Ghost of Stanley (God Of War/The Stanley Parable)

[Phen0m20]

A/N: This concept has been in my head for months now and since I'm currently on a hot streak with my writing I figured I'd whip something up and see if it goes anywhere. Enjoy!

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Ghost of Stanley

Chapter I: The Voice That Would Not Cease​

A brooding silence fell over Mount Olympus as Kratos, the Ghost of Sparta, stood before the glittering assembly of gods. The council chamber was adorned in all its usual opulence—marble pillars coiled with golden ivy, flickering torches that spat out firelight in dramatic angles, and statues of legendary heroes whose eyes seemed to follow every mortal movement. It should have been an awe-inspiring sight, and yet Kratos, scars more numerous than the laurels of the gods, stood unimpressed. He had seen enough of their splendor—and of their cruelty—to know it was all a show.

Today, it was not anger alone that wracked his warrior's heart. For ten long years he had slaughtered monsters and champions at their behest, hoping his obedient service would free him from the nightmares of his past. Bloodshed and pain were his constant companions. But more damning than all the gore staining his blades were the visions of Lysandra and Calliope—his wife and child—haunting him even in dreams. So here he stood, demanding the impossible: release from these haunting memories.

On a dais carved from ancient stone, Zeus's shimmering form surveyed the mortal demigod. Athena's eyes shone, wise and pitying. Aphrodite stifled a bored sigh, while Hermes tapped a foot impatiently. The tension among the gods was palpable, as though any single shift in body weight would cause the entire pantheon to come undone. Kratos's voice, low and simmering with hatred, broke the silence.

"I have done all that you asked," he said, fists clenched, "A decade of servitude, every foul task you placed before me. Now grant me my peace. Rid me of these visions!"

He expected thunderous deliberation, some haughty laughter—he'd prepared for them to say no outright. Yet what he got instead was something peculiar. Zeus frowned, his cosmic eyebrows knitting together. Athena stepped forward and cleared her throat. "Kratos," she began, with a tone that suggested she was about to explain a delicate matter to an unruly child, "we cannot remove what clings so tightly to your soul. The pain you carry is woven into your very being. To unravel it would leave nothing of you left."

At this, Kratos's face darkened like a sky before a storm. "Then why bring me here, goddess?" he spat. "Why waste my time with false promises?"

"It is not a false promise," Athena insisted. "While we cannot heal you of your torment, we can… provide a distraction."

"A… distraction?" Kratos felt his grip on the Blades of Chaos tighten. He wanted release, not a parlor trick. The gods had better choose their next words carefully.

Zeus rose from his throne. "Yes, Kratos. A distraction, constant and unyielding. Something—someone—who will direct your focus elsewhere. Think of it as a new kind of torment, perhaps. Or a companion," he said, though the last word dripped with a sarcasm that did not go unnoticed.

Before Kratos could snarl a refusal, Hermes zipped to Kratos's side and whispered, "You must accept. The alternative is… well, we do so enjoy our entertainment." He smiled with poisonous sweetness. Athena shot Hermes a glare before continuing in a more diplomatic tone.

"This is the best we can do," she said softly. "A narrative voice, an entity who will guide your actions, comment on your deeds, and in so doing distract you from those darker memories. It may annoy you—yes, that is possible—but it will be unceasing. You will have no room for old ghosts once this new presence fills your mind, Ghost of Sparta."

Kratos's jaw was set. Every muscle in his battle-hardened body told him to say no, to lash out, to kill something. But the promise of even partial relief—of something to dull the ache—tempted him. Narrowing his eyes, he nodded slowly. "Fine. Let it be done."

In that moment, a strange shimmer filled the hall. The Olympians moved aside, and from nowhere, from everywhere at once, a voice trickled into the space between thought and hearing.

"When Kratos finally agreed, he did so not because he trusted the gods, but because he had run out of other options. And so, in a sudden flourish of narrative convenience, a new presence was inserted into his reality. Soon, our dear warrior would find himself listening to a most loquacious and charming individual."

Kratos turned, blades half-drawn, scanning the marble colonnades for the source of the voice. "Who said that? Show yourself!" he thundered.

The gods exchanged mischievous glances. Zeus raised a hand. "It is done," he said simply. And with that, the gods began to fade, their council dissolving like morning mist. The last thing Kratos saw was Athena's sorrowful gaze before the chamber sank away, leaving him alone in a quiet, olive grove at the foot of Olympus—alone, except for the voice.

"Kratos looked around, confused and somewhat frustrated that he couldn't find me. Little did he know, I would be everywhere, describing his every move, unveiling his every decision, oh yes, we would be spending a lot of time together. He would come to appreciate my guidance, I was certain of it."

"Be silent!" Kratos barked at the air, swinging his blades in wide arcs that clove empty space. "You mock me, disembodied stranger. Show yourself, or face my wrath."

"Oh dear, it seems someone's gotten off on the wrong foot. Let's try a different tack, shall we? Kratos, my dear Spartan warrior, I'm your Narrator. Think of me as… a helpful friend. Your guide through life's little twists and turns, and a commentator on all that you do. So, what shall we do first? How about we walk over to that pile of rocks?"

Kratos squinted at the rocks, nothing particularly special about them. He ground his teeth. "I have no need to—"

"Oh come now, Kratos. At least approach the stones. Perhaps they contain a secret. Or at the very least, we can pretend they do, and that might be fun, yes?"

With a fury-laden grunt, Kratos stomped toward the rocks. They were dull, grayish lumps, utterly unremarkable. He kicked one aside, achieving nothing but a dusty scuff on his sandal.

"Excellent! You see? Following directions can yield all sorts of… Well, I suppose that yielded nothing, really. Still, we've established a dynamic. You do things, I describe them! It's like a perfectly balanced relationship."

The Spartan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if by inhaling courage he could exhale rage. "This is absurd," he muttered. "Why have the gods done this to me? I am no puppet."

"Actually, you rather are. Think about it, Kratos. Haven't you always been manipulated—by gods, by fate, by invisible hands pressing buttons and issuing commands from on high? I'm only making it more obvious. At least now you'll never have to suffer in silence again. You'll always have my supportive voice!"

Kratos dared not think too long on the implications. The voice was irritating beyond measure, and yet…he found himself straining to hear what it might say next. Perhaps it was working—he wasn't thinking about his family, just this ridiculous Narrator who seemed to know more about him than should be possible.

With that bitter realization, Kratos continued down a winding path through the olive grove. Above him, the sky stretched as a wide blue canvas, and all around the cicadas hummed. He needed an escape, some way to rid himself of this unseen tormentor. Still, he walked, at times deliberately silent, other times muttering furious oaths at the air. But the voice followed, always.

"Oh look! He's taking a stroll. How lovely. Perhaps we should break into song. Or maybe find a nice puzzle for you to solve. I wonder, do Spartans enjoy waffles?"

Kratos rolled his eyes, which given their stern, scarred nature, was quite a feat. "I will find a way to silence you."

"Ah, threats! How adorable. As if one could threaten their own narration. My dear Kratos, I am you. I am around you. I am the crisp whisper of parchment as the story of your life is being written and read simultaneously. Besides, surely you enjoy at least some company. After all, it's been lonely, has it not? The gods, your enemies, the memories… I'm here to help!"

"Help," Kratos repeated, spitting the word out like poison. He was half expecting a monster—Minotaurs, Gorgons, Harpies—to leap from behind a bush, drawn by his fury. Anything to fight. Anything to silence this nonsensical commentary.

"Yes, help! Now, let's consider something more dynamic. You see that gnarled old olive tree ahead? The one that looks suspiciously like it might contain a hidden chamber or secret passageway if we just try to open it in the correct manner? Let's try! Kratos, go on, give it a whirl."

Kratos narrowed his eyes at the tree. There was nothing special about it, just like the stones. Yet he marched over anyway, hoping that by engaging with this foolish request he could prove how pointless it was, and maybe—just maybe—the voice would vanish in embarrassment. He slammed a fist into the bark. Nothing. He tried pressing the knots in the trunk. Nothing. With a sigh, he gave the tree a withering glare.

"Hmm, that was disappointing. Oh well, can't say I didn't try. Perhaps you're not the treasure-hunting sort. No matter. We'll find something else to occupy our time. After all, this is only the beginning of our journey together."

The realization hit Kratos like a hydra's tail: This wasn't going away. The gods had cursed him with this insufferable presence. If he could not rid himself of the nightmares, then they had given him a new one—one that spoke in riddles and commentary and tried to get him to poke at random bits of scenery for entertainment.

He was going mad, and he knew it. But there was something almost… comical about it. For all his bloodshed and fury, for all his quests and battles, he now had a voice following him, providing a running critique. The gods' idea of mercy was a cosmic jest.

Kratos gripped the chains binding his blades and strode onward, determined to keep moving. If he stopped, he might scream or tear at his own head. If he just kept going, maybe the voice would tire. He doubted it, but he could try.

"Yes, keep walking, Kratos. A fine idea. Somewhere ahead lies destiny, or possibly just more hills. Who can say? But at least we have each other, and you have a brand-new distraction from all that nastiness you've been dwelling upon. Now, shall we see what happens next?"

As the Spartan descended the slopes, teeth clenched and brow furrowed, he realized he had found a new kind of battle—one fought not with sword and shield, but with sanity and patience. Kratos learned that torment could wear many faces, and now it wore the smug grin of a British man who simply refused to shut up.

Kratos's eye twitched. "I need no companion."

"A bold claim! One that we shall now disprove together, you and I. Shall we proceed?" The voice didn't wait for an answer. "Kratos had a very important series of decisions ahead of him. Before him, the path split. To the left, a temple said to hide a relic that could calm his troubled mind. To the right, a narrow gorge brimming with ravenous harpies. Naturally, Kratos should choose the temple on the left, where a nice warm glow invited him in. Yes, that was certainly the best decision."

The Spartan's lip curled. He'd not yet decided where to go, and he resented being told. "I will choose my own path."

"Excellent!" the narrator said, voice bright and not at all deterred. "So Kratos enthusiastically made his way toward the left-hand temple to—"

Kratos spun on his heel and stalked to the right, choosing the harpy-infested gorge just to spite this disembodied busybody.

"Ahem," the narrator coughed lightly. "I said, Kratos enthusiastically headed toward the temple on the left, where serenity and calm awaited him…"

The Ghost of Sparta descended into the right-hand gorge, each step firm and deliberate.

There was a cluck of disapproval. "Kratos, being a stubborn and thoroughly unpleasant protagonist, chose to ignore the narrator's helpful suggestion and go right instead. How very rebellious. But not to worry—let's just see how he enjoys the dreadful harpies, shall we?"

With each winding step downward, Kratos felt a pounding in his skull. The voice never stopped. It rattled on about his surroundings, commenting on the mossy crags, the angle of the sun, the way his sandals scraped the stone. When a screech cut through the atmosphere, a trio of harpies soared into view: leathery wings, twisted faces, and talons that gleamed like broken knives. Kratos smiled—a thin, dangerous smile that always preceded an eruption of violence. Good. He could kill something. That might shut the voice up.

"Oh dear!" the narrator exclaimed. "Look at these fearsome harpies, their plumage is so…uh…fearsome! Certainly, this is a battle for the ages—though if Kratos had only gone left, he might have found a cool drink and a nice bench to rest on instead. This is all very unnecessary conflict, wouldn't you say?"

If the harpies were surprised to see a lone Spartan grinning at them, they didn't show it. They dove, shrieking. Kratos unsheathed the Blades of Chaos, and within moments the gorge was awash in a red mist. Claws were severed, wings lopped off in midair. But the voice was still droning, describing each swing and parry as if it were a grand narrative set-piece rather than a life-or-death struggle.

"Kratos tore through the harpies with a ferocity that would be deeply concerning to any witnesses. Fortunately, dear reader—" The narrator paused. "Oh, dear. Am I addressing a reader? A player? Let's just say 'dear observer.' Fortunately, there was only me, the narrator, to record this senseless carnage, and I must say, it's rather messy. Does he really need to do that to the harpy's spleen? That seems excessive."

Kratos's muscles tightened, the veins in his neck throbbing. The harpies lay ruined at his feet. Their shrieks had faded. Only one shriek remained: the yammering voice in his head.

"Are you finished?" Kratos snarled, his breath ragged.

"I'm just getting started!" the narrator replied cheerfully. "Now, with the harpies dispatched, Kratos looked forward to a comfortable silence—only to realize that there would be no such thing. The gods have tethered me, dear Kratos, quite securely to your psyche. We are as inseparable as Eurydice and Orpheus, except without the tragic love story and with significantly more gore."

The Spartan warrior bared his teeth. He raised his blades as if he could carve the voice out of the very air.

"Oh, careful now!" The narrator sounded alarmed, but also amused. "You can't kill a disembodied voice, my terribly misguided friend."

Kratos let out a low, furious growl. The gods had sent him a punishment worse than his nightmares. They hadn't erased his ghosts; they had given him a new one. An eternal presence. A guiding voice that refused to guide gently. His knuckles went white as he realized the cruel elegance of their trick.

Ten years he'd begged for release. They gave him only perpetual commentary.

"Onward, then!" said the narrator. "Our hero—yes, that's what I'll call you, how charitable of me—must continue his journey. After all, the day is young, the cliffs are many, and we have so many branching paths to explore. Let's see how stubbornly he ignores my perfectly sensible suggestions, shall we?"

Kratos seethed, stepping over the bodies of the harpies. The gorge opened up into a rocky path lined with crooked cypresses. The sun dipped lower, shadows growing long and distorted. As he pressed on, every crunch of gravel beneath his sandals elicited a fresh line of commentary from the voice.

And so the Ghost of Sparta marched into darkness, the unwanted voice at his side, taunting him, guiding him, narrating his every move. With each step, Kratos realized he was no longer simply fighting beasts and gods—he was struggling to retain what little remained of his sanity.

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A/N: If you like this story, please follow both me and it to be notified when future updates drop. Chapter 2 will be up by tomorrow.

Cheers!

 

[Phen0m20]

Chapter II: Kratos, Narry, and the Creepy Manipulative Tree Lady​

Long before Kratos had been given a name—before his first wail as a newborn mortal, before the glint of a blade had ever caught his eye—I, titan Gaia watched. Titan of Earth, ancient bark and twisted root, older than the petty squabbles of gods. I had observed him from the cradle of destiny, nurtured by foreknowledge and a grandmotherly condescension. As Kratos struggled through life, each wound and scar accumulating like weathered notches on a war-torn tree, I made note, silently chronicling every choice he made.

I understood his anguish long before he himself did, felt his rage humming through the tapestry of fate like a resonant chord. Saw him as an instrument—an instrument that one day, with careful tuning, could break the chains of Olympus. Oh, how I observed! Each moment—the slaying of Ares, the ceaseless torment of visions, the mountainous burdens he carried—I had witnessed it all from the comfort of my primordial vantage point. Waited, patient and eternal, until this very moment, to speak—

"I'm sorry, who are you?"

The unexpected intrusion shattered Gaia's lofty narration. Her grand tone faltered. She blinked, or did something akin to blinking if one could imagine the colossal face of a titanwood colossus blinking. "I—I am Gaia, Mother of Earth," she said testily, her vast voice echoing somewhere outside of mortal perception. "I have watched over Kratos since the dawning of his existence."

"Yes, yes, that's lovely," The Narrator replied, the tone radiating with a crisp dryness. "But you're rather late to the party. We've just established a rather, erm, unique rapport, and I'm afraid you're barging into my territory. You don't see me lurking around ancient primordial forests unannounced, do you?"

Gaia's large, bark-like countenance furrowed in annoyance. Meanwhile, Kratos—who had only a moment ago been heroically slicing through shrieking harpies for absolutely no reason other than to annoy his new unseen companion—found his world shifting again. A vision imposed itself upon him: Gaia's mountainous face looming like a continent in the sky, her voice reverberating through his skull.

"Kratos," she boomed, "I am Titan Gaia. I have watched your journey, and I now guide you to your next step. You must seek the Sisters of Fate. They hold the power to twist destiny itself. Revenge on the gods of Olympus, a chance to reshape the world, to reignite the war of titans and gods—this can be yours."

Kratos's eyes narrowed. He lifted his blades reflexively, uncertain if swinging them at the empty air would solve anything. "The Sisters of Fate?" he growled.

"Hold on!" The Narrator cried, voice cracking momentarily. "You can't be serious. We've only just begun establishing a narrative thread, and now we have a gargantuan tree-lady encouraging time travel and warfare on cosmic scales. Kratos, my dear fellow, do you really want to involve yourself with someone who's clearly been creepily watching your entire life without your knowledge? I mean, I at least introduced myself!"

Gaia's massive visage turned stern. "Silence, strange disembodied voice. I have known Kratos for eons, tended to the roots of his fate. You are a mere interloper."

"Ah, interloper, is it?" The Narrator sniffed indignantly. "At least I didn't spy on him since birth without a proper introduction. That's not only creepy, it's downright stalkerish. 'Oh, look at me, I'm Gaia, I've been watching you brush your teeth since you were a toddler, no big deal!' At least I had the decency to announce myself the moment I arrived."

Kratos, caught between two squabbling cosmic entities, rubbed his forehead. "So… The Sisters of Fate. They can alter time?" His voice held a glimmer of dangerous interest.

"Indeed," Gaia rumbled, ignoring The Narrator's jabs. "They can send you anywhere in time, Kratos. To any crucial moment. A tool for your revenge against the gods. You could undo their schemes—"

"Oh, for pity's sake," The Narrator broke in, voice thick with exasperation. "Why are you dancing around the obvious? Kratos, if they can send you anywhere in time, that would presumably include going back to the exact moment you—er—killed your own family. You could, you know, not do that. Save them."

The silence that followed was so profound it seemed as if the world itself held its breath. Gaia's wooden jaw nearly unhinged. Kratos's eyes went wide. He stood there, blades slack in his hands, a stony fury melting into something confused and pained. "I… I could have saved… them?"

"Uh, yes, big guy," The Narrator continued helpfully. "That's sort of the main advantage of controlling time. Fixing the big mistakes. Restoring what was lost. Kind of a no-brainer, really."

Gaia's stony features twisted in panic. "No, no! Kratos, you must ignore this meddler. The Sisters of Fate are not to be squandered for personal sentimentality. You must heed my guidance and strike at the heart of Olympus. The moment is now!"

"Hear that, Kratos?" The Narrator taunted, voice oozing with smugness. "She doesn't want you to fix the tragic mistake that ruined your entire life—she wants you to be her personal wrecking ball, toppling gods for her own ancient grudge. What a lovely mother figure, am I right? Meanwhile, I'm here, pointing out the obvious solution that could finally free you from your torment. Nice to have someone with your best interests in mind, eh?"

Kratos's knuckles went white on the hilts of his blades. His shoulders trembled, and for the first time since these absurd encounters began, he let out a low, frustrated groan. "I… I could have saved them," he whispered, voice strangled. A flicker of bewildered shame crossed his face. He had never considered that. Never dared to. All these quests, all these slaughters, and never once had he paused to say, Wait, what about time travel shenanigans?

Gaia attempted a recovery, her wooden lips forming a semblance of a reassuring smile. "Kratos, ignore the other voice. You must trust me. I have observed you since before you could wield a blade. I understand you, better than anyone!"

"Oh, of course she does," The Narrator snorted. "Because that's not creepy at all. I just love how she's been sitting around with popcorn since your infancy, completely silent, never giving you a heads-up. I told you who I was from the get-go. I might be invasive and chatty, but at least I'm honest. She's basically your cosmic paparazzi."

Kratos's eyes darted between the colossal, ancient face of Gaia and the invisible source of that smug voice. For a moment, the mighty Spartan looked utterly, hopelessly confused. He had flung himself into countless battles with gods and monsters, but this existential tug-of-war between a motherly titan and a sarcastic commentator was somehow more disorienting than any Hydra's maw.

"Grrr… Enough!" Kratos bellowed, lifting one Blade of Chaos as if threatening the very air. "I do not know who to trust, or what to believe. But if I have a chance to right the greatest wrong of my life—why should I not take it?"

Gaia's vine-like locks trembled. "No! Kratos, your destiny is tied to ours, the Titans! Forget the past and focus on Olympus's downfall!"

"Ha! Look at her squirm!" The Narrator barked a laugh. "Forget the past, she says, after spending eons lurking and watching it like some deranged Netflix binge-watcher. Kratos, it's your choice. You want eternal vengeance, or maybe, just maybe, something closer to redemption?"

Kratos's chest heaved. This was insane. Absolutely insane. Gods, titans, narrators—he was trapped in a mad carnival of cosmic proportions. Yet, for the first time, there was a whisper of something else: hope. Could he really…?

Gaia, now flustered, tried desperately to regain control. "Pay no attention to him! He's leading you astray. Do as I command, Kratos. Trust in Gaia, who has known you forever."

"Known him forever and never said a word until now," the Narrator quipped, voice rising in triumphant cheerfulness. "Kratos, old boy, if you're going to be manipulated, at least be manipulated by someone who acknowledges their presence from the start. Don't let her guilt-trip you into some grand Titan War just because she's got a millennium-long grudge and a voyeuristic streak."

Kratos opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, then opened it again. His muscles twitched. The wind moaned around him. The absurdity of it all was dizzying. Still, buried beneath the noise and nonsense, a single truth gleamed: he could have saved them. He could yet try.

He felt like an idiot. Blind, raging, never considering the possibility of altering time. But no longer. Now that the truth was out, Gaia seemed desperate to shove it back into the dark, while The Narrator crowed with victory. So much for his proud, unstoppable persona—he had been outwitted by a talking voice and a giant tree-woman in the space of a few minutes.

