War is the lifeblood of Remnant. It seeps into its very soil, echoes in the battle cries of Huntsmen, and whispers through the shadowed halls of history. From the first clash between man and Grimm to the endless skirmishes between kingdoms vying for dominance, war has shaped this world more than any god, any legend, any tale ever told. It is the thread that ties victories and defeats, the forge where heroes rise and fall.
War is not just a consequence; it is a catalyst. It drives innovation, fuels courage, sharpens the will. It tests alliances and fractures bonds. In the fires of conflict, the truth of a soul is laid bare — will it break, or will it rise, reforged and unyielding? I have watched this dance since the dawn of men, seen them rally behind banners with eyes burning with hope and fear, knowing that the next breath could be their last.
But there are those who misunderstand war, who see it only as ruin, a plague to be eradicated. They are blind to its other side — the glory, the challenge, the pulse that pushes mortals beyond their limits. They do not see the beauty of a warrior who fights not just to survive, but to win, to stand atop the ashes and roar defiance to the world.
In every age, there are those who rise, bearing the weight of battle, who become its champions and, at times, its victims. I have seen it all — the reckless charges, the unyielding defenses, the silent moments before the storm when resolve is the only armor. I have felt the rage and the sorrow, the triumph and the despair that follows every clash. And through it all, I have taken part. I have not only watched; I have fought, stood on the frontlines, blade in hand, heart pounding with the same wild rhythm as those who dare to challenge fate.
I am the roar in a warrior's chest, the voice that whispers in the silence, urging them forward when their strength wanes. I am the thrill of the first strike, the satisfaction of victory hard-earned. I am the architect of battle, the embodiment of conflict. I am the god who walks among mortals, who leads not from the shadows but from the forefront of every war.
I am Alectryon, the God of War. And as this world teeters once more on the brink of destruction, I will rise, not as a savior or a conqueror, but as the living flame of battle itself. Let Remnant know that in the fires of this war, true warriors will be forged, and I will be there to test them, to fight beside them, and to remind them that war, for all its pain and fury, is where legends are made.
The battlefield was a landscape of despair. Screams of the injured and dying blended with the guttural growls of Grimm as they surged forward, relentless and overwhelming. The ground was churned to mud, slick with blood and rain, the air thick with the stench of smoke and iron. Jaune Arc stood in the heart of the chaos, armor dented and cracked, sword coated in black ichor, and breath ragged as he fought to keep his grip steady.
Every muscle in his body screamed for rest, every breath felt like fire, but he pushed on. Beside him, the remaining Huntsmen and Huntresses fought with a desperation that bordered on madness, their eyes wide with the raw, primal urge to survive. It wasn't enough. The Grimm were too many, their tide relentless, driven by some unseen force that seemed to mock their efforts.
A Beowolf lunged, eyes glowing red with malevolent intent. Jaune met it head-on, parrying its claw with a grunt before driving his blade into its chest. It fell, but another took its place, followed by two more. He could barely keep track now, the faces of his comrades blurring as they fell around him. Ren, Weiss, even Ruby were nowhere in sight — separated in the chaos or worse, he dared not imagine.
A Nevermore screamed above, its shadow passing over him like a herald of death. Jaune's eyes darted around the field, heart pounding, searching for any sign of hope. But all he saw was carnage. They were losing. This battle, this war, was slipping through their fingers like sand.
He felt the weight of defeat pressing down on him, squeezing the last vestiges of hope from his heart. And then, in that moment of despair, when his legs shook and his vision blurred, something within him shifted. A voice — not new, but old, familiar — stirred in the depths of his mind, a voice he had ignored for far too long.
This is what you were made for.
A sudden, inexplicable warmth spread through his chest, chasing away the chill of fatigue and fear. The tension in his muscles eased, and a spark — no, a flame — ignited deep within him. It was a feeling unlike anything he had known as Jaune Arc. It was fierce, alive, and ancient.
He staggered back a step, the noise of battle dimming in his ears. The corners of his lips twitched upward, almost against his will. The spark grew, spreading through him, filling him with a force he couldn't name but had always felt on the edge of his being. A deep, unexpected laugh bubbled up from his chest, and before he could stop it, it spilled out, rich and wild. It cut through the screams and snarls, a sound so foreign that the Grimm nearest to him faltered, red eyes flicking to the source with something close to confusion.
