Chapter 9

Servant of the Gods

Kratos was now thoroughly perplexed with this realm he was in. Back in his own world, those who were powerful were given proper respect; they were not beings to be trifled with and only someone who was very skilled or had a death wish would even think about challenging them. In this world, it seemed, the inhabitants viewed someone who was immensely mighty as a prime target that could bring to them glory and status.

Kratos's reputation had indeed traveled far if the amount of challengers that sought him out were anything to judge by. It seemed as though every other day, some fool who could swing a blade and wanted to make a name for himself would come up to him and demand that Kratos face him in combat. Apparently, they regarded the tales of Kratos's strength as exaggerations that could not possibly be true. Of course, none of them had been capable of posing a threat to the Ghost of Sparta and usually died within a single minute. They were irritations, nothing more.

Kratos looked down at his latest victim, a strapping young man with dark brown hair and an ornately designed saber clutched in his now lifeless hand. His once elegant and clearly expensive clothes were now marred with his blood. His formerly handsome features were now disfigured by the mixture of blank shock and agony now permanently frozen on his face.

The young man had carried himself with an air of nobility and entitlement, pompously declaring himself to be a master swordsman unequaled in all the lands. What he really had been was as an overly-adventurous spoiled brat that had learned a few fancy sword tricks in a risk-free environment, had only fought against a small-time thug and a few rowdy drunks and, with an ego worthy of a god, thought he could take on the world single-handedly. Naturally, with this sense of invincibility, he decided to go out and pick a fight with the most dangerous stone-cold killer in existence. And Kratos happened to fit the bill quite nicely.

He didn't even last ten seconds; in the middle of a rambling monologue of how great a warrior he was and how he was going to utterly trounce him, Kratos became severely annoyed and promptly slashed his throat open.

Kratos now looked at the Blade of Oblivion in his right hand, which still dripped with the unfortunate fool's blood. "How many more of these flies do I have to slaughter before they stop bothering me?" he wondered aloud. The constant demands by fame-seeking warriors for a fight were slowing him down in his quest to acquire the two swords. This poor excuse for a fighter would not be the last; Kratos knew that many more would try and best him in order to prove that they were the best.

With a fierce scowl, Kratos sheathed his blades. Let them come. All who stood in his way would die.

Siegerstadt was not the friendliest of cities. In fact, it was one of the most dangerous places in the world. The city played host to a collection of mercenary thugs, brutal crime lords, and psychopathic kill-for-fun sadists, making for a thoroughly wretched place to call home. Though it was technically under the jurisdiction of the Holy Roman Empire, no vestige of Imperial authority existed within its walls. The city may be a veritable hive of human degenerates who would kill the person next to them for a piece of copper, but if need be they could rally together and form a horde that few soldiers would willingly walk into. To that end, the Empire decided that to take the city would not be worth the effort.

And yet, Sophitia walked its alleys as though they were as the ones in Athens.

A pretty young woman like her would not be expected to last long; with her long blonde hair and alluring figure, it was a guarantee that some vile beast of a man would want to satisfy his carnal urges on her or some high-up crime lord would imprison her in one of the many brothels in Siegerstadt. A week would be her expected life-expectancy; a month would be very generous.

Sophitia, however, was not some delicate flower waiting to be plucked. She was a kind and caring person, but if someone decided to fight her, he was going to get more than he bargained for. A few of the inhabitants learned that the hard way. One such individual, fueled by booze and hubris, tried to violate her. He ended up with a crushed skull, courtesy of a single well-placed blow from her shield. Soon, the would-be aggressors of the city came to learn that this tempting morsel of a woman would be more trouble than was worth it.

Sophitia was indeed highly skilled in the ways of the sword, but even to the casual onlooker, she would appear out of place in Siegerstadt. A compassionate, beautiful woman walking amongst some of the most despicable scum that blighted the world was not something anyone would expect to see. Sophitia herself did not want to be in this hellhole of a city. So why was she?

In answer, a higher power had sent her here. The gods she served were scared; it had come to their attention that a man named Kratos, the Ghost of Sparta, had come to their realm. They knew full well that he had almost single-handedly wiped out his own gods, mirror images of themselves, and were now terrified that they would be next. They also knew that he sought the cursed blade Soul Edge as well as the so-called holy blade Soul Calibur; why, they did not know, but nevertheless had no intention of letting Kratos obtain them.

In spite of all their power, none wanted to face Kratos. To that end, Sophitia had been called upon to do away with Kratos. Of course, they neglected to mention how powerful he really was. Ignorance, after all, was bliss; they thought it best she did not know how low her chances of victory were. True, Sophitia was a loyal servant, one of the best the gods had ever had, but she was still only a servant. Better a thousand mortals perish than a single god, as far as the gods were concerned. Kratos had to be eliminated, no matter the cost.

Sophitia entered a tavern, filled with numerous armed ruffians, drinking and gambling the day away. When she entered, a few patrons gave her lustful leers, but they knew better than to try anything. Her reputation as a beautiful but dangerous woman had long been circulated and acknowledged. Calmly she sat down at a vacant table and ordered a cup of water.