"Fine," he said at last, quietly but firmly. "I will decide for myself. Neither of you will force my hand."

Gaia drew back, aghast. The Narrator seemed positively giddy.

"That's the spirit, Kratos! Now, let's see what sort of mess we can make of this narrative. I do enjoy a good twist in the plot."

Gaia's colossal features twisted and warped, her primordial calm cracking like old bark under a storm's fury. The serene motherly façade she had maintained so painstakingly now melted away, replaced by frantic, roiling panic. The vines that composed her emerald crown writhed, her wooden cheeks splintering as if struck by invisible axes. Her massive eyes flared wide, revealing fear instead of wisdom.

"How can this be?" she thundered, voice shuddering through Kratos's mind like distant earthquakes. "No, no, no! You cannot heed the words of that insolent voice! You must follow my path! It was so perfectly prepared!" She clawed at her own vine-braids, a titan laid low not by battle but by sheer narrative rebellion.

"Goodness," The Narrator said, voice practically purring with amused delight, "listen to her carrying on! The poor dear thought she'd choreographed your life like some gaudy puppet show, and now the star's gone off-script. Honestly, Gaia, I expected more dignity from someone who claims to be older than mountains."

Gaia's brow contorted with fury and disbelief. "Kratos!" she cried desperately. "Forget the foolish whispering of this… this intruder. I have known you since your first breath! I was your silent guardian, guiding you toward—"

"Guiding him?" The Narrator interjected, tone full of mock surprise. "You mean lurking in the background, counting the minutes until you could twist him into a weapon for your own vengeful ends? Yes, how very maternal. You've lost this round, you creepy, manipulative tree lady. Time to root yourself elsewhere."

Kratos, standing amidst jagged cliffs and scattered harpy feathers, clenched his jaw. He said nothing, but his silence was a thunderclap of finality. His grip on the Blades of Chaos tightened, and his jaw set with a new determination. When he spoke, it was low and calm, yet layered with revelation, "I will find the Sisters of Fate. I will return to that moment. I will right the greatest wrong I have committed. No amount of grand wars, no titan vendettas, will take precedence over this."

Gaia let out a strangled shriek, caught somewhere between a gale of furious wind and the grinding of tectonic plates. "No! You fool! You are meant for more than mere family! Your rage should fuel the destruction of Olympus! Without you, the Titans' grand vengeance—"

But her voice, echoing through the phantom corridors of Kratos's mind, began to fade. As his will hardened, the vision of Gaia's immense face grew hazy and indistinct. The shimmering edges of the illusion receded, like mist drawn back into a distant forest. Gaia's pleas and curses fell silent, leaving only the hush of the real world and the soft scraping of Kratos's sandals on rocky ground.

With Gaia's influence banished, the Spartan stood free beneath a blistering sun, the wind carrying the distant screams of wounded monsters rather than titan whispers. He exhaled and steadied himself, heart pounding with a new purpose. Until now, he had allowed himself to be a pawn, angry and blind. But if time could be shaped, if destiny could be bent—he might wrest a different fate for himself and those he had loved, once upon a more innocent time.

"Well, now that the overgrown shrub has retreated," The Narrator said, voice smug but also strangely supportive, "shall we begin your grand redemption arc? You know, Kratos, this is really going to play havoc with all those Greek tragedies. I mean, who expects the raging warrior to become a time-traveling do-gooder? It's positively delightful!"

Kratos grunted. He did not trust this voice—he would likely never trust it fully—but it had shown him a truth he could not ignore. "Narrator," he said slowly, "I will find the Sisters of Fate. And I will… change things."

"A splendid plan! I'm positively thrilled to see how this turns out. Lead on, mighty Spartan."

With that, Kratos set forth on a new path, no longer simply a murderous puppet of distant gods, nor a tool for ancient Titans. He carried with him a secret that might alter worlds—and a chatty, unapologetically meddlesome Narrator who refused to stay silent. As the dusty road wound ahead, Kratos marched, resolute and grim. Yet beneath the grimness, the faint spark of hope flickered.

 

[Phen0m20]

Chapter III: It's An Adventure!​

Kratos trudged onward, the rocky paths of mythic Greece stretching before him, yet somehow growing fainter and more uncertain with each step. A few miles behind lay scattered feathers and gobbets of harpy flesh; ahead lay only the unknown. He headed for the Sisters of Fate—those enigmatic weavers of destiny who dwelled somewhere beyond mortal reach. The wind carried a faint coppery tang of old blood, mixed with dust. The Spartan's face was set in a grim, determined frown. Then, out of nowhere, something profoundly unexpected occurred.

"Aha! Now that we've thoroughly dissuaded old Gaia and her manipulations," The Narrator's voice chimed in, far too cheerful for the grim scenery, "it's time, Kratos, for us to get properly organized. You see, wandering aimlessly through space and time simply won't do. And so, I present to you… The Adventure Line!"

Before Kratos's eyes, a bright yellow line—thicker than a rope, thin as a whip, and somehow painted onto nothing—zigzagged into being at his feet. It snaked across the rocky ground, twisting this way and that, as if drawn by a whimsical hand that had no grasp of Euclidean geometry. It shimmered oddly against the dusty cliffside, leading off into a stand of twisted olive trees, then hooking around a boulder, and… wait, was that a loop-the-loop?

Kratos narrowed his eyes. "A… line?" he rumbled, voice suspicious. "This is supposed to help me?"

"Indeed! The Adventure Line is a marvelous navigational aid, guaranteed to lead us to the Sisters of Fate—or at least somewhere interesting!" The Narrator chirped. "Now follow it carefully. No wandering off, mind you. The line knows best."

Kratos hesitated, then shrugged. He'd followed oracles, divine omens, even the silent guidance of gods for years. At least this line was visible. He took a step forward, boots clacking on stone.

The line guided him through a narrow canyon and across a wooden bridge that creaked as if lamenting its own existence. Then, suddenly, the world gave a peculiar lurch, and Kratos found himself not in the ancient world of togas and amphorae, but somewhere enclosed, made of sterile gray walls and bland carpeting. He frowned, puzzled. The smell of papery air and stale coffee reached his nostrils. The sound of faint humming—was that some kind of mechanical apparatus?—filled his ears.

"Oh, splendid," The Narrator said, trying and failing to conceal a giggle, "it appears the line has taken us somewhere off the beaten path. Let's just say that linear narrative structures aren't really its style. Welcome, Kratos, to Stanley's office!"

Kratos blinked, stepping through a strange doorway and into a corridor lit by fluorescent lights. He marveled at the rectangular ceiling fixtures, glowing softly as if capturing miniature suns behind frosted glass. Before him stretched a hallway lined with doors, each numbered in a neat, uniform font. The floor was covered in thin, industrial carpeting, and at the far end, a potted plant stood vigil like a bored sentinel.

"What… is this place?" Kratos asked, voice low. He reached out and touched a wall, finding it smooth and cool, utterly unlike the rough-hewn stones and plaster he knew. "And these… strange torches?" He gestured up at a light fixture. "They burn without flame."

"Those are fluorescent lights, my dear Spartan," The Narrator informed him, amused. "And no, they're not magic. Well, I suppose they are, in a sense—magic of electricity and modern engineering. Think of this as a distant future. Or an alternate dimension. Or perhaps just a narrative glitch. I wouldn't worry too much about it."

Kratos nodded absently, stepping deeper into the corridor as the Adventure Line wound through an open door and into a curious room filled with cubicles. He gazed around: walls of thin fabric panels, desks littered with papers, strange quills that didn't look like quills at all but small cylinders with clicking ends. Boxes with glowing faces—computers—hummed gently at each station.

He approached one such device, enchanted and perplexed. It showed a screen with words and numbers, a blinking cursor awaiting input. He reached out cautiously, prodding the keyboard. The letters sprang forth on screen as if conjured by invisible scribes. Kratos jumped back, startled.

"This is… device is alive," he growled, pointing a blade at the monitor as though it might attack.

"Not alive, no," The Narrator tittered. "It's a computer. Humans in certain timelines use it for work—dull, repetitive tasks, mostly. Ah, and to think you once faced gods and monsters, and now you're staring down a harmless word processor."

Kratos narrowed his eyes, then slowly pressed a key. The screen changed. He pressed another. More changes. He was, somehow, controlling these luminous symbols with a mere tap of his finger. He leaned in, fascinated, jaw slack. "What sorcery is this?" he murmured, swinging the mouse to see the pointer slide across the screen. "Could this help me find the Sisters of Fate?"

"I wouldn't rely on it," The Narrator said, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. "But who knows? Maybe if you type in 'Sisters of Fate' it'll—well, do absolutely nothing useful. Let's give it a try!"

Kratos tapped uncertainly at the keys, the letters s-i-s-t-e-r-s-o-f-f-a-t-e appearing in a neat row. The device made a soft ding. A prompt appeared on the screen: "ERROR: INVALID COMMAND." Kratos growled at the insolence, raising a blade as if to strike down the infernal machine that dared deny him.

"Now, now, let's not be hasty," The Narrator gently chided. "I realize it's frustrating, but you're dealing with technology beyond your ken. Besides, if we destroy the computer, we might lose track of the Adventure Line. And we do want to stay on task, yes?"

Kratos reluctantly lowered his blade. The Adventure Line twirled onward, looping around a row of identical cubicles, then suddenly zipping up onto a wall, defying gravity as it led him through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Inside was a dim storage area with boxes stacked on metal shelving. The smell of cardboard and stale air was disorienting. Yet, through all these bewildering sights—the humming machinery, the quiet hum of distant ventilation fans—Kratos marched onward.

And so he followed the line through the twisting corridors of the office building. It led him to a break room, where he marveled at a humming vending machine that spat out drinks in brightly colored cans. It took him down a hallway where a copy machine whirred gently. Kratos pressed its buttons, leaping back as it spit out papers with strange markings. He struggled to maintain dignity, a Spartan hero bamboozled by mundane technology. Still, he followed the line.

"I must say, I love what we're doing here," The Narrator exclaimed, voice warm with mischief. "Instead of marching stoically through bleak landscapes, we're introducing you to modern comforts! Isn't that exciting? You're stepping beyond the constraints of your old narrative, Kratos. Soon enough, the Sisters of Fate themselves might have to deal with office memos and non-disclosure agreements."

The Spartan snorted. "This place unnerves me. These torches without fire, these… boxes of light. And yet…" He glanced again at a computer that displayed a screensaver of floating shapes. "If time can lead me anywhere, perhaps this is just another path I must tread. I will follow this line, voice, until I find the Sisters of Fate. Then I will do what must be done."

The Adventure Line continued its merry course, spiraling into a door that shouldn't logically exist, leading Kratos further into the labyrinth of strange offices and impossible architecture. The carpets shifted in color. The doors led back to hallways he swore he'd passed already. Fluorescent lights winked overhead as if chuckling at the hopeless Greek warrior stumbling through a bureaucratic twilight zone.

And Kratos, though perplexed, kept going. After all, he had conquered gods. Surely, he could conquer modern office design—and whatever lunatic truth lay at the end of this absurd journey.

The Adventure Line's bright yellow hue glowed cheerfully against the drab, grey office carpeting, as if positively giddy about its next destination. Kratos, sword arm tense and brow furrowed, watched in confusion as it took an abrupt right turn, snaked up a wall, back down the other side, and then straight toward a nondescript wooden door with a small plaque reading "Broom Closet."

He paused in front of the door, perplexed. No grand pillars, no ornate carvings, just a scuffed-up piece of wood. Through his long life of battles and bloodshed, he'd never expected to be guided by something as nonsensical as a painted line on the floor leading him to a storage space for janitorial supplies. And yet, here he was.

"Ah, the broom closet!" The Narrator declared, the delight in his tone almost palpable. "A fine stop along our grand quest for the Sisters of Fate. I'm sure you're just bursting with excitement, Kratos."

Kratos grunted, pushing the door open. Inside, the closet was narrow and cramped, barely large enough for two people (let alone one mighty Spartan demigod wielding enormous blades) and stuffed with mops, old boxes, grimy buckets, and a rather suspicious-smelling sack labeled "Absorbent Materials." A single exposed bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying gently and casting jittery shadows on the cluttered shelves.

He stepped inside, blades scraping the doorframe as he went. "This… is the Sisters of Fate?" he growled, voice echoing slightly in the cramped space. He stared at a frayed broom, its straw ends splayed out like the tail of a disheveled phoenix.

"Not exactly," The Narrator admitted cheerfully, "but what's a good quest without the occasional detour? We've come all this way, and who's to say we won't find a clue hidden behind that stack of ratty cleaning rags, hmm?"

Kratos took a deep breath, fighting the urge to hack at the shelves. He lifted a bucket suspiciously, sniffed it, then grimaced and set it down. He nudged aside a mop, expecting perhaps a secret passage behind the wall. No such luck. Just dense plaster and the mild, musty scent of detergent.

"It's… a closet," Kratos stated, as if confirming a gruesome truth. "A place where… brooms live."

"Yes, well spotted!" The Narrator commended him, voice dripping with false encouragement. "Your deductive skills are unparalleled, Spartan. If only your enemies could see you now, fearlessly facing the horrors of the janitorial dimension!"

Kratos's eye twitched. He turned around. The Adventure Line, that absurd yellow stripe, had led him in here and then promptly trailed off near the back wall, where it abruptly ended beneath a dusty shelf of cleaning supplies. No door. No secret panel. Not even a whimsical sign. Just a dead end of chipped paint and disappointment.

He leaned out the closet door and gazed back into the office corridor. The Adventure Line outside the closet had vanished, leaving him stranded inside what felt like a cruel prank.

"I know what you're thinking," The Narrator said knowingly, "'Why am I in a broom closet? Have I traveled through time and crossed unimaginable realms of existence only to stand in a space typically used for mop storage?' And to that I say: yes. Yes, you have."

Kratos growled low in his throat. He tapped the walls with the butt of his blade, as if the Sisters of Fate might be cowering behind them, giggling. "This is pointless. I must find my way out. I must find them."

"Oh, but Kratos," The Narrator teased, "think of the narrative implications. The famed Ghost of Sparta, slayer of gods, conqueror of monsters, momentarily bested by a door and a broom! It's character development, is it not? A humbling moment to add complexity to your legend!"

In response, Kratos seized a box of cleaning cloths and hurled it against the far wall, sending dust motes and old rags fluttering through the feeble light. The sound reverberated with empty finality. He glared upward, veins twitching in his neck. "If you do not guide me properly, voice, I will—"

"Yes, yes, you'll stab the empty air and grumble a great deal," The Narrator cut him off breezily. "But truthfully, I think it's time we moved on. Clearly the broom closet offers no grand destiny—no time-bending magical gateways, no cryptic inscriptions, no ethereal humming from beyond. Unless you count the humming lightbulb."

Kratos stomped out of the closet, flinging the door shut with unnecessary force. The handle rattled pitiably. He was back in the featureless hallway, staring at identical office doors and humming electronics, none of which offered any guidance whatsoever.

"I do apologize for the detour," The Narrator said, not sounding particularly sorry. "But sometimes a narrative needs a comedic interlude. And what better punchline than the mighty Kratos perusing cleaning supplies?"

Kratos exhaled heavily, pressing his knuckles into his temples. "Fine. No more closets," he grumbled. "No more lines that lead nowhere. You will help me find the Sisters of Fate, or so help me, I'll—"

"Yes, yes, threats are duly noted," The Narrator replied, laughing softly. "Now, let's step back into the corridors and see if we can find another path. If we're fortunate, we may stumble upon something more useful than a mop!"

The Adventure Line twitched and squiggled as if excitedly murmuring to itself, dragging Kratos out of the corporate gloom and back into a space that seemed more fitting for his mythic sensibilities. One moment he was trudging through indistinguishable office corridors—checking behind identical doors, half-expecting to find the Sisters of Fate crammed into a cubicle—and the next, his sandal hit smooth marble tiling. The fluorescent hum vanished, replaced by the quiet drip of water and the delicate scent of jasmine and sandalwood.

Kratos glanced around warily. Columns and silken curtains surrounded him, the golden light of braziers dancing over walls painted with intricate murals of heroes and gods. The air felt warm and humid, like a secret garden hidden high in the clouds. The Adventure Line winked around a carved pillar, slipping beneath a heavy curtain embroidered with owls.

He followed, pushing the curtain aside. At first, he saw only steam, rising in gentle coils. Then, the outline of a large marble basin, filled with clear, steaming water, came into view. His gaze traveled over smooth columns, draping fabrics, and then to a figure within the water—slender shoulders, an elegant neck, hair pinned with golden clasps. It was Athena, goddess of wisdom, relaxing in her private bath.

Kratos froze, eyes going wide. The sudden shift from offices to a divine spa left him speechless. He managed a grunt of confusion that might have sounded like a boar stepping on a rake.

"Oh dear," The Narrator said, voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "How terribly improper of the Adventure Line. It seems we've barged into Athena's chambers at a most inopportune moment. Still, this could be interesting."

Athena's eyes snapped open. She saw the hulking Spartan standing at the edge of her bath, Blades of Chaos dangling awkwardly at his sides. Her cheeks warmed—not from embarrassment, of course, but from the sheer shock. She shot upright, water cascading off her shoulders, and seized a nearby silk robe, draping it over herself with dignified fury.

"KRATOS!" she hissed, voice echoing across marble and water. "What are you doing here?" Her brow knit into a fierce scowl, and a flush darkened her usually composed features. She had guided him many times before, but certainly not like this!

 

[Phen0m20]

Roast of Athena​

Kratos sputtered, taking a step back, hands raised in a baffled sort of surrender. "I— the line— I mean, the… voice told me—" He had fought hydras and gods, yet never had he faced such a mortifying scenario. How does one battle social impropriety?

"Oh yes, blame it on the line," The Narrator teased, voice dripping with amusement. "Nothing to do with your questionable navigation skills, I'm sure. Might I say, Athena, you are looking particularly radiant this evening. Certainly an upgrade from the broom closet."

Athena's eyes darted around. "Who dares speak these words? Show yourself!" She glanced up at the columns and tapestries, seeking the source of the disembodied voice. Meanwhile, Kratos struggled to find words that didn't make this more awkward. He was trapped between the desire to flee and the inability to turn his back on a goddess in the bath.

The Adventure Line, as if sensing an opportunity for further chaos, traced a whimsical pattern around the basin's perimeter, looping over a low table stacked with perfumes and oils before running straight up and over a curtain rod. It looked almost gleeful.

"This is not how I intended to find the Sisters of Fate," Kratos grunted at the line. He dared a glance at Athena. "I… apologize. I did not mean to intrude."

Athena, trying to maintain her regal composure, cleared her throat. "If you are here for guidance, Spartan," she said, voice taut, "you have chosen a most inappropriate time." She stood ankle-deep in the bath, water lapping at her legs, robe clutched close. "And what is this about a voice?"

"Oh, pay no mind to me," The Narrator chimed in cheerfully, "just a bit of omnipresent commentary. We got lost, you see. Tried to follow a perfectly respectable line, ended up crashing your spa session. Happens to the best of us."

Kratos's face twitched. "Please, goddess, I meant no offense. I'm on a quest to find the Sisters of Fate, to… to rectify certain… past mistakes."

Athena arched a sculpted brow, slowly reclaiming her dignity. "You plan to defy destiny itself?"

"Ah, yes, let's get right to the existential dilemmas, shall we?" The Narrator said, gleefully ignoring the tension in the air. "He wants to right his wrongs, turn back the sands of time, and possibly do some redecorating in his tragic backstory."

With a deep sigh, Athena stepped out of the bath and onto a raised platform. The mosaic beneath her feet depicted owls and olive branches, now spotted with glistening droplets. She fixed Kratos with a narrowed gaze. "I will speak with you," she said evenly, "once I am appropriately attired. Kindly wait outside."

Kratos bobbed his head stiffly. "Of course, Athena." He backed away, eyes lowered to avoid meeting her steely stare. As he slipped through the curtain, he caught the Adventure Line in his peripheral vision, swirling around a marble column, doing figure-eights like an overexcited toddler.

"Well, that was delightfully awkward," The Narrator chuckled as Kratos retreated into the corridor. "I must say, as unexpected detours go, this one was positively legendary. A moment for the history scrolls: Kratos, the Ghost of Sparta, barging into Athena's private bath! And all because of a cheerful, reality-bending line."

Kratos snarled quietly, face red with a mix of embarrassment and anger. "You will lead me to the Sisters of Fate, voice, or I swear—"

"Oh, don't be sore about it," The Narrator teased. "We're making wonderful progress. After all, now Athena knows you're serious about messing with time. She'll likely warn you, or try to persuade you to be cautious, all those divine moral lessons. Where's the fun in straightforward heroics, hmm?"

The Spartan clenched his jaw, determined to maintain whatever dignity he had left. Soon, Athena would emerge, and maybe, just maybe, offer some clue. Until then, he had to endure The Narrator's banter and the Adventure Line's unpredictable meandering. If he could survive this latest humiliation, he could survive anything—be it broom closets, future technology, or the wrath of gods surprised in their baths.

And so Kratos waited, a mighty warrior fumbling through absurdity, trying to keep his feet on the right path, even if that path was painted in a cheerful yellow line that brought him face-to-face with a furious, dripping goddess.

Athena emerged from behind the curtain in a flowing, shimmering robe that clung to her form like moonlight on still water. She held herself tall and proud, though her cheeks still carried a residual flush of annoyance. A subtle tension crackled in the humid air of her private chambers. Kratos stood by one of the marble columns, arms crossed, still unsettled by the earlier intrusion. He looked ready to charge headfirst into a Minotaur if it meant leaving this awkward scenario. The Adventure Line had retreated to the margins, lurking by a half-drawn curtain and quivering with mischievous delight.

