A village has grown to a thriving city. From hundreds to thousands.

A dark night ignored by the festival and its excitement.

A pavilion lit and filled with flame and flowers of every color. A decoration to signify a glorious occasion.

A thousand young men reveling in stories of war and of the colorful sight around them.

A happy occasion, a festival for blood. The young men here would soon come to take from others.

A bloody affair known as war that would steal from the lives of all.

Warriors of older generations stand above the crowd of young men, and share stories to call for fame, glory, and blood.

On an unadorned bench lay a man. No one would question his gray hair. The man lay face up, and if it wasn’t for the subtle movements of his chest many would think him dead.

His scarred face was worn and tired. His eyes lazily open but a grayish dead.

The warrior laying would in usual cases be ignored or shunned at such an occasion. However every warrior, every young man, or even any child would know not to disrespect him. His reputation is fierce and glorious.

The stories continue long, each of a bragging sort. To claim glory from the head of another. To claim fame from a meaningless battle. Such stories did not interest the gray haired man. He instead talked to a tall man sitting beside him. To an outsider he was not listening but responding anyway.

Eventually the number of warriors sharing grew too many and the young men did not wish to miss out. A chant grew quickly among the entire pavilion even the older warriors who were passed over joined in the call.

“GOD. OF. WAR.” Repeated indefinitely. A call to a specific man.

“They’re calling for you.” The tall man said.

“I can still hear.” The gray haired man said rudely.

The gray haired warrior slowly got to his feet. He grabbed a cane and slowly limped, feeling for objects in his way. Once the man was revealed to the crowd, immense cheers filled the entire crowd.

The man eventually found the stairs leading up to the stage and stood above the crowd.

“I am Warrior Gunnar, the God of War.” The crowd made an ear splitting cheer.

“Many don’t care for my stories and try to pick out the parts they don’t like. However, those people are not Gods are they?” The crowd fell silent. A group of about twenty men yelled out in laughter. Nobody had expected the God of War to be a braggart.

“War is not just a simple grab for glory. War is where you try to kill me and I try to kill you. Lives hold value, but you don’t gain it from taking others.” The man’s words even if not understood had a certain power. He had successfully brainwashed many young men.

“We try to kill each other, and the reason?” Warrior Gunnar asked, but all the men remained silent.

“The reason we fight wars is not glory, fame, or honor. If you seek such things in war you are no longer a warrior, but a mere rogue.” The Warrior’s declaration filled the hearts of many. Though they did not understand what he meant, his words had a certain pull and righteousness to them.

“Warriors do not fight for glory, fame, or honor. Warriors fight not because we want these things, but because we have things behind our back.” The warriors' words confused nearly all in attendance.

“To our backs we have our family, our friends, and our people. Because we have these things behind our backs we become warriors. Warriors are here to protect, to put ourselves in between the enemy and our people. That is our job.” The loudest cheer, now a battle cry, was heard in the pavilion, likely waking every person in the city.

“Now, you call me a God… let me tell you the story of how I became one.” Another battlecry sounded from a thousand men.

God of War Gunnar began his legend.

I was at a meeting similar to this one.

Many warriors held my words to their hearts. They fought with their lives in mind.

I was honored during the ceremony of the warrior. However my appearance did not even matter to me anymore. I looked at the old mirror and saw clumps of gray hair and scars which were pierced only by my eyes.

Young men became warriors in front of my eyes. Kneeling in respect to a knight.

Every young man looked to me as if asking for the privilege to tie their warriors tie for the first time. However I refused to tie them, I did not wish for one to be above another.

The city was in a time of growth which made weapons easier to acquire.

We also had good conditions, the lord has made our land prosperous. Plenty of food and beds allowed for good progress and high morale. All the young warriors trained under me, and none dared to slack off. The difference between earlier generations was huge. But what did the improvement mean?

On the way to the main battlefront, any battle was handled easily by myself and my men. These twenty men had been with me since the previous war. They were all outstanding, and would be known as heroes.

We arrived at the main battlefront with little cost in men or supplies. By this time it was getting to a cold part of winter and snow would soon fall.

Then once again I was ordered to the commander's tent.

Inside was the Lord. I greeted him, however he said there was no need for such manners. He greeted me like a friend, but told me I would have another mission.

I told him that I was his warrior to the end.