Jaune's shoulders shook with laughter, the realization of what was waking inside him too exhilarating, too powerful to suppress. The Huntsmen around him turned, eyes wide with disbelief as they saw him — battered, bloodied, laughing amidst the carnage as though he had finally remembered a secret long forgotten.
His gaze rose to the swarm of Grimm before him, no longer filled with fear or resignation, but with a gleam of something far more dangerous. The laughter settled into a fierce grin, and the flame within roared to life, ready to be unleashed.
The God of War had awakened.
Salem watched the battle unfold from her vantage point, eyes narrowed in satisfaction as Beacon's defenders struggled against the endless tide of Grimm. Her pale fingers curled around the edge of her throne, the dark tendrils of her power seeping into the air around her. This was the culmination of her planning, her relentless pursuit of power — the fall of Beacon, the breaking of hope.
But then, a sound caught her attention, cutting through the cacophony of battle. It was not the scream of pain, nor the desperate rallying cry of Huntsmen. No, it was laughter — deep, resonant, and defiant. Salem's crimson eyes narrowed as she leaned forward, searching for its source.
On the battlefield below, Cinder Fall had been reveling in the chaos she helped create, fire erupting from her fingertips and scattering Huntsmen like leaves in a storm. Her power was unmatched, her victory certain. But the sound of laughter froze her mid-cast, flames sputtering as she turned sharply, her amber eyes narrowing in disbelief.
A mortal, bloodied and bruised, was laughing.
"Jaune Arc?" Cinder muttered, more to herself than to anyone else, the name bitter on her tongue. She watched him, expecting to see madness or desperation in his eyes — some last vestige of sanity breaking under the weight of the battle. But what she saw was far more unsettling. He wasn't laughing out of despair; he was laughing as if he had just remembered a private, triumphant joke, as if he had discovered something precious in the heart of chaos.
Salem's brow furrowed as she watched Jaune, a flicker of doubt worming its way into her calm. She felt the shift in the air, subtle but undeniable, as if the battlefield itself had paused to acknowledge this unexpected moment. The Grimm hesitated, their movements stuttering as if the force that drove them was taken aback.
"What is he doing?" Salem's voice was low, cutting through the silence in the room. Cinder flinched at the sound of her master's voice but kept her eyes on Jaune. The light around him began to shift, the edges of the battlefield glowing with a crimson hue that pulsed like a heartbeat. The ground beneath him cracked with the force of something waking up, something ancient and powerful.
Cinder's fingers twitched, heat flaring in her palms as she prepared to launch an attack, but she hesitated. There was a pressure in the air, a feeling that made her skin prickle and her heart pound with unease. She glanced up at Salem, seeking confirmation, but Salem's eyes were locked on Jaune, calculating, assessing.
"It can't be," Salem whispered, her voice carrying an edge of something that almost sounded like fear. But that was impossible. Mortals were predictable, weak. They did not laugh in the face of death with such confidence.
And yet, there he stood, Jaune Arc, the clumsy boy turned leader, surrounded by Grimm and broken bodies, grinning as though he were finally at peace. The crimson light flared brighter, and Cinder's breath caught in her throat as she felt a wave of heat that was not hers wash over the battlefield. The laughter stopped, and Jaune's eyes, now blazing with a fierce, unearthly light, turned toward her, locking on with a gaze that made her blood run cold.
"What are you?" she whispered, the question lost in the roar of power that surged from him, an answer forming in the back of her mind that she did not want to believe.
Jaune's laughter faded, replaced by a silence so profound it seemed to swallow the noise of the battlefield. The crimson light pulsed brighter, emanating from him and washing over the ground, seeping into the very air with an intensity that made the Grimm halt in their tracks. Huntsmen and Huntresses, bruised and battered, stared in stunned awe as an unseen force pushed back against their fatigue, filling them with a renewed strength, an instinctual drive to fight.
Above, the sky seemed to shudder, clouds parting as if fearful of the power now being unleashed. The crimson glow climbed higher, a beacon of fiery light that stretched beyond the battlefield, beyond Beacon itself, reaching into the heavens. For a moment, there was nothing but that light, wrapping the world in its embrace, and then—
The entire realm felt it. Across Remnant, in villages and cities, on mountains and in forests, people paused and turned their faces to the sky, sensing a power they couldn't name but recognized in the deepest parts of their souls. It was war, but not the chaos and bloodshed that tore down; it was the fire that forged, the relentless force that pushed life to its limits and beyond.