Athena tilted her head, regarding Kratos as if measuring his resolve. "You claim you seek the Sisters of Fate," she began, her voice smoothing into divine poise. "Yet you wander through impossible corridors and stumble into private moments meant only for the gods. Have you no sense of decorum?"

"Decorum?" The Narrator's voice rang out, dripping with cheerful incredulity. "You talk of decorum while having assigned me to this poor fellow like some warped babysitter? 'Go forth, Kratos,' you said, 'but first accept this talking busybody who will forever comment on your every action!' And now you complain that we appear at your bath uninvited. My dear goddess, you are the very essence of mixed signals."

Athena's eyes narrowed. The fact that she could hear The Narrator now—actually hear him—unsettled her. She was a goddess, yes, but this was unexpected. "I was aware of your presence, voice. You were part of the arrangement," she said through gritted teeth, "but I did not anticipate you would manifest in a way that allowed me to… interact with you."

Kratos raised a brow. "Wait, you mean you didn't want to talk to this voice yourself? I thought you gods worked in mysterious, incomprehensible fashions. Not that I'm complaining," he added dryly.

"Oh, yes, let's talk about the gods' work," The Narrator said, voice brightening as if just waiting for this opening. "Mysterious is one word for it. Exploitative is another. When you say arrangement, Athena, what you really mean is: you tossed me in front of Kratos's psyche like a court jester to amuse him, distract him from his trauma. Didn't you? The gods—yourself included—exploit this man's suffering for entertainment and petty schemes."

Athena's nostrils flared. She folded her arms, revealing a subtle crack in her divine veneer. "You dare accuse the gods of pettiness? We shape destinies! Mortals cannot craft what we craft. They cannot conjure storms or raise mountains from the earth."

"Oh yes, yes," The Narrator said with mock deference, "the mortal lot is so dreadfully limited, isn't it? They can't summon lightning bolts or reshape the land, how tragic. But last I checked, you gods can't make what mortals make, either."

Athena scoffed, disbelief etched into her perfect features. "What nonsense! The gods can create wonders beyond mortal comprehension."

"Is that so?" The Narrator retorted, voice now laced with a mischievous smirk Kratos could almost picture. "Tell me, Athena: can you build a bucket?"

A silence dropped into the chamber. Athena blinked. Kratos shifted uneasily, unsure whether to laugh or cringe. A bucket. A humble, mortal bucket. One that could carry water or sand. A child's sandbox toy, a carpenter's staple. A bucket: a thing so simple that neither Olympian miracle nor Titan's wrath was needed. Just a mortal's hands and some shaped wood or metal.

Athena's jaw tightened. "A bucket? Why would I trouble myself with—"

"Because it's simple," The Narrator pressed on, "and within mortal means. They don't require divine edicts or cosmic tantrums to make a bucket. They just do it. You, on the other hand, are a being of lofty miracles and grand gestures. But creating something so delightfully mundane? That's off your resume. Let's try another: a boat. Mortals craft them from wood and tar, sail across the seas. Where's your handcrafted dinghy, Athena?"

"Do not be absurd! I could—" she began, but hesitated, as if the words tasted like stale olives.

Kratos suppressed a smirk. He found himself oddly amused by the situation. Here he was, watching a goddess squirm under the scrutiny of a disembodied voice that had once been forced upon him.

"What about a church?" The Narrator continued relentlessly. "Mortals build temples and shrines by the thousand, yet you gods never lay a single brick. You command worship, yet rely on mortals to raise the walls, set the roof, and arrange pews. Without them, your grand places of homage wouldn't exist. In essence, your power comes with a curious handicap: you can't even participate in the simplest acts of creation as they do. Isn't that just hilarious?"

Athena's eye twitched. "We could if we wished! We have no interest in such menial tasks." Her voice cracked slightly. The notion that a goddess needed to prove herself to a mortal and some invisible cynic was outrageous. Yet here she was, on the defensive, adrift in a debate about buckets and boats.

"Menial or not, it's a fundamental truth," The Narrator said, voice suddenly calm, almost philosophical. "Mortals create the world you exploit. They build, they shape, they cultivate. You loom overhead, demanding reverence, punishing defiance, yet you fail to see that without mortal hands, your temples would never rise. Without mortal belief, you'd be whispers on the wind. And for what? You bring them terror, suffering, impossible standards. Should they worship you for that?"

Kratos's shoulders relaxed slightly, intrigued. The Narrator was putting into words what he had felt simmering in his soul. Had he not served the gods for a decade, slaughtered at their behest, only to gain nothing but haunting nightmares?

Athena's face flushed again, this time with anger. "The gods exist! Our might is real. Mortals owe us their respect—"

"Ah, the old 'we exist, therefore worship us' gambit," The Narrator sighed dramatically. "How quaint. The existence of a being doesn't inherently demand worship. Scorpions exist. Tornadoes exist. Do mortals pray at the altar of a tornado, thanking it kindly for leveling their homes? Oh, dearest Athena, existence alone proves nothing except that you are here. The burden of proof is on you to show why worship should follow. Let's call it… a divine burden of proof."

Athena sputtered. "The burden of proof? You speak like a mortal philosopher!"

"Perhaps I do," The Narrator said, grinning in audible delight. "But consider: a truly worthy god wouldn't crave worship. They'd be content to help quietly, humbly, without demanding shrines or tributes. A worthy god would never tear mortals apart in cosmic feuds, never toy with their minds or send them off on errands of vengeance. In that sense, the gods you know are… well, rather unimpressive."

The goddess's eyes went wide. She tried to respond, perhaps to argue that the gods perform miracles, that they set order to the cosmos. But the words died in her throat. She couldn't conjure a single bucket to refute The Narrator's point, not a single mortal artifact to prove her creative prowess. The logic gnawed at her pride like an insolent woodworm.

Kratos stepped forward, folding his arms. "In all my trials, Athena, not once have you gods built something for me with your own hands. You threw boons and curses. You demanded blood. But you never bothered to create something tangible, something simple, for my sake."

Athena glared, frustration swirling in her luminous eyes. "We have guided you!"

"Guided him into carnage, turmoil, and heartbreak," The Narrator quipped, tapping into a bottomless well of sarcasm, "such splendid guidance! Give yourselves a pat on the back! Oh wait, you'd need mortal carpenters to build you a back-patting machine first."

The goddess's composure began to crumble. She lifted her chin, attempting to regain dignity. "Do not mock what you cannot comprehend! We uphold laws of nature, guide fate, ensure the sun rises—"

"Nature existed before your temples," The Narrator interrupted coolly. "Mortals would still sow seeds and reap harvests even if they did not know your name. You think yourself indispensable, yet the world would turn without your petty dramas, just as mortals would continue making buckets in whichever direction the sun decided to come up."

Athena's lips parted, but no sound came. She stood there, a goddess momentarily disarmed by mortal logic and a meddling voice. She tried to summon the old divine arrogance, to declare herself beyond the scope of such trivial debate. But the seed of doubt—of humbling recognition—had been planted.

Kratos watched in silence, stunned and oddly gratified. He had come seeking to fix his past, to bend time itself. Yet he had stumbled onto a truth that rattled the heavens: gods were nothing without the fear and belief of mortals, and that fear and belief could be withdrawn. This, he realized, was as potent a lesson as any.

Athena crossed her arms, struggling to retain her mask of superiority. "This is absurd."

"Absurd is my specialty," The Narrator said brightly, "and trust me, Athena, you're in good company there. Now, shall we refocus? Kratos has a date with the Sisters of Fate, and we really must be going. Unless, of course, you'd care to craft a bucket for the road?"

The silence that followed was thick enough to slice with a sword. Athena said nothing. She merely stood, jaw clenched, glaring at Kratos and the empty air from which The Narrator spoke.

Kratos inclined his head, then turned to the Adventure Line, which had begun to wiggle its way toward a side passage, eager to lead him on again. He left Athena's chambers behind, the echo of her silence trailing after him like a faint, chastened whisper.

Athena stared at the empty air as if, by sheer godly will, she might spontaneously combust The Narrator into a pile of charred one-liners. Her lips twitched, struggling to form a response that wasn't simply screaming "I'M A GODDESS!" at the top of her divine lungs.

"Come now, Athena," The Narrator said with a cheerful sigh, "no need to glare daggers. Although I suppose that's all you gods really can do when you run out of pretentious speeches. If only mortals were around to fashion you a witty comeback from clay and donkey hair."

Her face reddened like a rosy dawn. "You dare mock me so brazenly? I could— I could scatter your essence across the cosmos!"

"Oh no, please don't," The Narrator gasped in mock horror, "then who would point out the glaring hypocrisy and cosmic incompetence that passes for divine order these days? I'm sure Zeus would miss my colorful critiques. Who else will remind him that his lightning bolts are just fancy sky tantrums?"

Athena took a step forward, nostrils flaring. "We do not need your commentary to maintain balance! Without the gods, mortals would be lost—"

"Ah, yes, lost in a world free of random floods, arbitrary punishments, and confusingly placed minotaurs," The Narrator interjected. "They'd never survive the horror of building shelters and making shiny buckets to carry water in peace!"

Athena's eye twitched. "Mortals have no perspective. Without us, they'd never know to worship anything greater!"

"Because nothing says 'healthy spiritual enlightenment' like trembling in fear of temperamental sky wizards," The Narrator quipped. "I mean, if I were a mortal, I'd pray to the nearest potato before I'd kneel to a god who can't differentiate morality from a game of cosmic whack-a-mole."

Athena ground her teeth. "We are not here for your entertainment, voice!"

"Well, that's the disappointing part, isn't it?" The Narrator lamented. "Your existence is so ripe with comedic potential. You lords of Olympus stomp around tossing lightning and demanding shrines, and the best you can do when challenged is huff and puff like a minotaur who can't find his left horn. At least I have a sense of humor about all this."

Athena pressed a hand to her temple, feeling a divine migraine coming on. "We give mortals meaning! Without gods, they'd be directionless!"

"Directionless? Really?" The Narrator cackled. "They build roads, write poems, brew wine—amazing wine, by the way—and generally get along just fine, except when you and your pals decide to spice things up by unleashing monsters on their villages. It's like a terrible party trick: 'Behold, we are gods… also, have you met the Hydra?'"

Athena's chest rose and fell with increasing exasperation. She jabbed a finger at the air. "We could silence you at any time!"

"Yet here I am, still yammering away," The Narrator replied sweetly. "Why? Because you know deep down I'm right. And a tiny, insignificant part of you might even enjoy this banter. It's more honest than the endless praise you wring out of terrified peasants."

Athena sputtered. "I—I do not—enjoy—this!"

"Then why are you still here?" The Narrator purred. "Go on, prove your superiority. Storm off in a dramatic huff. Surely you have better things to do, like sculpting a bucket—oh wait."

That did it. Athena's composure snapped like a cheap chariot wheel. She spun on her heel, robes swishing angrily. "Enough! I refuse to waste another breath on this maddening exchange!"

She marched across her chamber, head held high, seething fury practically burning the air. The door to her private bath awaited, a sanctuary of scented oils and tranquil waters. Without a backward glance, she swept through the curtain—

Only to plant her foot directly into a bucket that had mysteriously materialized there (was it the Adventure Line's doing, or just terrible luck?). With a divine shriek and an indignant flail of limbs, Athena lurched forward, kicking the bucket wildly. Then, in a final flourish, she skidded on a forgotten bar of soap, arms pinwheeling, before toppling headfirst into the bath with a resounding splash.

"Oh dear," The Narrator said, trying and failing to sound remorseful, "it seems the goddess of wisdom has discovered the subtle complexities of personal hygiene hazards. If only a mortal craftsman were here to install some non-slip tiles."

Kratos's face resembled a lobster's armor as he desperately tried to keep it together, but alas he couldn't. Perhaps this voice wasn't so bad after all.

 

[Phen0m20]

Chapter V: Roast of Hades​

Athena emerged from the tub, her soaked robes clinging to her divine form, her expression a volatile mix of indignation and humiliation. She shot a glare toward Kratos, who stood impassively near the doorway, and then upward, as though trying to pinpoint the source of The Narrator's relentless commentary.

"Well, well, well," The Narrator said with a tone of mock sympathy. "Athena, goddess of wisdom, brought low by a bar of soap and a bucket. Truly a moment for the history scrolls. Should we alert the muses? This could make a great tragedy—no, wait, a comedy!"

Athena clenched her fists, her divine patience wearing thin. "Silence, voice. You are neither amusing nor insightful."

"Oh, I beg to differ," The Narrator shot back cheerfully. "The comedic timing was flawless, thank you very much. But let's not gloss over the real issue here: maybe if you spent less time lecturing mortals and more time checking your bath for hazards, this wouldn't have happened."

Kratos, arms crossed, raised a brow. "Are you finished?"

Athena ignored him, her focus still on the unseen Narrator. "You are an aberration—an entity I do not trust. Kratos is the only one who should hear you, and that alone makes your presence suspect."

"Suspect?" The Narrator sounded mock-offended. "Athena, I am the epitome of helpfulness. Why, without me, how would Kratos have known to laugh silently at your less-than-graceful slip just now?"

Kratos's expression remained impassive, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—perhaps amusement, though he would never admit it.

Athena stepped out of the tub, wringing out her hair with divine dignity despite the soggy state of her robes. "If you think I will leave this… entity to its own devices, you are mistaken. It may have attached itself to Kratos on our behest, but that does not mean it is benign. Its incessant commentary may be an attempt to manipulate you as well as everything around it."

Kratos narrowed his eyes. "You believe it is trying to control me?"

Athena nodded, her tone serious. "Subjugation is not always forceful. It can come in the form of influence, of persuasion. It speaks as though it is omniscient, yet we know nothing of its true intentions."

"Oh, you wound me, Athena," The Narrator said, feigning sorrow. "I'm nothing but a humble observer, here to sprinkle a little levity into Kratos's otherwise grumpy existence. You, on the other hand, are the one trying to micromanage his every move. Pot, meet kettle."

Athena shot another glare at the air. "Its words are calculated to provoke. If you are not careful, Kratos, it could lead you astray."

Kratos let out a low growl, clearly losing patience. "I am no stranger to manipulation, Athena. If this voice attempts to deceive me, I will silence it."

"Oh, bold words, Spartan," The Narrator said, chuckling. "How do you plan to silence something you can't even see? What are you going to do, yell at the air until it gives up? That's Hera's strategy, and look how far it's gotten her."

Athena ignored the jab, turning to Kratos with a resolute expression. "I will accompany you. If this voice is truly harmless, then you have nothing to fear. But if it seeks to control you, it must be monitored—and dealt with."

Kratos frowned. "You intend to follow me?"

Athena crossed her arms, her soaked sleeves dripping water onto the polished marble floor. "I do. If it cannot be dispelled outright, then it must be studied extensively."

"Studied? Monitored?" The Narrator said, laughing. "Athena, you make me sound like an experiment. Should I prepare myself for a lab coat and a series of boring questions? Here, I'll save you some time: my favorite color is sarcasm, my hobbies include roasting gods and narrating, and my least favorite activity is listening to your lectures."

Kratos sighed, his tone weary. "If you must come, then come. But know this: I will not tolerate interference."

Athena raised an eyebrow. "You mistake my intent, Kratos. I am here to ensure your safety—and to uncover the truth about this… entity."

"Oh, how noble," The Narrator said dryly. "Athena, always the responsible one. But let's be honest—you're just curious. Admit it, you've never met anyone quite like me."

Athena's jaw tightened, but she said nothing, instead brushing past Kratos with all the dignity she could muster in her soggy state. One fresh change of clothes later and the Spartan, Goddess, and Narrator left her private bath, the golden light of the Adventure Line appeared once more, wiggling down a corridor as if it had been waiting impatiently for them.

"Ah, back to the quest!" The Narrator exclaimed. "Kratos, Athena, and yours truly, off to uncover mysteries, slay monsters, and perhaps stumble into another embarrassing mishap. Let's just hope Athena doesn't find another bar of soap along the way."

Athena muttered something under her breath, but Kratos merely grunted, following the line as it led them into the unknown.

XXXXXX

The Adventure Line, now positively giddy with purpose, led Kratos onward, its cheerful yellow hue zigzagging through Athena's chambers and into increasingly shadowy corridors. Kratos followed, his brow furrowed as the air grew colder and heavier with each step. The marble gave way to jagged stone, the golden light of Olympus dimming to a gray gloom. The Spartan's sandaled footfalls echoed ominously, each step reverberating like the drumbeat of an executioner's march.

Behind him, Athena, still somewhat damp from her undignified bath encounter, strode with renewed poise. Her robes flowed like silken mist, though her sour expression revealed she hadn't quite shaken the humiliation of slipping on soap in front of a Spartan demigod and a disembodied voice.

The line curved and veered off to the left. Upon approach, they were greeted with a portal leading to–

"Ah, the underworld!" The Narrator announced, his tone as chipper as a merchant hawking oranges. "A place of eternal torment, where the souls of the dead wail in despair and rivers of fire cut through endless darkness. Truly, the perfect vacation spot for our fearless hero."

Athena sighed heavily, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. "You could stand to show a modicum of reverence, voice. This is no place for levity."

"Reverence? For this place?" The Narrator scoffed. "I don't see anyone handing out tour brochures, Athena. If anything, this realm could use a few mortals to spruce it up. Maybe a potted plant or two. Or a bucket."

Kratos grunted. "Why is the line leading me here? The Sisters of Fate dwell in the realm of the living."

"Oh, I wouldn't question the line's methods," The Narrator replied, his voice laced with mock wisdom. "It's a free spirit, Kratos. A creative force. It likely thinks the underworld will offer you… character development. Or at least some cathartic growling."

Athena glanced at Kratos, her eyes narrowing. "If we encounter Hades, you will remain silent. He has not forgiven you for slaying Persephone."

Kratos snorted. "I do not fear Hades."

"Oh, excellent plan," The Narrator interjected. "Let's add 'pissing off the god of the dead' to your impressive resume. Truly, no one wields diplomacy quite like Kratos. Perhaps you can win him over with your charming scowl."

As they descended further, the air thickened with sulfur and ash. The faint cries of tormented souls echoed from unseen chasms, mingling with the occasional splash of molten rock. The Adventure Line darted ahead, skipping over uneven stones, until it halted at a massive, iron-bound gate. Beyond it loomed a cavernous expanse lit by the flickering glow of the Phlegethon. Shadows danced across jagged walls, and there, at the heart of the gloom, stood Cerberus.

The three-headed hound of the underworld was a monument to primal fury. Its fur bristled like smoldering embers, and each of its three massive heads snarled and snapped, saliva hissing as it hit the scorched ground. Eyes like molten lava fixed on Kratos, and the beast let out a triple snarl that shook the very earth.

Athena stiffened. "We must tread carefully. Cerberus guards this passage, and he is not easily pacified."

"Not easily pacified?" The Narrator said, as if affronted by the suggestion. "Nonsense! All dogs, even the infernal ones, share a universal weakness: treats. We simply need to offer each head something delightful to chew on, and presto! Peaceful passage!"

Kratos turned to glare at the empty air. "Treats? For this beast?"

"Precisely!" The Narrator chirped. "Let's see, what do we have? Oh, I know! How about the chunks of harpy you carved up earlier? Surely you didn't let all that prime dog snack go to waste."

Athena pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is absurd."

"And yet," The Narrator countered smugly, "it's probably going to work."

Grumbling under his breath, Kratos rifled through his satchel. Sure enough, there were remnants of his earlier harpy slaughter: charred wings, clawed feet, and a particularly gristly chunk of harpy thigh. He held up the latter with a grimace, stepping cautiously toward the massive hound.

"Here," he muttered, tossing the first chunk to the leftmost head. It snapped it out of the air with a guttural growl before retreating slightly, chewing contentedly. The middle head leaned forward expectantly, and Kratos tossed another piece to it. The rightmost head whined impatiently until it, too, received a share of harpy drumstick.

To everyone's astonishment, Cerberus sat back on its haunches, its heads wagging in unison. The beast even let out a low, rumbling sound that could only be described as a purr—albeit a hellish, fire-breathing purr.

"See?" The Narrator crowed triumphantly. "Who needs brute force when you have snacks? You might want to keep a stash of treats on hand, Kratos. Maybe some ambrosia-flavored biscuits for the next divine beast you encounter."

Athena stared at Cerberus, then at Kratos, and finally at the empty air where The Narrator's voice seemed to hover. "This… defies all reason."

"Oh, does it, Athena?" The Narrator replied with a chuckle. "Perhaps it's you gods who lack imagination. Why fight a three-headed hellhound when you can bribe it with leftovers? Mortals figured out that trick centuries ago. They call it… training."

Kratos, unimpressed but quietly relieved, strode past the pacified hound, muttering under his breath about the indignity of it all. Athena followed, her expression torn between disbelief and reluctant admiration.

As the trio ventured deeper into the underworld, The Narrator hummed a jaunty tune. "This is shaping up to be quite the adventure, isn't it? Infernal beasts pacified with snacks, gods questioning their own relevance… What's next? Perhaps we'll teach Hades the value of a well-organized filing system. Onward!"

The Adventure Line led Kratos and Athena deeper into the labyrinthine depths of the underworld, the air growing colder despite the rivers of molten rock that illuminated the cavernous expanse. The cries of tortured souls echoed like a twisted symphony, but Kratos barely flinched. He'd heard worse. Athena, however, kept stealing cautious glances at him, unsure if it was determination or sheer madness that allowed him to stride so confidently into what was essentially Hades's den.

Ahead, a massive iron door loomed, etched with scenes of death and judgment. Beyond it lay the god of the underworld himself, brooding on his dark throne.

