Ottar descended.
One step. Two. Three.
His momentum built with every stride, muscles contracting and releasing in a controlled rhythm, plumes of smoke pouring from his mouth, steps cratering in his wake.
Bell climbed.
His body rose from below—knees compressing, then detonating upward. Both fists led his ascent, legs blurring against the stairs.
Ottar's knuckles whitened over his sword's handle.
Everything remained grey for Bell.
Ottar's hand moved.
A simple rotation of his wrist. His blade swung off his shoulder in a horizontal arc, steel cutting across the space between them at waist height. A slab of iron. No way under.
Bell's palm struck that sword's spine, its thick body, where steel was flat and didn't cut. He planted his hand there and used it as a pivot. His body left the ground entirely. Heels rising. Torso tilting. Body going horizontal—parallel to the blade—vaulting clean over.
He pushed down on that sword. Iron became a launchpad. That downward force hurled him higher, past the arc of Ottar's swing, inside his guard.
His free arm swung wide. Then looped around Ottar's neck.
And locked.
A Spartan choke—locked mid-air, body still horizontal, riding every ounce of his vault's momentum.
Ottar's own momentum crashed against Bell's bicep, neck crushed under a collision from two opposite forces. His lead foot stomped down, trying to halt his movement. Stone cracked beneath his heel. But his body kept tilting back.
Bell's feet hit the stair behind Ottar.
Marble cratered beneath his landing. His knees bent—absorbing the impact, storing it. Ottar's spine bent back with him, chest facing the sky, back arced like a bow pulled past its limit.
One step forward. Ottar was dragged with him, still locked in his choke.
The boaz's free arm moved on pure reflex. His elbow drove backward, a hammer blow aimed at Bell's ribs.
It connected.
Bones rattled. Bell's grip didn't loosen.
The elbow came again. Harder. A third strike cracked two ribs in Bell's side. Breath hissed through his clenched teeth. His arm tightened anyway. Refusing to let go.
Second step forward.
Ottar released his sword.
The blade clattered against stone. Both of Ottar's free hands seized Bell's arm—fingers digging into forearm, into bicep, wrenching at his hold.
Bell pulled.
Every ounce of force in his legs erupted. His spine extended upward. He heaved Ottar with him—three stairs up, the boaz's heels catching each step, balance slipping each time.
A growl rumbled from Ottar's throat.
Bell held on.
Blood roared in his ears. His forearm burned under Ottar's grip, skin tearing where those fingers dug furrows.
A spear screeched in from his flank, parting air, driving straight for his shoulder. Bell's body moved, his free hand snapped up, fingers wrapping around its shaft, clamping it between the crook of his arm.
He pulled.
Finn was yanked forward. Bell's head moved.
Head met head.
Bone on bone.
Everything went white.
At that exact moment, a sword tore toward Bell from his opposite flank. Hogni had recovered. Had reached them.
Bell's heel turned before thought. His stance adjusted by a fraction, hips rotating, weight transferring to his lead foot, letting Hogni's blade hiss past his side.
But that fraction was enough.
His weight shift changed the angle of his arm against Ottar's throat. A degree. Maybe two. His choke loosened from a vice to a grip—and Ottar felt it instantly.
"Enough."
Ottar spoke, voice muffled against Bell's arm. His soles dug into a stair before Bell could reset, both hands wrenching at his arm, spine straightening with the leverage Bell had accidentally given him and—
He stood.
Bell's entire body lifted off ground. Hanging. Then launched, Ottar's hands throwing him down.
Stairs. Sky. Stairs. Sky.
Bell plunged.
His shoulder cracked against marble first. The impact spun him sideways, body tumbling, grinding against each stair on his way down. One. Three. Seven. Ten—
His palms struck stone.
Right before his skull would have. Fingers digging into marble. His fall arrested.
Then he pushed.
That single point of contact became a pivot. His arms thrust back, momentum against force—and he launched himself back up. A backflip carved through air and Bell landed on a stair above. Perfectly balanced.
He looked up.
Ottar. Finn. Hogni.
He looked back down.
Allen. Bete.
Even further down. Riveria had stopped her chanting, her jaw open as she stared at his back.
And finally, from somewhere deep within him—
Clunk.
Bell cracked his knuckles. His stance shifted entirely. Less Ares.
More Alfia now.
...
..
.
Denatus.
"—EXECUTE—"
A chant rolled through the hall, hundreds of gods screaming in unison. Ishtar looked pleased with herself, chin tilted up under the collective glares of Astraea, Freya, and Loki.
Well. Mostly Freya.
Freya continued to stare at Ishtar with blank eyes. Then she cleared her throat.
Before she could speak, Loki cut in.
"One more word out of any of you and I'm sending you back to heaven myself. Don't think I won't."
Silence fell.
A god dancing on his seat mid-chant froze, face turning white. Another's drumsticks slipped from his fingers, clattering away.
"So..." Loki turned her face toward Hermes. "What is the guild's stance on this, Hermes?"
Hermes kept his mouth shut for three full seconds before reluctantly opening it.
"The guild is neutral. It neither condemns nor supports Bell Cranel."