As she sipped her drink, Sophitia began to think about her task. She knew almost nothing about this Kratos. All she did know was that the gods wanted him gone and that she was to wait for him to arrive at Siegerstadt. Sophitia had been waiting nearly three days for him and now she was beginning to wonder of the gods had misled her.

No, she thought firmly. The gods have always lent me their guidance when I needed it. They would not abandon me.

Suddenly, the tavern's door slammed open and a local gangster rushed in. He was thoroughly spooked; he looked as if he had just witnessed his own death. "It's him!" he gibbered in a squeaky voice. "He's here! He's here!"

A few of the patrons looked over at the gangster in annoyance. "What the hell are you talking about?" one of them called.

"It's him!" he exclaimed again. "He was huge, with skin paler than a corpse! And he had these two swords hanging across his back! Looked like they'd been forged in hell itself!"

Now the patrons were becoming interested. They began muttering amongst themselves. Sophitia listened in on a nearby group.

"Did he say skin paler than death?" a man with an eye closed by two vertical scars asked.

"Yeah, he did," another man said. "Make no mistake, that's Kratos, the Ghost of Sparta."

"God in heaven," the one-eyed man whispered. "I heard he's one cold-blooded son of a bitch. Didn't he kill Cervantes?"

"No, he destroyed him," said a third. "Cervantes didn't even get to land a blow. I also heard he took down a bunch of assassins. Not just any old assassins, mind you, but some real heavy-hitters. The kind that can kill a man with one finger jabbed into the right place. And that's not even counting all the other dumb bastards that tried their luck on him. I wouldn't fight him if it would save my soul."

Sophitia's interest was now roused. If these rumors were anything to go by, then Kratos was perhaps the most powerful opponent she would ever face. She remembered her encounter with Cervantes; if it hadn't been for Taki, she would have died. Yet the way these thugs talked about him, it sounded as though Kratos barely put any effort into killing the undead pirate.

Was she intimidated? Of course. Only a complete fool would not be, facing such a monumentally strong opponent.

A majority of the patrons, however, did not seem to share that sensibility. One such individual, a massive ape of a man with a giant axe clutched in his mammoth hands stood up. Having overheard the three men's conversation, he strode over to their table and slammed his axe head onto its head.

"What a bunch of gutless whores you three are!" he roared in a deep bass voice. "Just wait; I'll show him what a real fighter can do! My axe is going to split that freak in half!"

"You won't get the chance," another, more wiry, man declared. "My knife is going to go through his eye before you can even swing that oversized tree-chopper." He twirled a thin stiletto in his right hand to enforce his point.

Throughout the tavern, more hot-blooded brutes spoke up, all declaring that they would be the one to kill Kratos. Each bout of voracious chest-thumping became steadily more violent. If this kept up, none of them would be able to fight Kratos; they'd be too busy trying to kill each other.

Sophitia looked over at the barkeep, a man of modest height and light build. He seemed to be indifferent to the outbursts, calmly cleaning a clay mug.

"Excuse me, sir?"

The barkeep paused his cleaning and gave Sophitia a blank look. "Yes?"

"Who is this Kratos everyone keeps talking about?"

The man smirked. "Oh, he's one of the many legends popular here. I could spend all day telling you about all the feats he's supposedly capable of and who he's killed. Beating Kratos is something every two-bit swordsman around here dreams about."

"And what do you think?"

"Me? I'm a realist. There's no way that half the crap I've heard about him is true, if he even exists. Personally, I think he's just another one of those myths that keep cropping up, like undead pirates and golems and all that other mystical shit."

A sudden crash attracted the barkeep's attention. The man with the axe had just smashed some other patron into a table, shattering it. "How's that for a 'brainless ox'!" he bellowed.

The man who had been lying in the middle of the newly created pile of wood got to his feet. Surprisingly, he was quite steady. It looked as though the impact had barely done anything to him. "At best, mediocre," he replied smugly. "If you want to see how it's really done, I'd be happy to show you. Of course, you probably would survive my demonstration."

"Enough!" the barkeep shouted. "If you want to fight, take it outside!"

It looked as though the two brawlers would do just that. Before they could, heavy footsteps suddenly sounded from outside the tavern. The spooked gangster squealed, "Oh, God, he's coming!" and hid underneath one of the tables.

With a slight push, the door opened and Kratos walked in.

Immediately, the atmosphere of the tavern changed. Every patron who had initially been boasting about how he would be the one to take down Kratos now felt his blood run cold at the sight of him. Towering over all, Kratos radiated an aura of power and killer intent. His glower dared anyone to try fight him; no one did. All the cockiness that had been present in these men had completely evaporated. Their senses of self-preservation had now taken over.

Unopposed, Kratos stepped up to the bar. The barkeep's expression was one of shock and horror. Shock that the man rumors spoke of was real, horror that those rumors were all true. Whereas before he had taken them to be flights of fancy, one look at Kratos was enough to make him believe every rumor.

Kratos's glare bore into the barkeep. "Wine. Now."

The man had been faced with many an ogre, but none of them could hold a candle to Kratos. The barkeep felt he would rather drown himself than dare try to stare down this beast of a man. Without a word he filled the mug he had been cleaning to the brim with the best wine he had and handed it to Kratos.