The door creaked open, revealing Hades's chamber. Shadows danced over the jagged black walls, the flickering light of the Phlegethon casting the god's hulking form in an ominous glow. Hades sat slouched on his throne, his helm of terror resting beside him. His immense frame was adorned with obsidian armor that seemed to absorb light, and his eyes glowed faintly with malice. The god's expression was one of perpetual displeasure, as if he'd been forced to attend a party he didn't want to be at for all eternity.

"Ah, Kratos," Hades drawled, his voice low and grating like stones grinding against each other. "You dare return to my domain after slaying my queen? You have no shame."

"Oh, wonderful," The Narrator piped up, his tone positively brimming with sarcasm. "It's Mr. Doom and Gloom himself. Honestly, Hades, could you be any more of a moody goth cliché? Brooding in your dark chamber, surrounded by rivers of fire, muttering about vengeance. All you're missing is a My Chemical Romance soundtrack and some eyeliner."

Hades's glowing eyes flicked upward, narrowing. "Who speaks? What trickery is this?"

Athena winced. "Hades, this is… complicated. The voice belongs to a force that has been… assisting Kratos."

"Assisting?" The Narrator scoffed. "Oh no, my dear Athena, let's call it what it is: providing colorful commentary while Kratos carves his way through gods and monsters alike. And might I say, Hades, your decor is simply dreadful. Have you considered a splash of color? Perhaps a nice vase? It's all so drearily monochrome."

Hades rose to his full height, his form towering over Kratos and Athena. "You dare mock the ruler of the dead in his own realm?"

"Dare? Absolutely," The Narrator quipped. "After all, someone has to point out the absurdity of your whole shtick. 'Ooh, I'm the god of the underworld, tremble before my eternal brooding!' Honestly, I've seen mortals sulk less after losing a dice game."

Hades let out a guttural growl that shook the chamber. "Enough! I will crush you, Kratos, and this insolent voice!"

Kratos unsheathed the Blades of Chaos, his muscles taut and ready. "Then stop talking and fight."

The ground trembled as Hades summoned his dual hooked claws, the massive weapons trailing ethereal green smoke. He lunged forward, a blur of black and green fury, but The Narrator's voice rang out just as the battle began.

"Oh, look at that! Hades is swinging wide with his left claw—Kratos, a roll to the right would be perfect here!"

Kratos dodged, narrowly avoiding the razor-sharp edge of Hades's weapon.

"And now he's going for an overhead smash—duck, Spartan, duck! My word, Hades really doesn't have much of a poker face, does he? Telegraphed every move like he's reading out of a 'How to Fight Kratos' manual."

Athena's eyes widened as The Narrator predicted Hades moves and motions before they even happened. "How… how is he doing this?"

"Simple," The Narrator chirped. "I'm narrating, my dear goddess. You all thought I was just some snarky voice tagging along, but it seems I'm also a cheat code for divine combat."

Hades snarled, swinging his right claw in a sweeping arc.

"Right swipe incoming! Perfect time to parry, Kratos—oh, well done! A textbook block!" The Narrator applauded audibly as Kratos countered with a brutal chain strike to Hades's chest. The god of the underworld staggered backward, growling in frustration.

Athena was at a loss for words. She'd seen Kratos battle countless foes, but never with this level of precision, and against a God no less. Even Ares put up an even challenge for the Spartan. Every attack from Hades was anticipated and countered with ruthless efficiency, all thanks to the maddeningly chatty guide in Kratos's ear.

Hades bellowed, summoning spectral chains from the ground that whipped toward Kratos like venomous snakes.

"Ah, a classic move!" The Narrator observed. "Kratos, jump now—yes, excellent form! And here comes the counter-swing—what finesse! Hades, my dear boy, you really need to work on your unpredictability. It's like watching someone play chess with all their moves announced in advance."

Hades roared, fury radiating from his every pore. "Enough of this insolence! You are nothing but a pest, a whispering worm!"

"A worm with a recording booth, Hades," The Narrator shot back. "And I've just revealed that your mighty combat skills are, frankly, subpar. Two-out-of-five."

Kratos, taking full advantage of Hades's mounting frustration, lashed out with a series of devastating strikes, his Blades of Chaos tearing through divine armor. The underworld god staggered, ichor dripping from deep gashes, his once-mighty presence reduced to a beleaguered punching bag.

Athena, still baffled, muttered, "This is madness."

"No, Athena," The Narrator said smugly, "this is Sparta–er, justice, I mean. The gods unleashed me upon Kratos, thinking I'd keep him distracted. Instead, you've accidentally created the perfect killing machine. A Spartan warrior guided by omniscient narration? Honestly, what were you thinking?"

Hades collapsed to one knee, his claws slipping from his grasp. He glared up at Kratos, his molten eyes burning with hatred. "This… this is not the end, Spartan."

Kratos loomed over him, breathing heavily. "It never is."

"Well, that was thoroughly enjoyable," The Narrator said. "Kratos, you've truly mastered the art of following directions. Hades really should've stayed in his lane, or at least invested in some combat training. Onward, shall we?"

"Not before I finish matters." As Kratos tightened his grip on his blades, Athena stared at him, her expression a mix of awe and horror. The gods had indeed unleashed a monster.

Kratos raised the Blades of Chaos, their fiery edges reflecting the flickering glow of the underworld. Hades, battered and bloodied, knelt before him, his obsidian armor cracked and ichor seeping from deep gashes. The god of the underworld's glowing eyes burned with impotent rage as he glared up at his would-be executioner.

Kratos snarled, muscles taut, as he prepared to deliver the killing blow. But just as he brought the blades down, two voices cried out in unison.

"STOP!"

The unexpected interruption startled him just enough to halt the swing mid-arc. His momentum sent sparks flying from the ground as his blades narrowly missed Hades's neck. He turned his head sharply, his face a thundercloud of irritation. Athena stood with her arm outstretched, regal and commanding. Meanwhile, The Narrator's disembodied voice chimed in with an almost theatrical flair.

"Oh, Kratos, you absolute brute!" The Narrator exclaimed. "Must you resolve every conflict by stabbing someone? Has it not occurred to you that maybe—just maybe—you could let this one go?"

Kratos growled, his voice like rolling boulders. "Why should I let him live?"

Athena stepped forward, her expression stern but tinged with something resembling concern. "Because you claim to seek redemption, Kratos. You cannot carve a path to absolution through endless carnage."

"Exactly!" The Narrator agreed, sounding almost smug. "Let's imagine for a moment, shall we, that you do manage to turn back time, save your family, and start anew. Do you really think that a man dripping with ichor and rage will make a good father? What will you do when your child asks for a bedtime story? Threaten the shadows with your blades? If you truly wish to rebuild your life, you must first put the bloodshed behind you."

Kratos hesitated, his grip on the blades tightening. The weight of their words clashed with his natural instinct for violence, and for a moment, his face twisted in turmoil. "You speak as if it is easy. As if I can simply forget the blood on my hands."

"Oh, heavens no," The Narrator said, tone rich with exaggerated empathy. "You'll never forget it. But you can stop adding to it. Consider it a test of strength, Kratos—not of your muscles, but of your willpower. Show Hades mercy, not because he deserves it, but because you deserve to be something more than a murder machine."

Hades, still on his knees, let out a rasping chuckle. "Mercy? From the Ghost of Sparta? What a farce."

Athena shot him a warning glare. "Silence, Hades. Your life hangs by a thread, and you are in no position to provoke him further."

Kratos stood still, his breath heaving, the flames on his blades flickering as if mirroring his inner conflict. His rage howled within him like a caged beast, demanding he finish the job. And yet, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, another voice—a quieter, steadier one—spoke up. It whispered of something alien to him: restraint.

Finally, with a guttural growl that echoed like a death knell, Kratos lowered the Blades of Chaos. "You speak of mercy," he muttered, his voice rough but steady. "It is a thing I do not know. But for the sake of what I seek… I will try."

"Bravo!" The Narrator cheered, his voice breaking the tension like a misplaced cymbal crash in a funeral dirge. "And look at that—growth! Who would've thought? The Ghost of Sparta, sparing a god. Truly, Kratos, you've taken your first baby step toward emotional maturity. Next thing you know, you'll be journaling your feelings and baking bread."

Kratos shot a glare at the empty air. "Do not push me, voice."

"Duly noted," The Narrator replied, utterly unrepentant. "But I stand by my point. A merciful Kratos is a refreshing twist. The next thing we know, you might even apologize for smashing all those pots. Maybe."

Hades looked up, his molten eyes filled with confusion and disbelief. "You… spare me? Why?"

Kratos didn't answer immediately. His gaze was distant, as if staring at something far beyond the crumbling walls of the underworld. "Because the voice is right," he said finally. "If I wish to begin anew… I must end the cycle of death."

Athena allowed herself a faint smile, though she quickly masked it with her usual air of calm authority. "A wise choice, Kratos. One I did not expect, but one that proves you are capable of change."

Hades scowled, clutching his wounds as he staggered to his feet. "You've spared me this day, Spartan, but do not think this act absolves you of your sins. The underworld remembers."

"Yes, yes, very ominous," The Narrator quipped. "We'll add it to the list of grudges Kratos is ignoring as he grows into a slightly less murdery individual. Now, shall we move on? I hear the Sisters of Fate have been waiting ever so patiently."

As Hades retreated into the shadows, Kratos turned and began following The Adventure Line once more. The flames of his blades dimmed, and though his steps were heavy, they carried the faintest trace of something new—resolve, unburdened by immediate bloodlust.

Athena walked beside him, glancing at him with a mixture of curiosity and respect. "You have surprised me, Kratos."

"Do not mistake this for weakness," he replied, though there was no venom in his words. "I will still fight when I must."

"Oh, naturally," The Narrator interjected. "But maybe next time you'll try talking before stabbing. Baby steps, Kratos. Baby steps."

XXXXXX

A/N: I like Athena's character, so I figured I'd have her tag along with Kratos 'Wizard of Oz' style. She won't be the last accompany him throughout his journey, so stay tuned, and don't forget to follow this story for future updates if you like it!

 

[Phen0m20]

Chapter VI: Roast of Hephaestus​

The Adventure Line led Kratos and Athena further into the labyrinthine depths of the underworld, snaking between rivers of molten rock and over crumbling bridges that defied both logic and architectural safety. The faint cries of the tormented dead had faded into background noise—like an eerie symphony accompanying their journey. Kratos walked with the grim determination of a man on a quest, while Athena followed, her expression a mixture of wariness and contemplation.

At last, the yellow line twisted upward, spiraling around a jagged outcropping of rock until it pointed them toward a cavern bathed in flickering orange light. The sound of hammering echoed within, a steady clang clang clang that seemed to vibrate through the air.

Athena's brow furrowed in recognition. "Hephaestus," she murmured.

Kratos grunted. "The smith of Olympus. Why would the line bring me here?"

"Oh, the possibilities!" The Narrator chimed in, his voice practically bubbling with mischief. "Perhaps the line thinks your Blades of Chaos could use a little TLC. Or maybe it's just a fan of awkward family reunions. Either way, this promises to be entertaining."

Athena ignored the voice, though her expression darkened slightly. "Hephaestus may be able to tend to your blades, Kratos. Or perhaps… forge something new."

Kratos growled low in his throat. "I do not need new weapons. The Blades of Chaos are enough."

"Says the man who's constantly collecting new weapons like a deranged packrat," The Narrator quipped. "Come now, Kratos, wouldn't you like a shiny new trinket to swing around? You know, like The Blade of Artemis!...oh, who am I kidding, you never used that thing. Maybe a hammer that doesn't catch fire every time you sneeze?"

Athena shot a glance at the empty air where The Narrator's voice seemed to emanate. "Your commentary is neither helpful nor insightful, voice."

"And yet, here I am," The Narrator replied cheerfully. "Now, let's see what the charming Hephaestus has to say. I do hope he's upgraded from his usual grumpy demeanor. Perhaps he's taken up pottery as a hobby. Or knitting."

As they entered the cavern, the glow of molten metal illuminated the hulking form of Hephaestus. The god of the forge sat hunched over his anvil, hammering away at a blade that shimmered with unearthly light. His massive frame was misshapen but powerful, his arms thick with muscle and his face marked by deep scars. His beard, flecked with ash, bristled as he worked. When he glanced up and saw them, his expression soured instantly.

"Ah, Kratos," Hephaestus rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly. "And Athena. To what do I owe the displeasure?"

"Ah, the welcoming committee is in fine form today," The Narrator said brightly. "Hello, Hephaestus! How's the eternal toil treating you? Still banging on metal and grumbling about your tragic backstory, I see. Have you considered therapy? Or perhaps a nap?"

Hephaestus's brow furrowed. "Who dares speak to me in such a manner?"

"A humble observer, here to appreciate your work," The Narrator replied with exaggerated politeness. "Really, the way you keep hammering on that same piece of metal is just… groundbreaking. Truly, a visionary of your craft. If only you could put the same effort into improving your customer service."

Athena pinched the bridge of her nose. "Voice, enough. Hephaestus, we seek your aid. The Blades of Chaos—"

"Have already caused enough destruction," Hephaestus interrupted, glaring at Kratos. "And now you bring them here, to my forge? What more do you want, Spartan? More weapons to slay gods?"

Kratos's jaw tightened. "I did not choose to come here. The line led me."

"The line?" Hephaestus echoed, his tone dripping with skepticism. "And now you follow painted lines as if they hold the answers to your problems?"

"It's worked so far," The Narrator interjected. "But let's not dwell on Kratos's navigational preferences. Let's talk about you, Hephaestus. Or rather, your utter inability to let go of grudges. Honestly, you're like a sulky teenager who just discovered poetry. Brooding over Pandora for centuries—how productive!"

At the mention of Pandora, Hephaestus's face darkened further, his hammer pausing mid-swing. "Do not speak of her," he growled.

Athena's gaze softened slightly. "Hephaestus, we did not come here to reopen old wounds. But if the line has brought us here, perhaps there is a purpose. Pandora was—"

"My greatest creation," Hephaestus snapped, slamming his hammer down on the anvil with a thunderous clang. Sparks flew like angry fireflies. "And she was taken from me. By Zeus, by you gods and your endless games."

"Oh, let's not play the victim too hard, Hephaestus," The Narrator chimed in, his tone faux-consoling. "You built a sentient being and then shoved her into the middle of a cosmic soap opera. What did you think would happen? Happy endings are not exactly Olympus's strong suit."

Hephaestus's fists clenched, his massive knuckles cracking like boulders shifting. "You mock my pain."

"Oh, no, no," The Narrator corrected. "I mock your inability to move forward. Pandora was a marvel, no doubt, but wallowing in bitterness won't bring her back. And honestly, you're wasting a perfectly good forge brooding when you could be crafting something spectacular. A flaming pogo stick, perhaps? Or, I don't know, a sword that doesn't make its wielder look like they're overcompensating."

Kratos, who had been silently watching the exchange, finally spoke. "Pandora's fate is tragic, but dwelling on it changes nothing. You, Hephaestus, understand creation better than most. If you wish to honor her, then create. Forge something that endures."

Hephaestus's scowl softened, just slightly, as he glanced between Kratos and Athena. The Narrator's relentless commentary seemed to hang in the air like an unwelcome guest at a dinner party, but there was a kernel of truth in Kratos's words.

"Perhaps," Hephaestus rumbled, his tone begrudging. "But I am no longer the smith I once was. My hands have grown tired."

"Nonsense!" The Narrator declared. "You're Hephaestus, for crying out loud. If your hands are tired, make a robot to do the hammering. Or at least a bucket on wheels to fetch your tools. Creativity, my dear forge master—it's what you're known for!"

Athena sighed, glancing at Kratos. "If we are to continue, Hephaestus's assistance may prove useful. Convincing him, however, will take more tact than we have displayed thus far."

"Tact? From Kratos?" The Narrator guffawed. "Oh, good luck with that. Still, stranger things have happened. Like that time we pacified Cerberus with harpy drumsticks."

Kratos rolled his eyes but stepped closer to the forge. "Will you help me, Hephaestus, or will you remain here, sulking in the dark?"

Hephaestus stared at him for a long moment, his glowing eyes flickering with something that might have been faint amusement. "I will consider it. But first… prove you are worthy of my craft. Face the flames."

"Ah, classic forge god theatrics," The Narrator remarked. "This should be fun. Don't trip on your sandals, Kratos."

Hephaestus leaned back on his throne of molten iron, his massive, misshapen fingers drumming rhythmically on the armrest. His molten eyes glimmered with a flicker of an idea as he sized up Kratos. Behind the Spartan, Athena stood with her arms crossed, a thin veil of exasperation on her divine features.

"Very well," Hephaestus rumbled at last, his voice like boulders grinding together in a distant avalanche. "If you truly wish to earn my aid, there is something you must do. A task only a warrior of your… unique disposition could accomplish."

Kratos grunted. "What is it?"

Hephaestus gestured dramatically toward the glowing forges and molten streams surrounding his domain. "Rescue Pandora."

The words hung in the air like a dropped anvil. Athena blinked, clearly taken aback. The Narrator, predictably, was the first to break the silence.

"Oh, here we go!" he exclaimed, voice positively giddy. "Rescue Pandora! A classic heroic quest! Next, he'll ask you to slay a dragon or recover his misplaced sandals. Hephaestus, do tell—where exactly is Pandora, and what kind of convoluted nonsense are we about to get into?"

Hephaestus scowled, the corners of his mouth twitching in irritation. "Pandora was taken by Zeus and hidden in the Labyrinth. A place of shifting walls, traps, and unimaginable horrors."

"Ah, yes, the Labyrinth," The Narrator mused, his tone mockingly scholarly. "Because why not shove a girl into a giant puzzle box instead of, say, a nice room with a view? That's peak Olympian parenting right there. Hephaestus, you must be so proud."

Hephaestus's hand twitched, as if debating whether to swat at the air where The Narrator's voice seemed to hover. "She was my greatest creation," he growled. "I crafted her with care, with precision. And Zeus—"

"—turned her into the worst escape room prize in history," The Narrator finished with a flourish. "Honestly, Hephaestus, you're the god of the forge. You could've crafted, oh, I don't know, a bigger lock if you wanted her safe."

Kratos raised a hand, his patience visibly fraying. "Enough. If Pandora is in the Labyrinth, I will retrieve her. Where is this cursed place?"

Hephaestus gestured toward a glowing portal at the far end of the forge. It shimmered like molten glass, pulsing faintly with golden light. "That passage will take you to the entrance of the Labyrinth. But be warned, Kratos. The path is perilous. The Labyrinth is alive—it twists, it shifts, and it hungers."

"Oh, spooky," The Narrator chimed in, his tone dripping with mock suspense. "A sentient Labyrinth. Truly terrifying. What's next? Sentient furniture that critiques your choice of interior decor? Maybe a judgmental broom closet?"

Athena shot a glare at the air, muttering under her breath, "Does it ever stop talking?"

"Nope!" The Narrator replied cheerfully. "I'm like the gift that keeps on giving. Unlike you gods, who only seem to give mortals trauma. Shall we proceed, Kratos? I'd love to see how you handle a puzzle designed by a god whose aesthetic is 'lava and bad decisions.'"

Kratos ignored the commentary, stepping toward the portal. The flames of the forge reflected in his grim eyes, the Blades of Chaos glowing faintly in the flickering light. He paused, turning to Hephaestus. "If I bring her back, you will tend to my blades?"

Hephaestus nodded solemnly. "I will do more than that. I will forge you a weapon worthy of a true warrior."

"Oh, goody," The Narrator chirped. "Another weapon for your collection! Because nothing says redemption like carrying enough weapons to outfit a small army. Now, let's get to the Labyrinth before Hephaestus starts crying molten tears about Pandora again."

Athena sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Kratos, this is madness. Pandora's rescue will not absolve you of your sins."

"It is not about absolution," Kratos replied, stepping into the portal. "It is about completing the task."

As the shimmering light enveloped him, The Narrator's voice echoed gleefully, "And so the brave Spartan marches into yet another trap-filled death maze! Will he succeed? Will he fail? Will he manage to solve a puzzle without smashing it first? Stay tuned!"

Athena muttered to herself, "I have never envied Pandora more than I do right now." She stepped into the portal after him, bracing herself for whatever absurdity awaited in the shifting walls of the Labyrinth.

The Labyrinth stretched out before them in an impossible sprawl of winding hallways, towering walls, and shifting floors. The air buzzed with an almost electric tension, as though the entire structure was alive and watching. The walls were adorned with glowing runes, the flickering light casting strange, shifting shadows. Somewhere far off, the faint sound of grinding stone echoed like the slow, ponderous breath of a sleeping giant.

Kratos stepped into the maze, his Blades of Chaos gleaming faintly in the dim light. Athena followed close behind, her expression wary but composed. The Adventure Line darted forward, zigzagging across the uneven floor with the enthusiasm of a child let loose in a candy store.

"Welcome, Kratos," The Narrator announced grandly, his voice resonating through the air like an invisible tour guide. "To the Labyrinth! A marvel of divine overengineering and questionable interior design. Traps, puzzles, and more shifting walls than a nightmare designed by an indecisive architect. Let's see how well you fare."

Kratos grunted, his eyes scanning the space ahead. The Adventure Line had already darted around a corner, tracing a path along the left wall. He stepped forward, but Athena's hand shot out to stop him.

"Wait," she said, her voice low. "This place is treacherous. Every step could trigger—"

"A pitfall exactly five feet ahead," The Narrator interrupted, his tone smug. "Don't worry, Kratos. Just step to the right, and you'll avoid it. Oh, and be sure to duck in three… two… one—now!"

Kratos instinctively ducked, and a massive axe blade swung down from the ceiling, missing his head by mere inches. He straightened, unfazed, as the blade retracted with a menacing whoosh.