My mission was simple, with my twenty men I was to block the enemy advance in Franville. The few warriors there would also be under my command.

I wanted to know the cause of this war and the meaning of my battle. An enemy noble had challenged the lord to war. He wanted our land and our prosperity. I knew I could use my life to protect it.

We immediately set haste on the way to our mission. It took us a week on horseback to arrive at the small town. Here it was already snowing, however the cold was only unknown to myself.

A great river passes right by the town making it a key position in the war. If the enemy were to take this town or even pass by it they would gain an advantage.

We were greeted as saviors by all the people in the town. High expectations were upon us hardening our will. A feast too big for the citizens and too small for warriors. We refused to eat more than a small pittance in fear of taking from the people.

The town held nearly a hundred people, only about a dozen of which were warriors. The rest were women or children.

I immediately investigated the town, finding out everything I could. The town had stone walls about a man and a half tall. There were two entrances to the town, one facing the river and the other opposite.

On the big river there is a single bridge six men wide. The enemies would surely come from the bridge; the river was impossible to pass otherwise without any watercraft.

For a week we continued fortifying our position. I made the call that we would defend at the bridge.

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The bridge was a good choke point, and the city wall was not tall enough to give a huge advantage.

We made fortifications on the bridge and set out a scout to search the area.

We were low on food, but with enough scraping by, we would be able to hold out longer.

Another week passed when we first got the sign of our enemy. A dozen horseback men.

The enemy likely underestimated the defense or were afraid of bringing attention to this area.

Sending so few warriors made it easy to kill them.

We waited till they got on the bridge, where they were tightly packed. Then all at once a dozen arrows strike their opponents. A dozen loud thuds followed by a dozen horses running rampant.

We calmed the horses and brought them to the town.

We buried the bodies after taking anything of worth. Respect still belonging to them.

The next group were three dozen infantry warriors. They died just as easily.

Another group of graves buried, belonging to the heavens.

Another month passed and there were near a hundred graves. We were just scraping by for food. The cold did not affect me however it did my warriors. Stiff joints and a cough held back their performance.

Still fighting and killing were too easy, the enemies' lives felt like a waste. I had to give them the respect they deserved.

I didn’t know that after the next battle I would be known as a god of war and blood.

The day in question started in the early morning. Snow falling and a bitter chill apparent to all but myself.

A horn signaled by a scout alerted us to the enemy.

We all gathered in our positions at our bridge when Handlar the scout of my twenty men approached.

He informed us of our enemy. Nearly two hundred infantry and fifty cavalry.

His words caused a drop in morale. However my twenty men were not that weak minded.

We waited for the enemy’s approach.

Then we saw the enemy. Too big to count their numbers.

I ordered my men to fire once they got within range, and to aim for cavalry once they got close enough.

One thing we had enough of was arrows.

Once within range arrows flew, however the enemy was too far away to see the exact result.

The enemy immediately started to charge. Cavalry starting the quickest.

Arrows flew constantly with my extremely skilled men quickly reloading.

A minute drew on as the enemy's charge brought them closer to us.

The horses were close to us, however that made them easier targets.

In the end not a single cavalry was able to make it to us. However it seemed we underestimated the enemy's number. If they numbered only two hundred then each of my men would only need to kill ten. Which would be a possible task with their skill, however when the enemy made it to the bridge their numbers were overwhelming.

Just with a quick glance I could estimate over a hundred enemies still left. The enemies brought out their short bows and started to fire. Our cover helped but their numbers were too many. We slowly picked down their numbers when possible.

I was in deep thought on what move to make next. It seemed like the enemy was not too smart with their only option being to charge. However, fighting at the bridge was now disadvantageous. The enemy could spread out along the riverside and fire arrows.

The town wall would be better at this point.

I ordered a retreat, all my men went running with shields to their back catching many arrows. The sky was a beautiful red from the sunrise scattered with pieces of glimmering iron.

I went as well, however when I heard a familiar yelp I turned around.

Handlar my scout did not have a shield, his back filled with several arrows. He fell to the ground and coughed blood. His chest was no longer moving. Dead. He had died too easily.

My mind went dark. Thoughts filling my head. Slowly losing my sanity and control.

My men have been with me since long ago.

My men supported me even after the war.

My men helped me escape the terror torture had brought me.