In the heart of the battlefield, Jaune stood taller than before, no longer just a Huntsman but a figure of legend, eyes burning with the power that once resided dormant within him. His voice, when it came, was layered with echoes, deeper and more resonant than any mortal voice could be.
"I am Alectryon," he declared, the words rolling across the field like a storm, reaching the ears of those in hiding and those too injured to rise. "The God of War, who has walked among you not as your savior, but as your comrade. I rise now, not to command, but to fight."
The ground cracked, fissures of glowing crimson spreading outwards as if the earth itself were answering his call. Above, the stars seemed to shift, moving apart to reveal a shape that had been hidden for millennia, obscured by time and the limitations of mortal sight. It was vast, stretching across the cosmos, a silhouette outlined in crimson and gold. The stars framed it like a crown, the shimmering expanse forming the towering figure of a warrior, a being whose presence exuded power so great it silenced the heavens.
Gasps and cries of awe spread across the battlefield as those who dared look upward saw the true form of Alectryon, watching over Remnant with eyes that glowed like twin suns. The god's body, immense and resplendent, bore the scars of ancient battles, and in one colossal hand, it gripped a blade forged from the light of countless wars. The sight was so overwhelming, so grand, that even Salem, standing far above the battlefield in her throne of shadow, felt an involuntary shiver race down her spine.
Cinder stumbled back, unable to tear her gaze from the sky. The power resonating from Jaune now felt suffocating, pressing down on her with the weight of untold millennia. Her own flames flickered and dimmed, dwarfed by the presence that had claimed the battlefield.
Jaune's eyes, bright and fierce, turned to Cinder once more, and for the first time, she saw not a boy struggling for recognition, but the embodiment of war itself, a being who had fought across realms, whose very essence was forged in the heart of battle.
"Know this," Jaune—Alectryon—spoke, his voice carrying across the wind, "the battle does not end with despair. It is reborn with every strike, every breath, every heart that beats with the will to rise again. And I will stand with them, until the last warrior draws their blade."
The ground erupted around him in a symphony of light, and the field trembled as the true god of war released his power, felt not just by those present but by every soul in Remnant.
The battlefield was a sea of battered bodies and scorched earth, the final remnants of conflict lingering like an iron shroud over Beacon. The warriors of Remnant stood weary, their faces marked with blood and exhaustion, yet their eyes turned to Jaune Arc, now revealed as Alectryon, the God of War. His armor pulsed with a deep crimson light, alive with runes of battle that spoke of untold millennia of conquest. His grin was fierce, almost wild, as if the entire spectacle of war had fueled him rather than worn him down.
The mortals before him shifted uneasily. They had fought alongside him, trusted him as their friend, only to see him transformed into something far more formidable and fearsome.
Ren stepped forward, wiping the blood from a gash on his brow, his voice steady but tinged with wariness. "Jaune... no, Alectryon. Why reveal yourself now? Why fight as one of us when you've been more all along?"
A flicker of a smirk crossed Jaune's face, his eyes gleaming like embers in a forge. "Why, Ren? Because there is no joy greater than battle when fought alongside those who refuse to break, who dare to defy gods and monsters alike." His voice dropped, but it carried over the battlefield, resonating deep in the bones of those who listened. "I didn't fight as a god looking down from above. I fought as a god craving the thrill, the chaos, the symphony of war that only mortals can compose."
Murmurs ran through the crowd, a mixture of awe and confusion. Some recoiled at the raw hunger in his tone, while others felt a thrill run down their spines.
Ruby stepped forward, her scythe still clutched in trembling hands. "So, you're saying you... you enjoyed this? The battle, the death?"
Jaune's grin widened, a look that sent shivers through those watching. "Enjoy? Yes. Battle is life stripped to its core — raw, honest, without pretense. You fight, you bleed, and if you're worthy, you stand victorious. And if not?" He glanced at the fallen Grimm and the bodies of allies mixed among them, his gaze softening only a fraction. "You become a tale whispered by those strong enough to remember."
The words stirred something primal in the crowd. Anger, yes, but also a realization that, in this god, there was no deceit, no false promise. He was war incarnate, true to its dual nature of glory and grief.