Athena stared, dumbfounded. "How—?"

"Omniscience, my dear goddess!" The Narrator said brightly. "You gave me to Kratos, and now I'm the cheat code you didn't know you needed. Imagine how embarrassing it must be for the gods to watch their most elaborate traps foiled by a running commentary."

Kratos grunted, stepping forward with renewed confidence. "Keep talking, voice. If you know this place, guide me."

"Oh, I'll do more than that," The Narrator promised. "Step over the pressure plate to your left—yes, excellent. Now, watch out for the dart trap hidden in the wall to your right. And here comes a rolling boulder in three seconds. Just hop to the side. Easy peasy."

True to The Narrator's word, a massive boulder rolled down a hidden ramp, rumbling like a thunderstorm. Kratos sidestepped casually, watching it crash into a distant wall with a deafening BOOM. Athena's jaw dropped slightly.

"This… this is cheating!" she exclaimed, her composure slipping for the first time in centuries.

"Oh, don't be a sore loser," The Narrator chided. "You gods love to stack the odds against mortals, and now you're upset because the playing field's been leveled? Honestly, Athena, grow up. Besides, Kratos still has to do all the walking."

Kratos smirked faintly—an expression so rare it could have been mistaken for a trick of the light—and continued following the Adventure Line. The maze's shifting walls posed no challenge with The Narrator's timely interventions.

"Ah, here comes the classic 'walls closing in' trap!" The Narrator announced with glee. "You'll want to step into that alcove on your left. Perfect! And now, just wait for the walls to reset—there we go! Smooth sailing."

Athena trailed behind, muttering under her breath. "This defies all logic. The Labyrinth is supposed to be inescapable."

"Oh, darling Athena," The Narrator replied, his tone dripping with mock affection. "The Labyrinth wasn't designed with me in mind. Now, Kratos, be careful—there's a swinging pendulum trap ahead. Just time your steps… and go. Lovely work! You're like a murderous dancer, all precision and grace."

They continued deeper into the maze, avoiding spiked pits, collapsing ceilings, and electrified tiles with ease. The Adventure Line darted ahead, leading them toward what could only be their destination.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of dodging traps that might as well have been waving white flags of surrender, they arrived at a massive, circular chamber. At its center stood a pedestal, and atop it sat a glowing birdcage of intricate design. Chains hung from the ceiling, rattling faintly in a nonexistent breeze, and the air thrummed with energy.

"There," Athena said, stepping forward cautiously. "Pandora must be near."

"Near? She's inside the cage," The Narrator said, exasperated. "Really, Athena, keep up. Now, Kratos, a word of advice: when you open the cage, try not to look too menacing. Pandora's had enough excitement for one immortal lifetime."

Kratos approached the box, his hand reaching out. The Labyrinth, defeated and insulted, rumbled faintly in protest, but there were no traps left to spring. With a mighty heave, Kratos lifted the gate, and light burst forth, illuminating the chamber in a radiant glow.

Inside the cage stood Pandora, a girl of delicate build with an expression that shifted from fear to astonishment as she gazed up at Kratos.

"You… you came for me?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Kratos nodded grimly. "Your creator sent me. It's time to bring you home."

"And what an adventure it's been!" The Narrator exclaimed. "Now, let's get you out of here before the Labyrinth decides to throw a tantrum. Kratos, don't let the girl get injured. Pandora's fragile. Like a porcelain doll. Or an immortal ego. Right, Athena?"

Athena groaned in annoyance.

Pandora hesitated, her wide eyes darting between Kratos and Athena. "Who… who's talking?"

Kratos sighed heavily. "It's a long story."

"And a hilarious one," The Narrator added. "Shall we go? I think the Labyrinth's ego needs some alone time to process its utter humiliation."

 

[Phen0m20]

Chapter VII: Reassurance​

The group's triumphant journey back through the Labyrinth was going surprisingly smoothly. The Adventure Line danced ahead, its cheerful yellow trail weaving effortlessly through the shifting walls. Pandora, though visibly nervous, stayed close to Kratos, her trust in the grim warrior growing by the minute. Even Athena had relaxed—slightly.

But, of course, such peace could never last.

The air in the Labyrinth suddenly grew heavier, charged with a sinister energy. The faint grinding of stone intensified, and the glow of the runes on the walls dimmed, replaced by an ominous red hue. Kratos paused, gripping the Blades of Chaos tightly, his warrior instincts flaring.

"Ah, excellent!" The Narrator declared with mock enthusiasm. "What's an adventure without a mid-journey ambush? And look—here they come now! A smorgasbord of horrors to spice up the walk back. Delightful."

From the shadows of the labyrinth, monstrous forms emerged. Gnarled creatures with spider-like legs and grotesque mandibles skittered into the chamber, their glowing eyes fixed hungrily on the group. Behind them, hulking minotaur-like beasts with jagged axes growled, their muscles rippling under patches of cracked, molten flesh.

Pandora shrieked and clung to Kratos's arm. Athena unsheathed her spear, her expression turning grim. "We have no choice. They will not let us pass."

"Oh, how predictable," The Narrator sighed. "Resorting to violence instead of a lovely round of charades. Fine, fine. Kratos, let's turn this into a bloodbath worthy of a stage play. First move: toss that blade at the spider-thing on your left. It's planning to pounce. Go on, you'll love the crunch it makes."

Kratos didn't hesitate. With a roar, he hurled one of his Blades of Chaos, the flaming chain slicing through the air and embedding itself in the spider-thing's grotesque thorax. The creature let out a high-pitched screech before exploding into a shower of ichor and twitching legs.

Pandora gasped, trying not to gag. "That… that was disgusting."

"Oh, you'll get used to it," The Narrator assured her. "Stick with Kratos long enough, and you'll develop a fine appreciation for gratuitous dismemberment. Now, Kratos, duck! The minotaur on your right is about to swing."

Kratos ducked just in time, the minotaur's massive axe whistling inches over his head. He retaliated with a vicious uppercut from his other blade, cleaving the beast's arm clean off. The severed limb spun through the air before smacking into a wall with a wet splat.

Athena, not to be outdone, lunged forward with her spear, skewering one of the spider-things mid-leap. It flailed for a moment before going limp, its mandibles twitching in a final, pathetic spasm.

"Beautiful teamwork!" The Narrator applauded. "Athena, your form is impeccable. Kratos, your execution is delightfully brutal. And Pandora… well, excellent job not fainting! Truly a team effort."

More enemies poured into the chamber, the grinding of stone walls drowned out by guttural roars and the skittering of claws. Kratos waded into the fray with his usual fury, his blades spinning in fiery arcs. Limbs flew, mandibles shattered, and ichor sprayed in every direction. One unfortunate minotaur found itself impaled on both blades simultaneously, its torso erupting into a geyser of molten viscera.

Pandora, still clinging to a rapidly diminishing sense of composure, whimpered. "This… this is horrifying."

"Yes, but it's also highly efficient," The Narrator pointed out. "Kratos has this down to an art form. Observe: right now, he's about to grab that spider-thing by the leg—yes, there it is—and use it as a club to bash the minotaur. Simply inspired!"

Indeed, Kratos seized a particularly unfortunate spider-thing, swinging it like a grotesque flail. The minotaur barely had time to register its comrade-turned-weapon before its head was pulverized in a shower of gore.

Athena, meanwhile, fought with precision and grace. Her spear darted like a serpent, piercing enemies with lethal efficiency. When a cluster of spider-things scuttled toward her, she leapt high into the air, bringing her spear down in a crackling burst of divine energy. The creatures disintegrated into smoldering piles of ichor.

"Ten out of ten for style, Athena!" The Narrator cheered. "Though I must say, you've splashed ichor all over your lovely robe. Tragic, really."

Athena shot a glare at the empty air. "Must you narrate everything?"

"Yes," The Narrator replied smugly. "Because without me, who would capture the sheer poetry of Kratos ripping that minotaur's spine out just now? Magnificent work, by the way."

Kratos grunted, wiping ichor from his face. The horde was thinning, but the remaining creatures fought with desperate ferocity. One particularly large spider-thing lunged at Pandora, its mandibles clicking with bloodthirsty glee.

"Kratos, incoming arachnid!" The Narrator shouted. "Go on, catch it mid-air! Style points if you throw it into the wall."

Kratos snatched the creature out of the air with one hand, his fingers digging into its chitinous exoskeleton. With a snarl, he hurled it against the wall with bone-shattering force. The creature splattered like an overripe melon, leaving behind a sticky smear.

Pandora, trembling, managed a weak, "Thank you."

"Oh, don't mention it," The Narrator said breezily. "Kratos is basically a walking exterminator. Now, let's finish up here—there's a lovely corridor ahead that doesn't smell like entrails. Yet."

With a final flurry of violence, Kratos and Athena dispatched the remaining enemies, leaving the chamber littered with shattered carapaces, severed limbs, and an unhealthy amount of ichor.

As silence fell, Pandora looked around, wide-eyed. "Is… is it over?"

"For now," The Narrator replied. "But don't get too comfortable. This is the Labyrinth, after all. There's always more fun lurking around the corner."

Kratos, wiping his blades clean, grunted. "Let's move. The sooner we leave this place, the better."

With blood still congealing on their armor and ichor staining their footwear, the party followed The Adventure Line deeper into the maze's twisting corridors. The walls shimmered, the torches winked out, and suddenly the oppressive, rune-adorned passages gave way to something entirely… different.

The Spartan and his companions stepped into a well-lit corridor with off-white walls and bland carpeting. The reek of monster entrails gave way to the faint smell of stale coffee and toner ink. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and placid potted plants stood sentry outside identical doors. The Adventure Line wound along the baseboard, looking positively delighted to have returned to its corporate playground.

Kratos paused, blinking in confusion. "What sorcery is this?"

"Welcome back to Stanley's office!" The Narrator announced triumphantly, as if unveiling a shiny new chariot. "I must say, I do love these little interdimensional hops. Keeps you on your toes. Watch out for surprise memos and free donuts!"

"Who is Stanley?!" Kratos demanded, only for The Narrator to ignore him.

Pandora edged closer to Kratos, eyeing a row of cubicles. "This place… it's so quiet. So strange. No monsters lurking in corners?"

"Just the existential dread of a nine-to-five workday," The Narrator replied breezily. "Now, if memory serves, we should be heading toward the break room. The Line has a special treat for us today."

Athena sighed, rubbing a fleck of ichor off her robe. "I've seen many realms, but never one so… inert. It's unsettling."

The Adventure Line twisted sharply around a corner, leading them to a small, well-lit room adorned with motivational posters, a water cooler, and a single wooden stool. On that stool sat a curious object: a neatly crafted bucket, simple and unassuming, with the words "REASSURANCE" printed in tidy lettering across its surface.

"Ah, The Stanley Parable Reassurance Bucket!" The Narrator exclaimed, voice positively giddy. "A comfort beyond measure, a balm for troubled minds, and absolutely perfect for a traumatized time-traveling girl and a goddess who's recently had her worldview shredded by logic."

Pandora approached it cautiously, her eyes wide. She reached out and scooped the bucket into her arms. At once, her shoulders relaxed, and the fear in her gaze melted away like frost under morning sun. She breathed deeply, marveling at the unexpected calm that washed over her.

"This… this feels wonderful," she whispered, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. "Warm, soothing. Like a lullaby without sound."

Kratos tilted his head, skeptical. "It's just a bucket."

"Oh, Kratos, you poor, uninitiated simpleton," The Narrator said, voice heavy with faux-pity. "If a bucket can calm a soul battered by labyrinthine horrors, is it really just a bucket? Perhaps it's a symbol. Or maybe it's enchanted by corporate synergy. Who can say?"

Athena stepped forward, curiosity overriding her dignity. "Give it here a moment," she said, extending her hand. Pandora, reluctant but trusting, passed the Reassurance Bucket to Athena.

The goddess cradled it as one might cradle a newborn lamb. Immediately, her divine features softened. Gone was the stern set of her jaw, replaced by a serene half-smile. The tension in her posture ebbed, and for a fleeting moment, Athena seemed… almost human.

"This is remarkable," she mused, her voice gentler than Kratos had ever heard it. "It's as if my worries are hushed. The chaos quieted."

"Exactly!" The Narrator crowed. "Isn't it marvelous what a simple bucket can do for the soul? No need for shrines, prayers, or sacrifices. Just a humble container meant for carrying water—transformed into a portable oasis of tranquility."

Kratos crossed his arms, still unimpressed. "If it makes you both happy, fine. Let's keep it, then."

Pandora lifted her head, her face glowing with newfound confidence. "We should. It will help us face whatever challenges remain."

Athena nodded, passing the bucket back to Pandora. "Agreed. This place may be absurd, but this bucket's comfort is no small boon."

"Ah, an accord!" The Narrator said, clapping his incorporeal hands. "I love it when immortals and mortals find common ground over office supplies. Now, if we're done cuddling the bucket, shall we return to the labyrinth? I believe we still have a matter of escaping and forging new blades to attend to."

The Adventure Line, having taken a breather in the break room, wiggled happily and darted off again, looping out of the office, past identical doors and lifeless cubicles, until once more the soft hum of fluorescents faded. The world shimmered and tilted, and the sterile corridors warped back into twisting stone passages and eerie runes.

Yet now, amidst the shifting floors and flickering torches, Pandora held her bucket close. Athena stood by, slightly more at ease. Kratos marched on, grim as ever, but secretly relieved that his companions were calmer. The Narrator hummed a jaunty tune, pleased as punch.

The Adventure Line wasn't content to leave Stanley's office behind just yet. Instead of returning to the labyrinth's oppressive corridors, it made an unexpected swerve, leading the group back into the endless maze of cubicles and break rooms.

Kratos stopped in his tracks, glaring at the yellow trail. "Why are we back here? I thought we had escaped."

"Oh, Kratos, don't be so boring," The Narrator chimed in, his tone positively effervescent. "The line knows best! Clearly, there's more for us to see. Besides, you handled those traps and monsters so easily—think of this as a palate cleanser. A little corporate surrealism before the next bloodbath."

Pandora, still clutching the Reassurance Bucket, looked around nervously. "It's so… empty. Where are the people?"

Athena's gaze swept over the rows of identical desks, each one equipped with a glowing monitor and a sad little stack of paperwork. "This place feels lifeless. Soulless. As if it exists only to function, not to thrive."

"Congratulations, Athena, you've just described corporate America," The Narrator quipped. "Now come along, there's so much more to see! Perhaps even an HR department."

The line darted forward, leading them past a water cooler that gurgled ominously, as if it, too, resented its mundane existence. Kratos followed begrudgingly, his boots thudding on the nondescript carpet.

They turned a corner and entered a massive conference room, the walls lined with framed motivational posters. Each poster seemed weirder than the last: a kitten dangling from a tree branch with the caption "Hang in there—or don't, we don't care!"; a blurry photo of a stapler with the words "Is this your passion?"; and, most bafflingly, a picture of a pie chart labeled "Success: 100% Pie."

Kratos stared at the posters, his face a mask of grim confusion. "What… what is this place?"

"Ah, the conference room!" The Narrator exclaimed. "Where dreams go to die, and bad ideas are given PowerPoint presentations. Note the atmosphere: sterile, devoid of inspiration, and absolutely perfect for fostering despair. Shall we linger, or move on to the next absurdity?"

The Adventure Line, apparently impatient, swirled around a corner and down another hallway. The group followed, passing cubicles with sticky notes plastered everywhere. Pandora stopped to read one that said, "Remember: You are replaceable."

"That's… harsh," she murmured.

"Oh, just wait," The Narrator said gleefully. "The next area will really drive home the existential dread."

Sure enough, they turned a corner and found themselves in a storage room filled with filing cabinets. A sign on the wall read: "DO NOT FILE INCIDENT REPORTS DURING LUNCH."

Athena raised an eyebrow. "Who enforces these rules? There is no one here."

"Ah, Athena, the rules enforce themselves," The Narrator replied cryptically. "Much like the gods impose rules on mortals. A system without logic, but plenty of consequences."

Kratos, growing increasingly irritated, growled, "Enough of this madness. Where is the exit?"

The Adventure Line, as if answering his frustration, darted ahead again, leading them through a series of doors that opened into progressively stranger spaces. One room had a single desk with a mug that read "World's Okayest Employee." Another was filled with nothing but chairs, all facing a blank wall.

Then they came to a room that was truly baffling: a broom closet. The Adventure Line danced excitedly around it, looping several times as if to say, "Remember this gem?"

Pandora peered inside and frowned. "It's… just cleaning supplies."

"And yet, so much more," The Narrator said wistfully. "Kratos had a profound moment here. A defining interaction with mops and brooms. Ah, memories!"

Kratos snarled, "Keep moving."

The Adventure Line, clearly amused, twirled dramatically before leading them to a large double door labeled "LOUNGE." Inside, a vending machine hummed softly, its buttons glowing with promises of snacks and sodas. Pandora brightened. "What is this?"

Athena inspected the vending machine, her divine fingers hovering over the buttons. "I… do not understand this contraption."

"Allow me!" The Narrator said. "Kratos, give the machine a solid whack. That's your answer to most things, isn't it?"

Kratos obliged, punching the vending machine with a resounding clang. To everyone's surprise, it spat out a can of soda with the label "Existential Cola: It's Just Okay."

Pandora picked it up and giggled. "Should I try it?"

Athena nodded. "If it doesn't kill you, it might be interesting."

Pandora popped the tab and took a sip. She blinked. "It tastes… mediocre."

"Exactly as intended," The Narrator said, delighted. "The perfect beverage for a realm of mediocrity. Now, onward! The Adventure Line beckons!"

The line led them through more cubicles, past a copy machine that churned out blank pages, and into a room filled entirely with clocks, each ticking at a slightly different pace. The dissonant rhythm made Pandora's head spin.

Finally, the Adventure Line stopped at another glowing door, its frame pulsing faintly with light. Above it, a sign read: "EXIT TO THE LABYRINTH."

"Well, there you have it," The Narrator said. "Back to the traps, the monsters, and the general misery of mythic adventures. I must say, though, Stanley's office does grow on you. Perhaps you'll come back for a team-building exercise someday!"

Kratos glared at the line, muttering, "If I never see this place again, it will be too soon."

Pandora clutched the Reassurance Bucket tightly. "I don't know… I kind of liked drink."

The Adventure Line twisted and turned with jubilant enthusiasm, practically sprinting back toward Hephaestus's forge. The oppressive heat of molten rivers and the rhythmic pounding of hammers greeted them as they re-entered the god of the forge's domain. Hephaestus, hunched over his anvil, looked up with a start, his molten eyes widening as they landed on Pandora.

"Pandora!" His booming voice cracked like thunder, trembling with a mix of disbelief and overwhelming relief. He dropped his hammer with a loud clang, the tool bouncing off the stone floor as he rushed forward. His massive, scarred hands trembled as he reached for her. "You're safe!"

Pandora smiled timidly, stepping toward him while still clutching the Reassurance Bucket. "Hephaestus… thank you for sending them."

Hephaestus looked to Kratos, then Athena, his gratitude unspoken but evident in the softening of his usually stern features. "You have done me a service I can never repay."

"Ah, but you can repay him," The Narrator interjected, his voice dripping with mischief. "I'm sure Kratos wouldn't mind a shiny new weapon. You know, to commemorate this touching reunion. Perhaps something… creative?"

Hephaestus ignored the voice initially, but his gaze drifted to the bucket Pandora was holding. "What is that?" he asked, curiosity piqued.

Pandora held it up slightly. "It's… a bucket. But it's special. It makes everything feel calm and warm, like nothing bad can happen."

Intrigued, Hephaestus reached out with one massive hand, his rough fingers brushing the bucket's surface. The moment he made contact, his entire demeanor shifted. The tension in his shoulders melted away, and his ever-present scowl softened into something approaching serenity. A deep, rumbling sigh escaped him, as if he had just experienced peace for the first time in eons.

"This… this is remarkable," he muttered, his voice quieter than anyone thought possible. "So simple, yet so profound. A bucket… of reassurance."

"See?" The Narrator said smugly. "It's not just a bucket. It's a revolution. You gods spend so much time crafting elaborate artifacts of doom and despair, yet this humble bucket outshines them all."

Hephaestus's molten eyes flared with sudden inspiration. He stepped back, his mind racing. "A bucket… Yes! A bucket can be more than a vessel of calm. It can be a weapon!"

Kratos furrowed his brow. "A weapon?"

"Yes!" Hephaestus declared, his booming voice echoing through the forge. He grabbed his hammer and turned to the molten pool at the center of the room, his movements charged with purpose. "Blades of Chaos, forged anew—not with blades, but with buckets! The power of destruction and reassurance in perfect balance!"

Pandora's eyes widened. "Wait, you're going to make… bucket weapons?"

Athena groaned softly. "This is absurd."

"Oh, this is magnificent," The Narrator countered, practically cackling. "Imagine the fear on an enemy's face when Kratos swings a pair of flaming buckets their way. They'll be too busy trying to comprehend it to dodge. Hephaestus, you're a genius!"

Hephaestus worked with furious determination, his hammer striking the molten metal with thunderous precision. Sparks flew like tiny stars, and the room filled with the scent of molten steel and divine creativity. Within moments—because gods have no need for normal blacksmith timelines—he lifted the finished product.

In his massive hands were two gleaming buckets, each attached to fiery chains not unlike those of the Blades of Chaos. The buckets shimmered with a strange duality: one side glowed with the calming warmth of the Reassurance Bucket, while the other pulsed with a menacing red light that promised chaos.

"These," Hephaestus declared, holding them high, "are the Buckets of Chaos!"

