again, drifting and lost. He couldn't even hold his own arms. Celestion burned in his hands, and Maros grew ablaze. Perseus screamed, and then, he knew. He let the fire rise and consume, as fire did. 

The metal twisted and cracked, and Perseus plunged into the night.

Darkness enveloped him, black, slipping into his veins and slinking down his soul.

"Come, hurry, meet your fate!"

Gyges. The master craftsman and infamous smith. Damned Hecatoncheires. How? How could Perseus win?