My men were my responsibility.

My men were my friends and brothers.

My men were threatened.

My man was killed.

My eyes focused, my ears listening closely.

I turned back to face a rain of arrows. However my vision seemed to slow them down. I easily dodged the dozen arrows aimed for me. My speed was faster, but I knew I was damaging my body for this.

I dropped my shield and charged to the enemy with a battlecry heard by the world. My body was moving on its own, my only thought was my objective.

My feet moved like a blur each step covering massive ground.

I charged the closest man who died before pulling his sword. The next dozen men tried to attack me, but their attacks were too slow and easily dodged. I picked up a bloody sword and swung in a great circle killing the dozen men.

Then I held the bridge.

I killed and killed.

The bodies piled up and up.

My mind turned all my thoughts into a single line of bright light. Instinct guided that light into a path that I followed. My speed was faster than any animal I had ever seen. But the deadly part came from the precision and skill of the blades. No hesitation in the blades, they easily cut and changed directions in the air just like they were flying.

No time to think as I just followed the path of white light.

I ran into a group much bigger than a dozen. With my sight I could easily weave through their attacks.

My movements made me think of a dance, each movement extremely precise, that left a line of cut necks in its wake.

My body moving merely based on instinct moved through flips and spins that would not be possible without a disregard for pain.

A pile of bodies lay on the bridge and it was hard to find footing on the ground instead of a body. Eventually I gave up on using only normal footing.

Extremely focused I missed many details.

The enemies kept coming.

I effortlessly killed them. Overcoming them with speed akin to a demon.

When I finally came back to my senses I was on top of a pile of bodies.

There were about a dozen enemies left and they were all on their knees shaking for a reason other than cold.

The only enemy not on his knees was a commander. He only looked at me without changing expression, stunned.

Minutes pass and nothing.

I slowly became more aware of the scene around me.

The pile of bodies let out a small steam coming from their hot blood.

The river was dyed red and dozens of bodies were flowing down the river.

I was covered in blood and let out the same small steam.

There were a couple arrows sticking into non vital areas of my back. Cuts all over my body, non life threatening. My limbs would not move easily.

I saw blood, so much of it, and my blood was no different than the rest.

.

How many had I killed? One hundred? Two hundred?

.

I took their lives as if they were nothing.

.

But this was war, either they die or I do.

.

Someone needs to do the killing to protect.

.

Did it have to be me?

.

Could anybody else have done this?

.

They were also fighting. Were they also trying to protect something?

.

We each fight for ourselves, can we ever have peace?

.

This is the furthest from peace isn’t it?

.

Because of me?

Warrior Gunnar finished his story.

Many mouths lay open, fazed by the story.

“Hundreds of men by himself?” Many are questioning his story.

“Impossible right? He must be exaggerating.” Many said with weary expressions.

“It’s all true, we were there.” nineteen men stood and dispelled the false rumors.

Many still stay dazed until a chant goes through the crowd.

“GOD. OF. WAR.” a chant only broken by one man's speech.

“ENOUGH, we fight wars to protect our people, not for an enemy's head. Did you ever think that our enemies are also fighting for their own people?” Warrior Gunnar’s words calmed the crowd then questioned it.

Many fell silent and contemplated his words.

“Everybody fights for their own and the strongest come out on top. Wouldn’t that mean strength is righteousness.” His words once again filled with a strong intent and contrary sway.

“Wrong. Strength does mean you are right. Righteousness comes from our belief and heart. We can learn through battle that war is not a righteous thing. War makes us fight others for ourselves.” His words felt a deep resonance from those in attendance.

“We know that war is wrong yet we still ask for more. This is not right. We must desire peace otherwise we are rogues. War is a means to peace. If we want war it means that we do not want our peace.” A sudden understanding went through the crowd.

“Every man has a story. Their lives are just as precious as my own. War takes the stories of thousands of men and devours them. If we want war we want to leave others stories to be devoured.” Many started to think deeper. The meaning of their actions?

“However the dead are not truly dead until we forget them. We keep their stories alive and carry them with us in our hearts. That is where courage comes from.”

“Our strength is to protect our righteous hearts, and our righteous hearts are here to protect our people.” A thunderous cry left the pavilion.

“We are warriors of the dead, their legacy passing on for the eternal future.”