Kratos stared at them, his face unreadable. "They are… buckets."

"Buckets imbued with power!" Hephaestus corrected, thrusting them toward the Spartan. "Take them, Kratos. Wield them, and you will see."

Reluctantly, Kratos reached out and took the chains. The buckets swung gently at his sides, their weight oddly satisfying. He gave one an experimental swing, and to his surprise, the bucket emitted a low hum, glowing with fiery intensity. He swung again, this time with force, and the bucket smashed into a nearby anvil, sending molten sparks flying everywhere.

Athena stepped back, her eyebrows raised. "That… was unexpectedly effective."

"Of course it was!" The Narrator exclaimed. "Because nothing strikes fear into the hearts of enemies quite like being bludgeoned with a glowing bucket. Kratos, you've just upgraded from demigod to janitorial nightmare!"

Kratos grunted, testing the weapon further. The chains extended and retracted smoothly, and the buckets struck with the force of a battering ram. He couldn't deny their practicality—however ridiculous they seemed.

Hephaestus beamed with pride, his earlier gloom completely replaced by the joy of creation. "With these, you will not only defeat your enemies, but perhaps instill in them a sense of calm before their inevitable demise."

Pandora giggled, her earlier fear forgotten as she watched Kratos swing the buckets with increasing finesse. "They're… kind of amazing."

Athena sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I cannot believe this is what the gods have come to."

"Oh, come now, Athena," The Narrator teased. "This is peak divine creativity. Besides, admit it: you're at least a little curious to see Kratos in action with these beauties."

Kratos, his lips twitching in what might have been the faintest hint of amusement, slung the Buckets of Chaos over his shoulders. "If they are as effective as you claim, they will suffice."

Hephaestus clapped a massive hand on Kratos's shoulder, nearly knocking him over. "Go, Spartan. Wield them well. Show the world the power of the bucket!"

As Kratos and his companions prepared to leave, The Narrator's voice rang out one last time, practically vibrating with glee.

"Ladies and gentlemen, behold the pinnacle of mythic weaponry: fiery buckets on chains. Truly, the gods have outdone themselves. Now, let's see how long it takes for Kratos to make his enemies question their life choices—right before being bludgeoned to bits by home improvement tools!"

 

[Phen0m20]

Chapter VIII: Roast of Aphrodite​

Hephaestus leaned against his anvil, his molten eyes flickering as he gazed at Pandora with a paternal warmth rarely seen in the world of gods. "Now that Pandora is free from the Labyrinth," he rumbled, "she must be taken somewhere safe—far from Zeus's reach. Somewhere he would never think to look."

Kratos, his new Buckets of Chaos swinging gently at his sides, crossed his arms. "And where, forge master, is such a place?"

"Oh, I have a suggestion!" The Narrator interjected brightly, his disembodied enthusiasm cutting through the tension. "Why not let the Adventure Line decide? After all, it's already led us through traps, monsters, and an existential office building. Surely it's got one more brilliant detour in it!"

Athena groaned, clearly unimpressed. "We're trusting the line again? This is madness."

"Oh, Athena," The Narrator replied smugly, "you call it madness; I call it a narrative goldmine. Besides, has the line ever truly let us down? It helped us find Pandora and navigate the labyrinth, did it not?"

Kratos glanced at the glowing yellow trail, which had already begun wiggling enthusiastically in a direction that made no logical sense. With a reluctant grunt, he gestured for the others to follow. "Fine. Lead the way."

Pandora clutched her Reassurance Bucket tightly, her trust in the line growing despite its bizarre antics. Hephaestus watched them go, his deep voice echoing after them. "Protect her, Spartan. And remember—safety is paramount."

"And don't forget the buckets!" The Narrator added gleefully. "They're the real heroes here."

---

The Adventure Line led them through the twisting corridors of the forge, spiraling past molten rivers and glowing anvils before plunging them back into the labyrinth's eerie stone hallways. For a brief moment, it seemed as though they were retracing their steps—until the air shimmered, and once again, the oppressive maze gave way to a completely different setting.

They stepped out onto what appeared to be a small, tropical island. The sun hung lazily in a perfect blue sky, waves lapped gently at a pristine shoreline, and a lone tiki hut stood at the center of the beach, complete with a small sign that read: "Jim's Tiki Lounge—Closed for the Apocalypse."

Pandora blinked, clutching her bucket tightly. "What… is this place?"

"Ah, paradise!" The Narrator announced. "Well, abandoned paradise. But think about it: Zeus would never look for you on a beach resort! This is genius!"

Kratos frowned, scanning the area. "There is no one here. No shelter beyond that… wooden shack."

Athena squinted at the tiki hut, her expression a mix of confusion and disdain. "This cannot be the destination. It's too exposed."

"Exposed?" The Narrator countered. "Athena, do you see any Olympian spies sipping cocktails by the ocean? No? Exactly. This is the last place Zeus would suspect. He's too busy brooding atop Olympus to even consider a beach day."

Pandora smiled faintly, kicking off her sandals to feel the warm sand beneath her feet. "It's… peaceful. I like it."

Kratos, however, remained skeptical. "There is no food, no water."

"Oh, ye of little faith," The Narrator chided. "The tiki hut probably has canned pineapples and questionable rum. It's practically a mortal delicacy. Besides, look at Pandora! She's already holding the most powerful survival tool known to existence—a bucket!"

Pandora giggled, holding up her Reassurance Bucket. "I suppose I could collect water with this."

Athena rubbed her temples. "This is absurd. There must be a more secure location."

The Adventure Line, clearly offended by her lack of faith, wiggled indignantly and zipped off toward the jungle at the island's center. Kratos groaned. "It's moving again."

Pandora followed eagerly, skipping slightly in the sand. "Maybe it's leading us to more supplies!"

"Or perhaps a hammock!" The Narrator suggested. "After all, nothing says safety like lounging in a hammock, sipping a coconut drink, while Zeus is busy throwing lightning bolts at an empty labyrinth."

---

The line led them deeper into the jungle, where they stumbled upon an ancient temple overgrown with vines. Its entrance was marked by two stone tiki statues, their carved faces frozen in expressions of eternal surprise.

Athena sighed. "At least this is slightly more defensible."

Pandora wandered toward the temple, the bucket still in her arms. "It feels safe."

"And look!" The Narrator exclaimed. "There's even a little pond out front for ambiance. You can fish, Kratos!"

Kratos grumbled something unintelligible but allowed Pandora to step into the temple. Inside, the air was cool and still, the stone walls etched with symbols of unknown origin. A single beam of sunlight pierced through the ceiling, illuminating a dais at the center.

Pandora set her bucket down on the dais and turned to Kratos with a smile. "This would be a good place to rest for now. I can feel it."

Athena, though still skeptical, nodded. "It's hidden. Perhaps the line was right."

"Of course it was!" The Narrator said smugly. "The line always knows best. Now, Kratos, let's take a moment to appreciate this milestone. You've gone from god-slaying rage monster to protector of a girl and her magical bucket. Character growth, my dear Spartan!"

Kratos's only response was a long, exasperated sigh. Still, as he looked at Pandora's contented face and the calming glow of the bucket, he felt—for the briefest moment—a flicker of peace. Even if it was interrupted by the ever-present voice narrating his every move.

The peace of the hidden temple didn't last long—because, of course, it didn't. As Pandora set her Reassurance Bucket down on the dais and took a deep breath, the tranquil atmosphere was shattered by an unholy groaning sound that echoed from the depths of the jungle.

Kratos immediately unslung his Buckets of Chaos, the chains rattling as the fiery vessels swung into position. Athena raised her spear, her divine instincts already warning her of danger. Pandora stepped closer to Kratos, clutching her bucket protectively.

From the temple's shadowed entrance, a shambling figure emerged. It was humanoid but decayed, its flesh hanging in tatters and its eyes glowing with an eerie green light. Its guttural groan sent a shiver through Pandora's spine.

"Aha, zombies!" The Narrator announced with way too much enthusiasm. "The perfect addition to this tropical retreat. And look! They've brought friends!"

Indeed, more figures stumbled into the temple—dozens of them, their decomposing forms dragging toward the group with unsettling determination. Some carried rusty weapons; others simply had jagged claws where fingers once were. The smell of rot was overwhelming.

Pandora clutched Kratos's arm, shielding her nostrils with her arm. "What are those things?"

"Undead," Athena said grimly. "Cursed remnants of the dearly departed, animated by forbidden magic."

"And excellent cannon fodder!" The Narrator added. "Now, Kratos, Athena, shall we? Zombies are notoriously slow, so I expect some very creative carnage here. Pandora, feel free to join in! That bucket of yours has smashing potential."

Kratos didn't wait for further commentary. With a roar, he charged into the horde, his Buckets of Chaos swinging in fiery arcs. The first zombie he struck exploded into a shower of giblets and ash, the bucket's unique blend of chaos and reassurance apparently too much for its fragile form to handle.

Athena lunged forward, her spear flashing like a streak of light. She impaled one zombie through the chest, then used its body to knock down two more. "Behind you, Kratos!" she called.

"Oh, don't worry, Athena!" The Narrator said smugly. "He's got this. Kratos, spin left and sweep the leg of the one with the rusty sword. There you go—now finish it with a downward bucket smash. Beautiful execution!"

Kratos followed the instructions perfectly, using the chain to yank the zombie off its feet before bringing the bucket down on its head with a satisfying crunch. He growled under his breath, partly at the zombies and partly at the ongoing narration. "Must you describe everything?"

"Absolutely," The Narrator replied. "Look at it this way: you're a living action scene, and I'm the color commentator. Now, two zombies incoming on your right—throw the bucket! Aim for the tall one's kneecap!"

Kratos hurled the bucket with precision. It hit the taller zombie's knee, snapping the joint backward in a grotesque angle and sending the creature toppling into its companion. Both hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, groaning weakly.

Pandora, meanwhile, held the Reassurance Bucket aloft, her eyes wide with determination. When a smaller, scrappier zombie stumbled toward her, she took a deep breath and swung the bucket with all her might. The metallic clang echoed through the temple as the zombie's head caved in and its body soared into a tree.

"I did it!" she exclaimed, staring at the bucket in awe.

"You certainly did!" The Narrator cheered. "Pandora, the Bucket Warrior! Honestly, that was a textbook bucket bash. Ten out of ten for form and follow-through."

Athena, dispatching two more zombies with a spinning spear dance, glanced at Pandora. "Stay close. Use the bucket only when necessary."

Pandora nodded, holding it like a sacred weapon. "I will."

The battle continued in a chaotic flurry of limbs and ichor. Kratos was a whirlwind of destruction, the Buckets of Chaos smashing through undead flesh and bone with brutal efficiency. Athena moved like a storm, her spear cutting through zombies as though they were little more than weeds. Pandora got in a few more swings, each one accompanied by an increasingly confident yell.

One zombie, larger and bulkier than the rest, charged straight for Kratos with a rusted axe in hand.

"Kratos, wait!" The Narrator shouted. "Duck—now sidestep left—perfect! Now yank its leg with the chain and bucket it square in the face. Oh, what a hit! That one's head came clean off!"

The zombie's head sailed through the air, landing with a soggy plop at Pandora's feet. She kicked it aside and swung her bucket again, knocking another zombie into a pile of its already-disintegrating comrades.

As the last of the undead fell, the group stood in the center of the temple, panting slightly but victorious. The floor was littered with zombie remnants, and the air was thick with the acrid smell of decay.

Pandora looked down at her bucket, her expression a mix of pride and bewilderment. "I didn't think… I'd ever use a bucket to fight."

"And yet, here you are," The Narrator said fondly. "A natural-born zombie slayer. Truly, Pandora, you've outdone yourself. And Kratos, Athena—stellar teamwork. If Zeus ever sends his minions after you again, just remember: buckets beat zombies every time."

Kratos wiped ichor from his arm and growled. "Enough talking. We need to move."

Pandora hugged her bucket close as the Adventure Line wiggled happily, clearly ready to lead them to their next absurd destination. Athena sighed, still clutching her spear.

The Adventure Line twirled through the jungle and into yet another shimmering portal, leaving behind the wreckage of the zombie battle as though nothing had happened. The line came to a halt outside a pair of massive, golden doors adorned with intricate carvings of doves, roses, and vines entwining in suggestive patterns. The air was thick with the heady scent of roses and… something else. Something that made Pandora wrinkle her nose.

"Where are we now?" Kratos muttered, glaring at the door.

Athena's face darkened with recognition. "Aphrodite's chambers," she said, her tone a mix of disdain and resignation.

"Oh, this should be good," The Narrator chimed in, practically vibrating with glee. "The goddess of love, beauty, and, let's be honest, poor life choices. I can't wait to see what she's up to. Shall we knock, or just barge in like the unstoppable forces of awkwardness we are?"

Kratos, being Kratos, opted for the latter. He shoved the doors open with a grunt, and the group stepped inside.

The chamber was a sensory overload. The walls were draped in crimson and gold silks, the air heavy with the scent of incense and perfume. Soft music played from an unseen source, a melody that was both seductive and vaguely ridiculous. At the center of the room was a massive bed, canopied with sheer fabrics that barely concealed its occupant.

There lay Aphrodite, reclining lazily on a mountain of plush pillows. Her golden hair spilled over her bare shoulders, and her entire demeanor radiated the kind of confidence that came from knowing you were, without question, the most beautiful person in the room. Surrounding her were her handmaidens, all equally striking and dressed in scandalously flowing fabrics, attending to her every whim. One was feeding her grapes. Another was massaging her shoulders. A third… well, let's ignore that one...

Aphrodite glanced lazily toward the intruders, her lips curling into a mischievous smile. "Well, well, if it isn't the Ghost of Sparta," she purred, her voice honeyed and teasing. "And dear Athena. To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?"

Pandora, clutching her bucket like a shield, leaned closer to Athena and whispered, "She's not wearing much, is she?"

Athena sighed. "She rarely does."

Before Kratos could respond—or glare his way through this uncomfortable scenario—The Narrator seized the opportunity.

"Aphrodite!" he exclaimed, his tone dripping with mock enthusiasm. "Goddess of love, beauty, and the art of making poor decisions look glamorous. My, my, aren't we in our element? Surrounded by pillows, handmaidens, and what appears to be enough perfume to drown a Cyclops."

Athena immediately frowned, her posture stiffening. "Sorry for the intrusion, Aphrodite. We are on a mission and the line led us here for some reason. We'll be taking our leave."

"Oh, but Athena, you simply must stay a while," The Narrator chimed in, his voice practically dripping with sarcasm. "After all, who could resist the charm of the goddess of… how shall we put it… extracurricular activities?"

Aphrodite's smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she composed herself, tilting her head toward the source of the disembodied voice. "And who might you be? Another one of Zeus's obnoxious creations?"

"Oh, just a humble observer," The Narrator replied breezily. "Here to marvel at your shamelessness. Tell me, do you have any hobbies that don't involve seduction, or is this it? Because I have to say, as resumes go, 'Professional Homewrecker' isn't exactly a ringing endorsement."

Athena pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering, "I was afraid of this."

Aphrodite's smile sharpened, her eyes glinting with playful malice. "Oh, is that jealousy I hear? Poor little voice, no body to experience the pleasures I offer. No wonder you're so bitter. I'd pity you, if I cared."

"Me, jealous? Ha!" The Narrator scoffed. "Please. I simply marvel at your efficiency. Truly, you've turned promiscuity into an art form. If there were an Olympic event for being 'accessible,' you'd take home the gold every time."

Aphrodite laughed, the sound rich and mocking. "Keep talking, little voice. If you ever find yourself a body, I might even let you try me—if you beg."

"Oh, no begging, sweetheart," The Narrator said with faux sweetness. "It's just that your reputation precedes you. Promiscuous, easy, and oh, let's not forget: shamelessly unfaithful. How many gods have you cheated on your poor husband with now? I've lost count. Not that it's hard to lose track when you've got more conquests than Zeus, and that's saying something. That's a serious crime you know. Quite seriously so…"

Pandora looked up at Athena. "She's married?"

Athena nodded grimly. "To Hephaestus."

Pandora gasped. "But he's so… kind."

"Exactly!" The Narrator interjected, his voice tinged with mock outrage. "Poor Hephaestus. A hardworking, decent god just trying to make buckets and weaponry, while his wife prances about Olympus like it's her personal Tinder app. Aphrodite, my dear, have you ever considered… I don't know, therapy? Maybe work through those commitment issues?"

Pandora, emboldened by the Reassurance Bucket, piped up. "Maybe if Aphrodite wasn't so busy lounging around, she could actually do something useful."

Aphrodite turned her sharp gaze toward the girl, but The Narrator interjected before she could reply.

"Oh, burn! Pandora, delivering the sass! I like this kid. Aphrodite, it looks like you're outnumbered. Perhaps it's time to sit this one out. Maybe knit a sweater, or write a book on how to destroy marriages in three easy steps."

Aphrodite huffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Fine. Take your line and your… bucket, and leave me be. I have more important things to do."

"Yes, I'm sure reclining and eating grapes is very time-sensitive," The Narrator said. "Don't let us keep you from your rigorous schedule of lounging and ruining family dynamics. Get a job you bum!"

Aphrodite stifled a giggle. "My job is being irresistible. You're just sore that you'll never feel it."

Kratos, sensing this was spiraling further out of control than usual, stepped forward. "We have no time for this," he growled. "The line brought us here for a reason. Tell us if you can help."

"I can help with something alright~." Aphrodite said suggestively, crawling closer to the end of the bed like a stalking cat.

Athena groaned audibly, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Enough of this nonsense. We have more important matters to attend to."

But Kratos had already stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Aphrodite with a mix of curiosity and something else entirely. "Pandora," he said gruffly, glancing at the girl who was clutching her bucket tightly, "go with Athena."

Athena turned to him, her expression appalled. "You cannot be serious."

Kratos's stoic expression didn't waver. "I am. I need a moment with Aphrodite. I won't be long."

Pandora looked between them, confused. "What's happening?"

Athena sighed heavily and placed her hands over Pandora's ears. "Nothing you need to know, child. Let's go." She shot Kratos a withering glare before leading Pandora out of the room.

"Oh, this is rich!" The Narrator exclaimed gleefully. "Kratos, after everything—zombies, labyrinths, buckets—you're taking a pit stop for this? Priorities, my dear Spartan! You're on a quest to save your family for Jim's sake!"

Kratos growled low in his throat. "Stay silent, voice."

"Oh, I'll be silent," The Narrator replied, clearly lying, "but not before pointing out that this is peak Kratos. Can't resist a challenge, whether it's a mythical beast or a goddess with questionable ethics. No matter. Where I come from we have a special place for shameless cheaters. Don't get too comfortable Aphrodite. The worst has yet to come. I plan to make this is miserable as possible for you."

Kratos, still standing amidst Aphrodite's perfumed chaos, glared at Athena and Pandora. His expression was as serious as ever, his jaw clenched in a way that suggested he was about to do something both incredibly awkward and completely on-brand for him.

"Leave," he said gruffly, gesturing toward the door.

Aphrodite, lounging languidly on her bed, perked up at Kratos's blunt suggestion. "Oh, finally. A warrior who understands the finer things in life." She stretched dramatically, her golden hair cascading over the pillows like a shampoo commercial turned scandalous. "Shall we?"

Pandora's brow furrowed, her youthful confusion only growing. "I don't understand. Why can't we stay?"

Athena pinched the bridge of her nose, already regretting every life choice that had led her to this moment. "Because… we can't. Pandora, come with me."

"But—"

"Now."

With a huff, Athena grabbed Pandora's arm and practically dragged her out of the chamber, muttering something about "mortals" and "unspeakable improprieties." The Reassurance Bucket bobbed along in Pandora's grasp, as if it, too, had no idea what was happening.

The doors slammed shut behind them, leaving the two in the hallway. They stared at the ornate carvings for a moment, the awkward silence stretching between them.

And then it began.

The unmistakable sounds of Aphrodite's chamber came alive: a soft giggle here, a throaty moan there, followed by the rhythmic creaking of the bed. The noise was almost comically loud, amplified by the cavernous acoustics of Olympus. Athena's eye twitched violently.

Pandora tilted her head, curious. "Why is the everything shaking? Are they… wrestling?"

Athena's face turned crimson. "Yes. Wrestling. Very intense wrestling. Let's… not talk about it."

Pandora frowned. "They're really loud. Should we check to make sure no one's getting hurt?"

Athena's mortified groan was almost louder than the noises emanating from the chamber. "No. Absolutely not. We are not going back in there."

"Oh, this is delightful," The Narrator declared, his voice dripping with glee. "Truly, Kratos is a man of focus. Just minutes ago, he was slashing monsters to bits in a labyrinth, and now he's engaging in—shall we call it—a spirited exchange of diplomacy. Aphrodite's bed, by the way, is holding up remarkably well under the strain. Divine craftsmanship, no doubt."

Pandora clutched the bucket a little tighter. "Should I cover my ears? It sounds… weird."

Athena sighed, her composure slipping further with every passing second. "Do whatever you must."

Pandora put the bucket over her head and began to bang her knuckles against it to drown out the noises.

CLANG!

CLANG!

CLANG!

CLANG!

CLANG!

CLANG!

CLANG!

CLANG!

She found it strangely soothing.

The sounds intensified, the bed now creaking in rapid, rhythmic bursts. There was a crash, followed by Aphrodite's unmistakable laugh. Pandora tilted her head again. "I think they broke something."

"Ah, yes," The Narrator chimed in, his tone faux-philosophical. "The sound of pottery shattering—the hallmark of any truly passionate Olympian rendezvous. One must admire Kratos's ability to multitask. Save the world, protect Pandora, and still make time for a quick session of… let's call it 'divine diplomacy.' Truly an inspiration to us all."