"Uh—that will be one silver piece," he said, before adding, "Please."

Kratos stared down at the barman with a look that promised death to anyone who angered him. Just as the barman was about to tell him to forget paying, Kratos transferred his gaze to the man with the axe. It took all his willpower not to soil himself when the Ghost of Sparta's eyes met his.

Kratos then jerked his head towards the barkeep, a silent order for the axe man to pay him. For a moment, fear left the burly thug and it looked like he was about to make good on his pledge to fight Kratos. Then, Kratos's eyes narrowed dangerously and the man decided to swallow his pride and pay for the drink. Without taking his gaze off of Kratos, he reached into a pouch on his belt and slid a silver coin towards the barman.

Once the transaction was complete, Kratos downed the wine in a single gulp. Slamming the mug down, Kratos slowly turned around, sweeping the gathered ruffians with his fiery glare. Everyone tensed up; some reached for their weapons, others just stayed perfectly still. All silently prayed to whatever deity was listening that they would make it out alive.

Kratos continued to glower at the crowd of people, searching for any hint of hostility. He found none; all he saw was a collection of cowards who only wanted to live to see the sun rise again. Without a word, Kratos left the tavern. As one, the patrons sank down, dizzy with relief.

Throughout the whole ordeal, Sophitia had watched in fascination. Kratos had effectively reduced an entire room of vicious cutthroats to frightened children simply by being in their presence. He did not even have to draw his weapons. It was obvious to her that Kratos was no ordinary man. Sophitia knew that she was about to face off against what was perhaps the most dangerous opponent she had ever faced.

All she could do was trust in the gods.

Kratos knew he was being followed. He had known since he left the tavern. Apparently, one of the patrons was foolish enough to try and fight him. Well, so be it; if this person had a death wish, then he would happily grant it.

Kratos turned and his eyes widened in surprise. His stalker was a woman, and a very beautiful one at that. In her hands was a sword and shield, reminiscent of those wielded by Greek soldiers from his world. She carried them with familiarity; it was apparent that she knew how to use them. However, she did not have the eyes of a warrior; there was no bloodlust, no anger. Kratos could see compassion and reluctance to fight, but also a fierce determination and an indomitable will. This woman reminded him in many ways of his own wife.

Kratos's surprise quickly faded and was replaced by his normal stone-cold demeanor. Others might take pause in striking down a woman, but not Kratos. She was just another obstacle to be removed.

Casually, Kratos crossed his arms and eyed the woman before him. "So, you are the next challenger. Do you truly wish to fight me?"

Sophitia shook her head. "I don't want to fight you, but I have no choice. I'm sorry, but I have to end you."

Kratos frowned. "So you have a god whom you serve."

A look of surprise crossed Sophitia's face. "How did you know that?"

Kratos nodded at her weapons. "That sword and shield you carry were not made by mortal hands. Both are flawless; neither of them have even the faintest imperfection. Only a god can create such crafts."

Sophitia came to a realization of her own. "You've served gods as well, haven't you?"

Kratos's expression quickly darkened as the memories came back, as painful now as they were years ago. "Yes, I served. I devoted half my life to them, fulfilling their every whim. In return, they betrayed and lied to me, time and time again. You too will soon experience a betrayal of some kind by their hands."

"The gods have always guided me!" Sophitia cried indignantly. "They would never betray me!"

"Is that what you believe?" Kratos scoffed. "Do you really think that your gods truly care about you? There is no such thing as a benevolent god; mortals are only pawns in their eyes, to be used and discarded as they wish."

"That can't be true. The gods, all of them, have a duty to their subjects."

"Gods care nothing of their subjects!" Kratos roared. "You are foolish to think otherwise!"

"Is that why you want Soul Edge and Soul Calibur?" Sophitia demanded. "To take revenge against your gods?"

Kratos's face twisted into a sneer. "My vengeance is already complete," he said.

Sophitia felt her blood suddenly run cold at those words. A man defeating a god was unthinkable, impossible! Yet she knew that Kratos spoke the truth. Now she truly knew just what kind of an opponent she was facing.

Trying not to let despair overwhelm her, she asked, "Then why do you fight? What purpose will acquiring the swords serve?"

To her surprise, Kratos's expression suddenly turned mournful. "My wife and daughter. They were taken from me by one of the gods I served. I was tricked into killing them with my own blades. Now, after ten years of futile effort, I finally have the means to bring them back to me."

"Kratos," Sophitia said gently, "the swords will not help you. They have only the power to destroy. They won't bring back your wife and child."

"I am well aware of this," Kratos growled, reverting back to his normal, harsh appearance. "The blades are not for me. I seek them for another, one who has promised me my family in exchange for the swords."

Sophitia let out a deep sigh. "I understand your reasons, but I'm afraid that I can't let you have the swords. In the wrong hands, they will only bring misery. I'm sorry, but I have to defeat you." She readied herself for the inevitable battle, one that was sure to be her harshest.

Kratos narrowed his eyes and slowly drew his Blades of Oblivion. "So be it. The swords are my only chance of seeing my family again. If you stand in my way…you—will—die."