The Martians

PERSEUS MANGAL-GRAH

Perseus runs out of the hangar, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He wants to look back, to catch one last glimpse of his family, but he knows he cannot. His resolve would crumble if he did.

He's always felt a deep, gnawing shame about abandoning Mars, even when he devised the plan to escape to Earth.

He took an oath, one that bound him to protect and defend Mars and its people until his last breath. Though he was no longer a soldier, having left that life behind when he married Elysia and took on the role of an instructor at the academy, the weight of that oath still hung heavy on his shoulders.

Running away had always felt like a shameful choice to him, a betrayal of everything he once stood for. Yet, he knew it was the only way to safeguard Mars's future.

But now, he sees a chance to protect the planet's future without dishonoring himself. Ares was on the brink of death, having traded his life force for immense power. Perseus could not allow that to happen.

Ares had always felt a profound sense of responsibility; it came as naturally to him as breathing. That was a quality essential for a leader. Ares cannot die; he is the future of Mars.

Perseus feels deep regret; he's the reason Ares invoked that ancient power.

He had told him, no, ordered him to clear a path for his mother and siblings, no matter the cost. Ares took that literally, must have thought it was the only way to fulfill the order. Perseus smiles; his son, despite knowing the full extent of the cost of using that forbidden technique, did it anyway. The boy is strong-willed.

Perseus breaks into a sprint, or at least something akin to one—his movements are limited due to his injuries, but he ignores the pain and pushes forward.

"I'm coming, son," he mutters, "I'm coming."

As he gets closer to the source of the streaking lightning, the intensity hasn't diminished one bit since he and Athena passed by earlier. He wonders how much life force and willpower Ares possesses to remain in that state. This has to be the longest anyone has ever sustained the technique in known history.

He ponders how many K'tharr Ares must have killed by now—thousands? Tens of thousands? As he gets closer and closer, his questions are answered.

He sees before him a landscape turned into a macabre tapestry, colossal heaps of dismembered K'tharr littering the ground like fallen leaves after a storm of death. Each step he takes is a squelch through a sea of gore, the crunch of bone and squish of flesh underfoot, the air thick with the stench of decay.

This carnage isn't just tens of thousands; it's hundreds of thousands. The sheer scale of destruction sends shivers down Perseus's spine as he presses forward, awed and horrified by the raw, untamed power his son has unleashed.

He arrives close enough to see ares, and his jaw drops in awe at the sight before him.

Ares stands, or rather, transcends, like a deity amidst chaos. His hair, now an inferno of red, stands upright, a crown of flames that would make even the sun envious. An aura of such dominance emanates from him that it compels Perseus to kneel, as if before a deity of ancient legend.

Around Ares, mirages of him flicker and dance, an illusion of omnipresence; he is everywhere, all at once, a pantheon of one.

He moves through the sea of K'tharr like a storm passing through the night, unstoppable, unyielding.

Lightning does not just follow him; it is commanded by him, a herald of his divine might, each step he takes accompanied by thunderous strikes that sing of his dominion.

Every gesture, every strike, is accompanied by the sky's fury, reducing the K'tharr to ashes and smoke, their forms disintegrating in the wake of his divine wrath.

As if spotting Perseus, Ares turns his gaze upon him. The weight of that stare hits like a physical blow, rooting Perseus to the spot with an intensity that feels like the heat of a thousand suns boring into his very core.

It's as if the gaze of Ares flays him open, exposing every fear, every doubt, every ounce of his mortal frailty, leaving him feeling as vulnerable as a man stripped bare before the relentless, unforgiving scrutiny of a god.

Then Perseus hears Ares's voice in his mind, like thunder, each word a shudder through his bones.

"Hold on, Father. I've located the realm from which these things spawn. I aim to close it."

Ares focuses, ceasing his onslaught. The K'tharr, sensing their imminent doom, swarm him frantically, but they can't breach his aura. Pure heat radiates from him, eviscerating them into ashes before they can even touch him.

Ares ascends into the darkened sky, his figure a blazing contrast against the pitch-black canvas of Mars.

With a motion that seems to halt time itself, he brings his hands together in a celestial clap.

The sound that follows is not just noise but a cataclysmic wave of power, a boom that echoes like the birth of the universe.

In that single, omnipotent moment, every K'tharr on the field collapses, their life extinguished as if by the divine decree of this deity, their bodies falling in unison, an eternal army felled in the blink of an eye.

Ares, having executed his divine clap, now stands amidst the silence that follows the cataclysm. The echo of his power still vibrates through the air, but the immediate threat of the K'tharr has evaporated into nothing more than a memory.

The ground is littered with the remnants of countless K'tharr, their forms no longer recognizable, reduced to mere ashes and charred fragments.

Satisfied with the outcome, he relinquishes the power, his body, no longer bolstered by the ancient force.

The fiery aura that had enveloped him fades completely, his hair returning to its natural color, the glow in his eyes dimming to a human's.

He falls to the ground, and perseus dashes to catch him.