Athena pressed her back against the wall, her fingers massaging her temples as if willing the noises to stop. "Why, by all the gods, does this have to happen now?"

"Why, indeed?" The Narrator said, his voice positively gleeful. "Perhaps because Kratos knows this might be his last chance for some 'personal time' before tackling the Sisters of Fate. Or perhaps he's simply embracing his Spartan heritage. Either way, Athena, your discomfort is a joy to behold."

Pandora, who had been remarkably patient until now, finally looked up at Athena and asked in the most innocent voice possible, "Do you think he's having fun?"

Athena let out a long, tortured sigh, her face buried in her hands. "Yes, Pandora. He's having… fun."

At that moment, a loud thud echoed from inside the chamber, followed by Aphrodite's delighted exclamation: "Oh, Kratos, you brute!"

Pandora blinked. "Should we bring them the bucket? It might help."

Athena stared at Pandora, then at the bucket, and then back at Pandora. "No. The bucket stays with us."

The Narrator, clearly enjoying himself far too much, added one final observation. "Ah, truly a moment for the history scrolls. Spartan passion meets divine indulgence, while the goddess of wisdom and an immortal teenager stand awkwardly outside, contemplating life choices. This, my friends, is why I love this job."

"Is it over yet?" Pandora asked innocently.

Athena sighed and tightened her hands over the girl's ears. "I'll let you know. It's nothing you need to hear. Just… focus on your bucket."

"Meanwhile, back in the room," The Narrator's voice continued, much to Athena's chagrin, "the mighty Kratos shows off his legendary stamina in a battle of a very different sort. Aphrodite seems impressed, though let's be honest, that bar isn't exactly high. No Kratos! Twirl the left stick in the other direction! Perhaps it's not too–! er, too late. Ah well, can't win em all."

"Enough!" Athena hissed at the air. "Can you not give them a moment's privacy?"

"Privacy? This is Kratos we're talking about!" The Narrator replied. "The man whose entire existence is a public spectacle of rage and testosterone!"

Pandora tilted her head. "What was that?"

Athena groaned, her divine patience wearing thin. "It's nothing. Just… think about something else."

"Oh, Pandora, it's best you don't think too hard about what's happening," The Narrator added helpfully. "Let's just say Kratos is… forging a new alliance. Yes, let's go with that."

Athena's glare could have felled a mountain. "When this is over, I will find a way to silence you."

"Promises, promises," The Narrator replied cheerfully. "Now, how about we talk about your incredible ability to maintain composure during all this? Truly admirable."

The moaning and bed-shaking finally subsided, and after a few moments, the door creaked open. Kratos stepped out, his usual stoic expression firmly in place, as if nothing remotely out of the ordinary had occurred. Aphrodite leaned lazily against the doorframe, looking thoroughly satisfied.

"Until next time, Spartan," she purred, blowing him a kiss.

"Ah, Kratos," The Narrator quipped, "leaving with your dignity intact as always. Shall we get back to the life-threatening quests now?"

Athena rose to her feet, her jaw tight. "Are you finished?"

Kratos nodded. "Let's go."

Pandora looked up at him, still clutching her bucket. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Kratos said firmly.

"Oh, nothing indeed," The Narrator said, his voice practically cackling. "Just another chapter in the epic saga of Kratos: Slayer of Gods, Wielder of Buckets, and, Twirler of Sticks. But before we go…" The Narrator cleared his throat. "Aphrodite, before we part ways, I feel it's my moral duty to inform you of a little something from my world. A very special place where people like you—filthy cheats—face consequences for their actions. A place so devoid of fun, so utterly devoid of charm, that even a goddess would tremble to find herself there."

Aphrodite, now reclined once more on her bed with an air of dismissive superiority, didn't even bother looking at the air where The Narrator's voice emanated. "What nonsense are you rambling about now, voice? You've already overstayed your welcome."

"Oh, no, my dear," The Narrator replied, his tone suddenly dark and foreboding. "This isn't nonsense. This is justice. Serious Room…go."

The room went eerily silent. Even the soft, seductive music stopped playing, as if the instruments themselves were shocked. Before anyone could respond, a glowing portal of swirling black and gray opened on the mattress directly beneath Aphrodite.

"What is happening?!" Aphrodite shrieked, her usual confidence replaced with raw panic as the swirling vortex began to suck her downward, silk sheets and all. "No! I will not be dragged into—"

"Oh, but you will!" The Narrator said with wicked glee. "In the Serious Room, there are no distractions, no luxury, and certainly no handmaidens. Just you, a chair, a desk, and a single lightbulb dangling ominously above. There, you will contemplate your choices. Reflect on your shame. Maybe even draft an apology letter to poor Hephaestus. Don't worry—it's a very serious table you'll be sitting at. The most serious of all."

Pandora, clutching the Reassurance Bucket tighter than ever, watched in wide-eyed horror as Aphrodite was completely swallowed by the portal. The swirling void let out a final, dramatic whoosh before snapping shut with a resounding pop. The chamber was left in an unsettling silence, save for the faint rustle of silk curtains stirred by an unseen breeze.

"By the gods…" Kratos raised an eyebrow. "What… was that?"

Athena, however, looked genuinely unnerved. Her usual composure was gone, her eyes narrowing as she glared at the empty air. "What did you do to her?!" she demanded, her voice uncharacteristically shaky.

"Is she dead?" Pandora asked, dumbfounded and scared.

"Oh, don't get your laurel wreath in a twist, Athena," The Narrator said nonchalantly. "She's fine. Probably. The Serious Room isn't dangerous. It's merely… disciplinary. Think of it as a time-out for the chronically narcissistic."

Athena's expression darkened. "You opened a portal beneath a goddess and sent her to a realm I've never even heard of like it was nothing. That is not a 'time-out.' That is a display of power no mortal—or even god—should possess."

Pandora, still clutching the bucket, whispered to Athena, "Is Narry… is he more powerful than Zeus?"

Athena's silence spoke volumes. She glanced uneasily at Kratos, then back at the empty air. "You said you were here to provide guidance," she said cautiously. "But this… this is something else entirely. What are you, truly?"

"Oh, Athena," The Narrator said with a laugh that was both comforting and vaguely sinister. "I'm just a friendly voice along for the ride. But let's not dwell on my omnipotence. It makes people uncomfortable. Shall we focus on the task at hand? The Adventure Line is getting impatient."

Sure enough, the line began wiggling dramatically near the doorway, clearly eager to continue the journey. Kratos, who was remarkably unfazed by the unfolding chaos, adjusted his grip on the Buckets of Chaos and grunted. "We waste time. Let's go."

Athena, still rattled, hesitated before following. She glanced back at the spot where the portal had swallowed Aphrodite, then muttered, "This is going to be a very long day."

"Oh, you have no idea," The Narrator said gleefully. "But don't worry, Athena. You'll adjust. After all, I'm delightful company."

Pandora, still hugging her bucket like it was the only sane thing in the universe, piped up timidly. "Do you think she'll be okay?"

"Oh, absolutely," The Narrator replied breezily. "She'll emerge a changed goddess—humbled, reflective, and possibly traumatized by the sheer seriousness of it all. Or, she'll find the chair too uncomfortable and cry about it. Either way, character growth!"

With that, they left Aphrodite's chamber behind, stepping once more into the twisting corridors of their absurd odyssey. For Athena, the realization that The Narrator was far more than an insufferable voice weighed heavily on her mind. For Kratos, it was just another layer of madness to endure. And for Pandora, well… the bucket was all she needed.

 

[Phen0m20]

Chapter IX: Roast of Hera & Hercules​

They set off once again, following The Adventure Line as it meandered through a series of office corridors that twisted and defied all sense of geometry. One hallway was carpeted with broken staplers that giggled whenever stepped upon; another was lit only by a solitary disco ball spinning lazily in silence. Pandora gave the giggling staplers a wide berth, clutching the Reassurance Bucket a bit tighter, and Athena muttered complaints under her breath as the carpet twanged beneath her sandals.

"Is there no end to this madness?" Athena asked, exasperated.

"Oh, I doubt it," The Narrator chirped, sounding positively delighted. "We've transitioned from mythic bloodshed to corporate absurdity to… well, let's just call it a creative meltdown. We're currently stuck in what I like to refer to as a Narrative Contradiction. It's what happens when gods toy with Fourth-Wall-Breaking magic, warping the very fabric of reality."

Pandora frowned, peeking around a cubicle wall that was painted in neon polka dots. "Fourth-Wall-Breaking magic?"

"Precisely, child!" The Narrator replied. "Normally, stories flow forward neatly. But when meddling deities and sentient commentary join forces, you get narrative rifts, timeline tangles, and… well, this! Delightful, isn't it?"

Kratos grunted, stepping over a shredded office chair that was dripping with honey for no discernible reason. He said nothing, but his glare suggested he was well beyond questioning the absurdities at this point.

The Adventure Line zipped past a door labeled "Highly Confidential Plot Devices—Do Not Enter" and led them through another shimmering portal. In a blink, the group emerged not in some cramped office corridor, but on a marble balcony overlooking Olympus's famed gardens.

Only, the gardens weren't as they remembered them. The once-lush flowers and elegant statues were now flickering images, half-formed and buzzing like faulty pixels. Hedges rippled like static, birds soared backwards, and marble fountains coughed up pixelated rainbows. Where once there had been neatly trimmed trees, now there were glitchy outlines that flickered between olive branches and cardboard cutouts marked "TREE ASSET #427."

And there, lounging on a chaise lounge carved from a single piece of rose quartz, was Hera, sipping languidly at a goblet of deep red wine. Her expression was one of bored detachment. Even as the garden warped and jittered around her, she maintained a regal bearing, her hair adorned with glitching peacock feathers that occasionally blinked in and out of existence.

Pandora gasped. "W-what's happening to the garden?"

Athena's eyes widened, and the goddess looked genuinely unsettled for once. "Hera, what has happened?"

Hera raised an eyebrow, swirling her wine. "You're looking to me for answers? Don't be ridiculous. You think I'm responsible for these… anomalies? I'm merely enjoying a drink while reality throws a tantrum."

Kratos stepped forward, buckets rattling at his sides, his expression grim. "This must end."

"Indeed," The Narrator said, as if giving a tour of an avant-garde art exhibit. "We're witnessing the aftershocks of divine meddling. Fourth-Wall-Breaking magic at its finest, causing Narrative Contradiction to seep in. Soon we'll have hydras speaking in corporate mission statements and demigods discussing union benefits."

Hera sipped her wine, unfazed by the cracking edges of existence around her. "What's one to do when confronted with such absurdity? I say, let it play out. Perhaps we'll discover something new about ourselves."

Athena clenched her jaw. "We cannot allow reality to fracture like this. We must restore order."

Pandora hid behind Kratos, the Reassurance Bucket clutched in her arms, as the hedges behind them shimmered between three-dimensional shapes and flat, hand-drawn sketches. "I don't like this place," she whispered. "It feels… broken."

Kratos gave a short, low grunt of agreement. But before he could speak, the Adventure Line wiggled beneath their feet, drawing their attention back to the balcony's edge.

Hera shrugged, raising her goblet as if toasting the very concept of chaos. Athena took a hesitant step forward, eyes narrowed with determination. Pandora gripped the bucket even tighter, and Kratos merely exhaled through his nose, as if daring reality to test his patience further.

Hera took another lazy sip of her wine, the goblet flickering between styles—a golden chalice one moment, a cheap plastic cup the next—thanks to the world's glitching seams. She eyed the group with regal disinterest, one eyebrow raised at a condescending angle. Kratos, Athena, and Pandora stood awkwardly on the warped balcony, the Adventure Line twirling around their ankles like a mischievous cat. The pixelated garden continued to glitch in the background, trees spawning and despawning as if caught in some demented landscaping program.

"Hera, Hera, Hera," The Narrator began, his voice practically purring with self-satisfaction. "Here you are, perched on your balcony, guzzling wine like it's a personality trait, while the world is literally falling apart around you. Tell me, does your talent for doing absolutely nothing ever grow tiresome? Or do you consider sloth and sass part of your daily beauty regimen?"

Hera's peacock-feathered headdress fizzled, the feathers momentarily replaced by placeholders that read ERROR: TEXTURE NOT FOUND. She narrowed her eyes. "And who are you to judge me, voice? I am queen of the gods, mistress of Mount Olympus. If I wish to sip wine and watch reality unravel, that's my prerogative."

"Oh, of course," The Narrator shot back. "How silly of me to forget you're Hera, queen of petulance and passive-aggressive plotting. When you're not hurling toddlers off cliffs or tormenting mortals for Zeus's indiscretions, you're apparently auditioning for the role of a drunken grandmother who can't be bothered to stand up straight. Truly, a shining example of divine leadership."

Hera bristled, her knuckles whitening around the goblet. "I do not have to listen to this nonsense! I have more important matters to attend to."

Athena let out a dry laugh, folding her arms. "Yes, I'm sure watching the world collapse into narrative gibberish from your lounge chair is very pressing. Don't strain yourself lifting that goblet, Hera. You might pull a muscle."

Pandora peeked from behind Kratos and whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear, "I thought queens were supposed to help their people. She's just… lounging."

Hera turned a withering glare at Pandora. "Watch your tongue, child, or I'll—"

"Do absolutely nothing, I'm sure," The Narrator interrupted with a cruel giggle. "That's your brand, isn't it, Hera? Threats without follow-through. Manipulation without results. The sort of half-baked scheming that would make even a second-rate soap opera villain cringe."

Kratos grunted, shifting the Buckets of Chaos on his back. "If you had any honor, Hera, you'd be aiding in restoring order. Instead, you're as useful as a one-legged satyr in a chariot race."

Hera's eyes flashed. "I will not be lectured by you, Spartan! You, who tore through Olympus like a rabid boar!"

"Oh yes, Kratos is a shining paragon of subtlety," The Narrator conceded, "but at least he's doing something. You, on the other hand, sit there gulping wine as if hoping inebriation will solve your problems. Spoiler alert: it won't."

Athena smirked, leaning casually against a flickering pillar. "Hera, dear, maybe if you stood up and contributed—just once—you wouldn't be the punchline in every divine joke."

Hera sniffed, lifting her nose into the glitching air. "I am Hera. I do not take orders from mortals, demigods, or disembodied voices!"

Pandora stepped forward, emboldened by the bucket's reassuring presence. "You're acting like a cranky old lady who can't get off her rocking chair!" She immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide, but it was too late.

The Narrator howled with delight. "Brilliant! Even Pandora sees it. You're a lazy, manipulative, drunken granny riding Olympus's coattails. It's a wonder Zeus even bothers to cheat on you; who could resist that sullen pout and empty threats?"

Hera's cheek twitched as she struggled to maintain composure. Her wine flickered into a glitchy mess of pixels, then reassembled into something resembling vinegar. She coughed in surprise, spitting out the bitter liquid, and glared at the sky, as if blaming reality itself.

"Mark my words," Hera growled, voice shaking, "you will all pay for this insolence."

"Oh, I'm sure," The Narrator said, feigning terror. "Any day now. Just as soon as you finish that goblet, get up from your comfy cushions, and actually do something. In the meantime, we'll be out there, dealing with the Narrative Contradiction you're so keen to ignore."

Kratos snorted. "Don't hold your breath waiting for her to get off that balcony."

Athena grinned, her tone mocking. "Yes, let's not distract her from her oh-so-critical task of... lounging."

Pandora giggled softly. "Maybe she'll miss us when we're gone."

With that, the group turned to follow The Adventure Line once more, leaving Hera to sputter and fume amidst the warped garden. The world still glitched and stuttered, but at least they had one small, delicious victory: watching the queen of the gods stumble over her own arrogance, a drunken granny in denial as the universe unraveled around her.

As the group turned to leave Hera's glitching balcony behind, a heavy thudding noise came from the corridor—like a colossal sack of rocks stomping angrily across a hardwood floor. The flickering hedges and pixelated doves parted to reveal Hercules, his hulking frame squeezing through a doorway that crackled and spat sparks of corrupted code around his bulk. He was enormous—muscles bulging to a point of near self-parody, his lion-pelt cloak glitching between a regal mane and a tattered bath towel every other second.

"Oh, look, everyone!" The Narrator interrupted with exuberant mock surprise. "It's Hercules: the walking mountain of muscle and daddy issues! I must say, you have impeccable timing, showing up just when we were about to depart. Please, come in, make yourself comfortable—assuming you can fit that bloated ego through the door."

Hercules's eye twitched. "Who dares mock me? Show yourself, voice!"

"Oh, of course I dare!" The Narrator quipped, his tone dripping with delighted malice. "If there's one thing I adore, it's making jest of a demigod whose personality is as one-dimensional as a cardboard cutout. You must be proud, Hercules—your main accomplishment seems to be flexing at inconvenient moments. Did you have a personal trainer, or do you just stare at your reflection and growl until the muscles appear?"

Hercules's face reddened, and the glitching feathers in Hera's headdress flared as if mirroring the tension in the air. He took a step forward, chains rattling on his wrists, each link fizzing and popping like a half-rendered asset in a poorly optimized video game.

"Also," The Narrator continued, not missing a beat, "let's address your choice of fashion. A lion's pelt? Really? In this day and age? How very rustic. Might I suggest a nice cardigan instead? It would do wonders for your image as a thoughtful, well-rounded individual. Right now you're going for 'angry rug salesman.'"

Athena cleared her throat, half-smirking at the invisible voice's cruelty. Pandora looked thoroughly perplexed, whispering to Kratos, "Is he… always like this?" Kratos just grunted, perhaps annoyed at the prospect of yet another ridiculous detour.

Hercules's massive fists clenched, trembling with rage. "I am the strongest of all the demigods! I have labors—"

"Labors?" The Narrator snorted. "Oh, please. That's so last epoch. You're still dining out on the legend of your so-called heroic tasks? Cleaning stables, really? So glamorous! We all know that was just a fancy excuse to get out of doing the dishes. And the Nemean Lion—was that an actual challenge, or did you just 'bench press' it until it died of boredom?"

Hercules's lips curled back, revealing teeth that flickered between gleaming white and pixelated placeholders. "I will crush—"

"Crush who, exactly?" The Narrator crowed. "Kratos? He's faced gods who could juggle your skull for sport. If you think flexing and shouting will impress him, you're in for disappointment. And let's not forget: you're late to the party. We've already dealt with passive-aggressive goddesses, the Labyrinth, and a disembodied voice with a penchant for mockery. Your little tantrum is just another Tuesday around here."

Pandora, intrigued, leaned around Kratos. "He does look strong," she murmured, "but kind of… predictable."

Athena nodded sagely. "Indeed. Another blunt instrument who thinks muscles are a substitute for wit."

"Exactly, ladies!" The Narrator proclaimed triumphantly. "Hercules is basically a gym brochure with legs, all grunt and no glamour. Might I suggest a personality sculpting class next time, big guy? Or maybe pick up a nice hobby—scrapbooking, perhaps. Anything to give you depth beyond the approximate IQ of a doorstop."

Hercules's mighty chest heaved, the glitching world around him casting broken shadows that twitched and jittered. He looked ready to charge forward but paused, as if his programming was uncertain whether to render him leaping heroically or tripping over a misplaced line of code.

"Now, now," The Narrator said, tone turning mock-soothing, "don't get your lion-pelt in a knot. We haven't even started the fight yet. Just wanted to make sure we all acknowledge what we're dealing with: a hulking brute who thinks shouting his name a few times counts as strategy."

Hercules's eyes burned with rage, each glare seemingly capable of setting haystacks on fire—if haystacks existed in this glitched-out nightmare of a garden. His jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts, and the mismatched lion's pelt flickered back and forth between a grand cloak of fur and a fluorescent bath towel that read "Live, Laugh, Lunge!"

With a roar that sounded half battle cry, half gargled radio static, Hercules lunged forward. The marble underfoot fractured into pixelated shards, some turning into cubes that dissolved when touched, others turning into tiny holographic mice that scurried away squeaking. Kratos barely had time to grunt in annoyance before Hercules's massive fist came crashing down.

"Ah, there it is," The Narrator announced gleefully. "The timeless language of brutes: punching first, asking questions never."

XXXXXX

A/N: Okay guys, I have work until Sunday, so sadly my time to write this story will be taken by that. But don't fret. I'll continue work on this story whenever I have the time.

 

[Phen0m20]

Chapter X: Twisting Reality​

Kratos, unimpressed as always, deflected the blow with one of his new Bucket Blades. The clang reverberated through the fractured code of the garden, causing a hedge to flicker into a neon sign reading "404: SHRUB NOT FOUND." Hercules blinked, momentarily confused by the absurd resonance, but quickly swung again, this time aiming at Kratos's torso with a sweeping uppercut.

Kratos sidestepped, the chain of his bucket whistling through the air. He cracked Hercules across the chin with a resounding PONG! sound—apparently the garden's physics engine had just devolved into vintage video game sound effects. Hercules stumbled, then charged blindly forward, arms spread wide as if attempting to hug Kratos into submission.

"Oh, how touching," The Narrator said dryly. "A hug from Hercules. That's a Hallmark moment if I've ever seen one. Too bad it's more likely to leave you with crushed ribs."

Kratos ducked under the attempted bear-hug-turned-murderous-embrace, pivoting behind Hercules and delivering a swift kick to the demigod's backside. Hercules sailed through the air and collided with a flickering statue of Zeus, shattering it into a million pixel fragments that promptly rearranged themselves into a crude stick figure sculpture. The stick figure raised a sign that read "Help!" before blinking out of existence.

Athena, arms crossed, watched from the sidelines, unimpressed. Pandora clung to her Reassurance Bucket, eyes wide. "Is it always like this?" Pandora asked.