"—Who the fuck is this, Bell Cranel!?—"
"—Even the guild is backing off, maybe we should—"
"—Neutral!? You're kidding, right?—"
Just when the minor gods wavered, Ishtar spoke once more.
"Oh my~ What are you all so frightened of?" Her voice was honeyed. "Orario thrives because every one of you contributes to its economy. We all built this city together. Even the guild would have to step aside if we simply... stood united."
Her expression shifted. Fear crept into her voice, soft, trembling, utterly unlike her honeyed words from before.
"Bell Cranel killed Ares today. Tomorrow? He'll come for the rest of you and your children. None of us are safe so long as he draws breath." She clutched her heart, tears glistened—perfectly calculated.
"So don't be afraid, everyone. Let's stand together and... eliminate him."
Most gods knew what she was doing.
They didn't care.
They wanted a threat gone. Bell Cranel was living proof that their own children might someday turn on them.
A god spoke with a tremble in his voice, legs shaking under Loki's glare.
"—Exe...cute—"
"—Execute—"
More followed. Gaining strength from numbers.
Astraea looked at Ishtar beneath the rising chants. When her voice came, it was final.
"Ishtar. I will send you back to heaven. Here. Now. It is not a threat. It is a promise."
Ishtar smirked.
"My, my~ Such righteous fury. But go ahead, Astraea, kill me. See what happens to your precious mortal when the vote passes anyway."
She tilted her head, eyes glinting.
"I might be the one sending you back instead, after your mortal's execution."
Hestia snapped her head up, a tear still visible on her cheek.
Freya said nothing. Her silence was worse than any words. Those violet eyes simply bored into Ishtar, and Ishtar felt every second of it, savored it like nectar.
Astraea's fingers dug into her armrest.
Loki was already looking at Ishtar the way one looks at a cockroach that needs stepping on.
"—EXECUTE—"
The chanting regained momentum. Louder. More frenzied. Loki's threats ineffective now.
"—EXECUTE—"
"—EXECUTE—"
"—EXECUTE—"
It reached a crescendo, then—
The hall's doors exploded.
Something crashed through, slamming against a far wall. A dark elf stumbled from the wreckage, blood matted across his forehead, sword arm trembling as he pointed it at something outside.
"Hogni!?" Freya's voice rang out, shocked.
Hogni's unfocused eyes jerked toward his goddess.
"Goddess... Stay back." His voice was desperate.
Before Freya could answer, another section of wall detonated inward. Dust and debris rained on nearby gods, who scattered with shrieks.
Bete slid from within, coming to a stop just before Loki's feet.
"Bete!? What happened to you!?" Loki reached for him.
The werewolf snarled, then rose on unsteady legs, turning his back to Loki. His fur stood on end, every muscle locked, facing the same direction as Hogni's trembling sword.
Screech.
Marble on marble. A sound that made every god's heart stutter, some primal dread climbing their spine before their minds could catch up.
"W-who is... that?"
A god asked, teeth chattering without understanding why.
Screech.
Freya moved first. She rose from her seat and walked to the opening, glancing outside. Her eyes widened. Her body froze, breath catching in her throat.
Astraea and Hestia had a direct view from their seats. Both went rigid at the same time. Astraea's arms went slack. Hestia's hand flew to her mouth.
Loki. Hephaestus. Demeter. Hermes.
Every single one of them looked outside and felt their pupils constrict.
Screech.
Bell was walking toward them.
Sword gashes, spear wounds, and countless injuries marred his bare upper body, each one closing as they watched. Muscle knitting beneath torn skin, old flesh peeling away to reveal new.
But that wasn't what made them freeze.
He was dragging an entire section of staircase behind him.
One end rested on his shoulder, fingers wrapped around marble. The other scraped against ground, carving a trench through stone behind him.
Under gazes ranging from terror to disbelief to something close to fascination, Bell dragged that staircase toward them.
Every voice in the hall died. Almost. Somewhere behind, a god was still chanting—voice thin, words falling into a whimper before it, too, fell silent.
Bell let the stair go.
It landed dead center, right in the middle of their Denatus.
He turned and sat down on that step, facing every god. Legs apart, elbow on his knee, knuckles against his cheek. A gash along his forehead was knitting itself back together, blood sliding down his temple in slow drops, falling from his jaw to marble.
Silence fell.
Bell did not speak.
Gods did not speak.
One minute. Two.
His eyes found Hestia, where the outline of a tear still lingered on her face.
Finally, he opened his mouth.
"You all made my Goddess cry."
Faces changed.
"Tell me..."
No one breathed.
"What should I do with you all?"
...
..
.
***
[300 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter]
[8 chapters ahead on P@tr3on = [email protected]/Not_Aaryan]
...
[Authors Thoughts]
If only... If only Ishtar knew who Bell was, that she knew him, quite well actually. Don't worry, she'll know in a bit, It'll be hilarious to see her face then...
Hahaha.
...
Alright... I've had this on my mind for some time now, I want to ask you all, do you all get what I'm writing or is it getting too detailed and complex to understand in fights?