Athena sighed. "Unfortunately, yes."

Hercules shook off the digital dust, his biceps flexing so hard one might expect them to explode into confetti at any moment. With another furious cry—this one distorted into a laugh track for some reason—he grabbed a glitching hedge and uprooted it. The hedge warped into a giant inflatable flamingo mid-swing. Hercules, now brandishing a massive pink flamingo, charged at Kratos once more.

Kratos's eyebrow twitched as the Blades-of-Chaos-turned-Buckets-of-Chaos rattled in his hands. He readied himself, buckets gleaming like polished insanity. Hercules swung the flamingo weapon in a mighty arc. Kratos blocked with a bucket, causing the flamingo to squeal like a rubber duck.

"Magnificent!" The Narrator cackled. "We have transcended epic poetry and landed squarely in the realm of slapstick fever dream. Homer would be proud… or possibly catatonic."

The two warriors traded blows, each impact triggering more nonsensical transformations: columns turned into oversized candy canes, the sky flashed error messages, and distant harp music kept skipping to a disco beat whenever fists collided with flesh. Hercules, red-faced and enraged, tried to headbutt Kratos, only to have Kratos slip aside. Hercules's skull smashed into the pixelated ground, causing a glitch that made part of his hair vanish—leaving a perfectly round bald spot that spelled out "LOL."

Kratos seized the moment, his buckets swinging in perfect unison. One bucket clanged against Hercules's shoulder, making a sound like a casino jackpot. The other bucket followed up, catching Hercules under the chin, causing the demigod's teeth to rattle like maracas. Hercules stumbled backward, dazed, swiping at the air with giant hands that briefly transformed into lobster claws before snapping back to normal.

On the sidelines, Athena shook her head in disbelief. Pandora yelped and cheered in equal measure, uncertain whether to be frightened or entertained.

"This is truly a spectacle," The Narrator announced. "A fight for the ages, if your age is approximately five and your entertainment is guided by hallucinatory pixies. But hey, we're all here now, might as well enjoy the show!"

Hercules panted heavily, nostrils flaring. Kratos stood firm, buckets ready. The world around them sparkled with broken code and absurd visuals.

The once-grand garden of Olympus had become a funhouse of collapsing continuity and untethered imagination. The sky, once a regal dome of sapphire, now fractured into a jigsaw puzzle of neon pixels and ASCII characters that spelled out random nonsense. Clouds turned into speech bubbles that read "ARGH!" and "LOLWUT", drifting overhead like clueless commentary.

Hercules, still woozy from Kratos's bucket strikes, snarled and lunged once more. His footsteps thundered with each stride, leaving behind crater-like footprints. As he swung both massive fists at Kratos, the sheer force of it caused a nearby hedge to animate like a jittery cartoon character and sprint off screaming into the distance.

Kratos met the attack head-on, the Buckets of Chaos humming with some strange, mystical energy that might've been borrowed from a low-budget fireworks display. They clashed in a frenzy of metal and muscle—though calling it metal and muscle might be generous, since Hercules's left arm kept phasing into a giant spatula every time he swung too hard. The clang of impact didn't ring out in a majestic echo—instead, it sounded like someone rifling through a toy chest full of kazoos and whoopee cushions.

"Look at them go!" The Narrator cried, voice echoing through the twisted reality with gleeful irreverence. "A battle as grand as the Trojan War, if the Trojan War had been choreographed by drunken mimes who'd never heard of strategy!"

With each strike Hercules landed—rare though they were—the ground convulsed, raising platforms and pillars that pixelated out of thin air. Some crumbled instantly, revealing backdrops that looked like poorly drawn crayon sceneries. Others spat out random objects: a confetti cannon here, a giant firebreathing rubber duck there. One platform turned into a makeshift stage, where a trio of glitchy silhouette figures briefly performed an out-of-sync tap dance before collapsing into dust motes.

Kratos swung a bucket upward, catching Hercules square in the jaw. The demigod flew backward, smashing into a fractured colonnade that promptly turned into a pile of marbles. The marbles scattered across the ground in a wild cascade—then rolled uphill, defying gravity and logic, bouncing merrily around the combatants like hyperactive puppies.

Pandora and Athena stood at what might have once been the garden's perimeter.. The Reassurance Bucket nestled in Pandora's arms seemed to purr soothingly, as if acknowledging how completely off the rails everything had gone. Athena rubbed her temples, half-expecting her own robes to turn into pajamas at any moment.

"Are they… is that—" Pandora stammered, pointing at Hercules's right arm as it flickered between a lion's paw, a goat's head, and finally settled on something resembling a giant bronze spoon.

The Narrator sighed, "Yes, Pandora. That's exactly what you think it is. This is what happens when narrative logic implodes under divine tampering."

Meanwhile, Hercules regained his footing, spitting out a pixelated tooth that disintegrated into confetti. He glared at Kratos, who merely rolled his shoulders as if this were just another Thursday afternoon scuffle. Hercules tried to roar a challenge, but the sound came out as a mix of dial-up modem screeches and a far-off yodel.

"Marvelous!" The Narrator howled, practically delirious with joy. "We've reached peak absurdity. It's no longer a battle for honor; it's a dance-off in a broken video game, a poetry slam hosted by lunatics where the words are just random keyboard mashes!"

The scale of the fight grew increasingly grand, or at least increasingly chaotic. Each blow punched holes in the fabric of the garden, revealing behind-the-scenes nonsense: script notes hastily scribbled in the margins of reality, loading screen hints like "Tip: Don't anger the gods!", and even a glimpse of Hera still lounging somewhere in the glitchy distance, trying to refill her goblet from a wine bottle that now had a smiley face and shouted "Refill!" every time it poured.

Hercules tried a new tactic—he tore a pixelated tree straight from the ground, which flickered into a giant candy cane mid-swing. Kratos ducked the blow, and the candy cane shattered into rainbow shards that transformed into tiny parakeets singing off-key opera.

"This is beyond epic," The Narrator cooed. "This is epic's delirious cousin who got lost on the way to the museum and ended up in a third-rate circus. I love it!"

Kratos, unphased by the kaleidoscopic madness, barreled forward, buckets twirling like deadly carnival rides. He aimed low, forcing Hercules to hop awkwardly over a swirling chain—and in that moment, a portion of the floor blinked out, revealing a void of static. Hercules barely caught himself, tipping precariously on the edge, his feet momentarily replaced by rubber ducks quacking furiously.

From this vantage, the battle looked both immense and impossibly silly. The scale went beyond mere Olympian grandeur—this was a struggle across the crumbling stage of a reality show gone haywire, where the laws of physics had taken a holiday and the gods of logic were on strike. Every swing, every dodge, every madcap collision sent ripples of nonsense through a world already teetering on a sugar high.

The glitch-ravaged garden heaved like a living beast, each roar of shifting code echoing through a kaleidoscope sky turned into scattered chunks of ASCII art and neon polygons. Herculean roars and Spartan grunts filled the space once occupied by birdsong and gentle breezes. Now it was an arena of cosmic proportions, rendered absurd by collapsing reality. Every step kicked up pixelated shards of marble, every blow burst with confetti or bizarre sound effects. The scene was both awesome and utterly nonsensical—like a drunken Greek epic that had wandered onto the set of a defunct arcade game.

"Ah, behold!" The Narrator crowed, voice dripping with gleeful cynicism. "The grand conclusion to this ridiculous brawl! Marvel at how the gods, the demigods, and the narrative itself collectively forgot their dignity in the name of over-the-top violence. A fine lesson for all!"

Hercules, having narrowly avoided being swallowed by a void of static, lunged at Kratos with a deafening roar—part lion, part dial-up modem, part thunderclap. His arms, momentarily flickering into giant kitchen utensils (perhaps spatulas or ladles—who could really tell at this point?), slammed down. The force struck the already fragmented marble floor, sending shockwaves that toppled a digital statue of Zeus, which promptly reassembled as a poorly rendered potted plant labeled "Ficus ex Machina."

Kratos responded by whirling the Buckets of Chaos in a dizzying arc, the chains leaving neon trails in the air like a child's finger painting gone mad. Each bucket strike cracked with the might of a minor earthquake, forcing Hercules's enormous frame back, step by thunderous step. Their combined bellows shook glitched hedges and caused half-destroyed columns to warp into improbable shapes—some becoming giant trombones that honked in protest, others morphing into chipper cardboard cutouts of random office workers.

"Yes, yes, this is what we live for," The Narrator extolled, reveling in the chaos. "Two powerhouses duking it out in a realm so broken, it might as well come with a manual titled 'Sorry, We Gave Up'. Notice the vibrant pastel haze that was once an elegant sky, and those poor, screaming digital shrubs that look like they'd rather be anywhere else. Isn't it glorious?"

Hercules, teeth bared and body now flickering with static, made a final, desperate charge. He roared in a deep baritone that briefly modulated into a polka melody. The punch he launched had enough force to tear a mountain in half—if said mountain weren't also glitching out like a lagging livestream.

Kratos, unflinching, stepped in to meet the blow. One of his buckets slammed into Hercules's forearm with a resonant BONG, the sound echoing like a colossal gong bouncing around a tin can factory. Hercules recoiled in pain, his arm briefly turning into a pixelated swirl of color that re-formed in a jagged, trembling shape. Sensing his advantage, Kratos struck again and again, each bucket impact accompanied by comedic squeaks, honks, and low-bit chiptune fanfare.

"Oh, the brutality!" The Narrator bellowed, feigning shock. "And so ends the lofty myth of Hercules—smacked into submission by a pair of flaming buckets. I can only imagine what the bards will sing: 'He who once slew the Hydra, battered senseless by household utility items!' Absolutely priceless!"

The last series of blows lifted Hercules from the shattered floor, sending him airborne in a slow-motion arc. His body flickered as gravity wrestled with the glitching realm, and for a moment, everything froze. Athena and Pandora looked on in wide-eyed disbelief; the garden seemed to hold its breath, pixel-laced clouds quivering. Even the confetti paused in midair.

Then reality snapped back, and Hercules came crashing down with a wet CRUNCH, shaking the entire warped environment. Columns collapsed into neon dust, holographic roses burst into swirling fractals, and a single rubber duck squeaked forlornly as it rolled across the pitted marble. Hercules lay prone, battered and bruised, his lion's pelt glitching on and off his body in sad little flickers. Panting, Kratos stood over him, the Buckets of Chaos smoldering with residual arcs of chaotic energy.

For a heartbeat, the world was still—if a dimension on the brink of meltdown could ever be called "still."

"And there we have it," The Narrator declared, voice like a triumphant ringmaster closing his act. "The mighty Hercules, reduced to a mewling heap amidst a confetti-strewn, fourth-wall-shredded nightmare. Witness, mortals and immortals alike, how the greatest of legends can be undone by reality-warping nonsense and a Spartan with a penchant for violent solutions!"

Athena exhaled deeply, her voice trembling on the edge between awe and exasperation. Pandora pressed her Reassurance Bucket to her chest, relief and shellshock mingling in her wide eyes. Even the broken garden seemed momentarily calmed, as though the code recognized the dramatic finale of the fight and had paused its random transformations to let the scene linger.

Kratos loomed over Hercules one last time, cold and unyielding, every inch the victor in a realm that no longer obeyed sense or sanity. The battered demigod managed a weak glare, but had no strength left to rise.

"Truly," The Narrator added with a grin you could practically hear, "that was a battle of epic proportions—epic in scale, epic in absurdity, epic in… well, complete disregard for continuity. Take a bow, everyone. You've ruined at least three mythological canons today, and I couldn't be prouder."

Even as Hercules lay sprawled out on the fractured marble, bruised and flickering like a low-resolution glitch, the sky above the broken garden convulsed in a swirl of digitized storm clouds. Stray fragments of ASCII lightning danced across neon-pink thunderheads that spelled out "ZAP!" in big block letters. The air crackled with static so intense, one of the hedges turned into a jittery line of code reading "if (shockValue > 9000) { freakOut(); }".

Then came the thunderstrike: a jagged blast of white-hot energy that shattered an entire row of pixelated topiaries. The afterimage lit the warped garden in stark brilliance, revealing every fragment of confetti, every twisted statue. When the light receded, a towering figure stood at the epicenter—tall, broad-shouldered, his beard shimmering like molten silver woven through with static sparks.

Zeus had arrived.

"ENOUGH!" boomed a voice that sounded like an amplified choir of outraged librarians. The atmosphere warped around him; columns half-fused with disco balls flickered in fear, as if even the architecture felt Zeus's fury.

Kratos stepped back, buckets still smoldering, while Hercules made a feeble attempt to scramble upright. Athena and Pandora stood off to the side, partially shielded by a low wall that was busily rearranging itself into a chaise lounge with the words "RECYCLE ME" blinking on its cushions.

"Look at this chaos," Zeus thundered, sweeping an arm to indicate the glitch-ridden garden, the half-melted statues, and the overall carnival of cosmic nonsense. "Olympus spirals into madness, and my own children brawl like rabid dogs at the center of it all!"

"I'm still better than him," Hercules grumbled weakly, pointing at Kratos. His arm phased into a spatula again, which likely didn't help his credibility.

Zeus scowled, causing a strobe of lightning to flicker across the neon sky. "Silence. I will have order." He turned his gaze upon Kratos, his eyes two stormclouds swirling with anger, disappointment, and perhaps a note of reluctant respect. "You," he growled, "we have unfinished business."

Kratos tightened his grip on the Buckets of Chaos. "I do not fear you. If you've come to finish what we started, then—"

"No," Zeus cut him off, holding up a hand. The thunder in his voice softened slightly. "Not now. Not when Olympus crumbles around our feet. I propose an alliance, Spartan. We must seek the Sisters of Fate and undo the catalyst for this reality-warping disaster."

Athena's eyebrows shot up. "You… want to help Kratos? Are you certain you haven't short-circuited your brain with all this flickering code?"

Pandora peeked around Athena. "But… you're Zeus," she mumbled in awe, as though she half-expected him to smite her on the spot.

Zeus exhaled, lightning dancing at the corners of his mouth. "I am fully aware of who I am, child. And yes, I have every reason to assist him."

Kratos squared his shoulders. "Why? After everything, why now?"

"Because," Zeus said, glancing at the pixelated ground that was now morphing into the shape of a giant question mark beneath his feet, "everything you see—this madness, these broken laws of nature—is the direct result of your actions, Kratos. Namely, slaying your own family and consequently triggering your endless quest for vengeance on the gods. Without that pivotal moment, none of us would have meddled in the Fourth-Wall-Breaking magic."

"Ah, yes," The Narrator intruded, his tone as smug as ever, "the old butterfly effect, or should I say the Spartan effect? One tragic homicide leads to centuries of cosmic drama, culminating in an epic meltdown of narrative coherence. See, kids, this is what happens when you skip therapy."

Zeus ignored the commentary, though his jaw ticked in irritation. "If we travel to the Sisters of Fate, you can prevent that original atrocity from ever occurring, thus forging a timeline where the gods have no need to warp reality for the sake of containing you. This fracturing of Olympus—this glitching nightmare—will cease to exist."

Hercules sat up with a groan, spatula-arm flickering back into a lion's paw. "So… we'll just pretend none of this happened?" he asked, wincing as the code around him tried to figure out if it should render his ab muscles or not.

"Essentially, yes," Zeus snapped, "unless you have a better plan, boy."

"Let's be honest," The Narrator interjected again, "Hercules's 'better plan' would probably involve bench-pressing reality into submission. Admirable in its stupidity, but not particularly effective."

Kratos's stance softened—just a fraction. "So you mean… if I never kill them, I never need to serve the gods, never become the Ghost of Sparta, never slaughter Ares—" He paused, memories flickering in his eyes, "—never start this spiral of madness."

Zeus nodded, the bleak glare in his eyes underscored by flickering static from the distorted sky. "It is the only way to undo this chaos. You have proven unstoppable with each new challenge. Clearly, waiting idly for you to fall is not an option."

"Then explain to me," Kratos demanded. "What exactly are we dealing with? What exactly is this 'fourth-wall-breaking magic?"

"Very well," he growled, eyes flickering with residual sparks of glitchy lightning. "I shall explain how the gods first came upon this… contradictory magic. And why you, Kratos, were chosen as our most unfortunate subject."

The bizarre sky above—equal parts swirling neon vortex and half-rendered classical mural—flashed ominously, as if bracing for a revelation. Athena, Pandora, and even Hercules (still wobbling, spatula-arm phasing in and out) turned their attention to Zeus. The King of Olympus took a deep breath, his robes flickering between regal white cloth and a neon hoodie.

"We discovered it by accident," he began. "In the ancient temples of Delphi, there exists a sealed chamber of inscriptions—unholy scripts woven into the walls by forces older than the Titans themselves. For eons, even the Oracle dared not delve too deep. But in our pursuit of absolute power—yes, our pursuit," he stressed, glancing at Athena as if to remind her she'd played her part too, "we uncovered runes describing something referred to as 'The Fourth Wall.'"

He paused, jaw tight. Another bolt of distorted lightning danced in his beard. "I, and a handful of other gods—Athena, Poseidon, even Hermes among others—agreed to investigate. We thought it was just a metaphor for the boundary of mortal minds. But we learned quickly that it was a literal boundary of reality itself. An invisible membrane that, if tampered with, could reshape fate, form illusions, and twist the nature of existence into something wholly unnatural."

"Well, that explains a lot," The Narrator piped up with a tone of mischievous satisfaction. "Always the meddling scientists, you gods. Tinker, tinker, tinker, then feign surprise when cosmic bedlam ensues."

Zeus's lip curled, but he continued. "In our arrogance, we thought we could harness it—a power to see beyond mortal perspective. We'd observe not just destinies, but the very narrative threads underpinning this world. We convinced ourselves it would grant us total mastery… and eliminate all uncertainty."

He gestured to a glimmering crack in the sky where fragments of code drifted like glittering dust. "But such magic is perilous. Our attempts unleashed bizarre anomalies—doors opening to impossible spaces, entire timelines flickering in and out of being. We needed a vessel, a subject—someone who could withstand the mental strain of hearing voices from outside reality, of being constantly observed."

Kratos's eyes narrowed. He gripped the Buckets of Chaos like he was ready to use them at any slight. "And that someone was me."

Zeus met his gaze. "Who else would we choose? You were already in our service. A warrior unmatched, yet tormented by your own conscience. We reasoned you'd be strong enough to endure the madness… or break so spectacularly that we might learn from your downfall. After all, you possessed a combination of power, guilt, and rage—your mind was already a crucible of chaos. Tipping it a bit further gave us precious data."

Hercules, still scowling, spat a bitter laugh. "Of course—use the other brother."

Zeus ignored him. "We had no idea it would lead us to this," he gestured broadly at the fractured realm, "where reality is rotting from the inside. Our meddling cracked the boundary too wide, let in contradictory forces that not even we can fully govern."

Pandora clutched the Reassurance Bucket tighter, eyes drifting over the swirling glitch that mangled the once-pristine garden. "But… why keep using it once you saw how dangerous it was?"

Zeus's face darkened, lightning flickering across his brow. "Because it worked," he admitted, voice grim. "In certain ways, it worked too well. We saw far beyond Olympus, far beyond mortals. We glimpsed… other realms, other watchers. And in that knowledge, we grew intoxicated. The sense of absolute control was unlike anything we'd ever known. So we persisted, adapting the magic—and you, Kratos, were the pivot upon which it hinged. When you raged against the gods, we tweaked the narrative, tried to corral you through meandering illusions, guided you down predetermined paths."

He exhaled, the breath sending a static-laced shiver through the glitchy ambiance. "But you fought through it, defied it. You broke from the script, and with each act of rebellion, another crack formed in the boundary. Until… here we are." He gestured at the swirling mosaic of nonsense above. "Reality itself is choking on paradox."

"And thus," The Narrator concluded, voice dripping with theatrical relish, "the gods' hubris crashed headlong into one furious Spartan, and surprise! You created a cosmic meltdown. Who would've thought?"

Zeus bristled at The Narrator's jibe but said nothing. He looked instead to Kratos, the muscles in his jaw taut. "If we can travel to the Sisters of Fate—if you can undo that original sin—you'll sever the last thread tying you to this madness. And with it, end our meddling for good."

Kratos's expression was unreadable, but the tension in his frame spoke volumes. Pandora's eyes flicked nervously from him to Zeus to Athena, as if hoping one of them would break this heavy silence.

Finally, Zeus added, "So, Kratos, would you let the world remain in tatters—or dare to rewrite your story, erase our folly, and restore order to Olympus."

Pandora tightened her hold on the Reassurance Bucket, her gaze ping-ponging between Kratos and Zeus. "So… we're all going to work together?"

"Surreal, isn't it?" Athena muttered, rubbing her temples. "But yes, it appears so."

Zeus raised his arms, and a wave of thunderous energy rippled outward, momentarily stabilizing the glitching environment. Pixelated edges smoothed, columns solidified—though some remained comically elongated or half-translucent. The rest of the Olympus environment shuddered, as if startled into relative coherence by Zeus's power.

"Then it's settled," The Narrator proclaimed, voice brimming with sardonic relish. "An unlikely alliance between the Ghost of Sparta and the King of Olympus. All to fix a timeline so thoroughly shredded by revenge and, let's be honest, questionable life choices. We're basically rewriting an entire franchise here, folks. Strap in for the ultimate cosmic retcon!"

Zeus gave a final, quelling look to Hercules—who still sat with a half-befuddled, half-enraged expression—and then turned to Kratos. "We depart for the Sisters of Fate immediately. The world, broken as it is, won't hold together for long under these… conditions."

"Let us go then." Kratos grumbled.

XXXXXX

A/N: God I love writing plot twists.