Weiss narrowed her eyes, cold fury etched into her features. "Then why fight for us? If you revel in this chaos, why stand as our leader and not just another conqueror?"
Jaune's eyes met hers, a spark of challenge flickering there. "Because, Weiss, you mortals are amusing. You're defiant, reckless, passionate. You charge into battles you cannot win, and sometimes, by sheer audacity, you do. That defiance is worth leading, worth seeing to its full potential. It is the only force that could ever hope to challenge the divine."
Before Weiss or anyone else could respond, the sky darkened abruptly, a chill spreading across the field as if death itself had cast its shadow. Two colossal figures materialized in the air above them, their forms so immense and imposing that the very earth seemed to cower. The God of Light appeared radiant, his glow suffused with a judgmental heat. The God of Darkness, shrouded in writhing shadow, regarded them with eyes like burning coals.
"Alectryon," the God of Light's voice was melodic but edged with something sharp, like the glint of a blade. "You would lead them to challenge us, knowing what we are?"
The God of Darkness chuckled, a sound that resonated like a growl. "A god who revels in battle but calls mortals to rise. You walk a fine line, brother. Do you seek glory, or do you truly believe they can challenge us?"
Jaune laughed, the sound wild and unrestrained. It echoed across the field, blending with the last cries of crows circling above and the rustle of wind through the scorched grass. "I seek the one battle that legends are made of," he said, voice crackling with the fervor of combat. "I seek a war where gods and mortals clash as equals, where the heavens are torn by the wills of those who dare."
The gathered mortals, who moments before had been filled with doubt and fear, now felt the spark of that hunger, that irresistible call to arms. The fire that had driven them to fight Grimm, to defy Salem, now flared brighter, kindled by the god who stood among them.
Weiss's eyes, cold and calculating, flickered with understanding. Ruby, Ren, and Yang exchanged glances, their shared look speaking of fear, excitement, and raw, unfiltered resolve.
The God of Light's expression turned somber, but his eyes blazed with divine power. "You challenge the order we set, Alectryon. This will be your undoing."
Jaune's grin widened, and he turned to the crowd, lifting his crimson-lit sword high. "Mortals, warriors, comrades! They look down on us as children playing at war. But let them come! Let them see what happens when we raise our blades not in fear, but in defiance!"
A roar surged through the crowd, a rallying cry that resonated from the depths of their beings. They were no longer just mortals; they were warriors ready to storm the gates of heaven itself.
The God of Darkness leaned forward, eyes narrowing with malevolent interest. "Then let war begin."
Jaune, Alectryon, turned to face the brothers, his laughter rolling like thunder. "Let it be so. For the first time in eons, let the gods taste the war they so often wrought but never dared to join."
And as the sky crackled with divine energy and the ground trembled with the anticipation of battle, Alectryon, the God of War, led the charge, not for peace or balance, but for the sheer, blazing glory of a fight that would shake the heavens.
The battlefield was an expanse of shattered stone and scorched earth, littered with the remnants of conflict that had sundered the very fabric of Remnant. Smoke coiled into the crimson sky like the final breaths of a dying world. The sun, blood-red and heavy, cast its light over the scene, painting everything in hues of fire and shadow.
At the heart of it stood Alectryon, the God of War, the living embodiment of battle and fury. His armor, a dazzling crimson and gold, glistened with divine light, veins of molten power pulsing beneath the surface like rivers of magma. His eyes, burning embers that seethed with an ancient rage, were fixed on the figure before him: the God of Light, now brought low.
The God of Light, once majestic and unassailable, now lay sprawled on the cracked earth, his radiant form dimmed and marred by the battle's toll. His golden armor was dented and scarred, his wings, once symbols of unyielding power, were torn and drooping. He struggled to rise, pushing himself up on trembling arms as if defying the very weight of Alectryon's judgment.
Alectryon stepped forward, each movement deliberate, the ground beneath his feet groaning with the power that radiated from him. His sword, an impossibly large blade etched with runes that blazed in the same crimson light as his eyes, was held aloft, tip poised inches from the God of Light's chest.
"You sit in judgment of mortals," Alectryon said, his voice deep and resonant, echoing like the roar of a thousand battles. "You speak of balance, of your divine right to shape their fates. Yet here you lie, cast down by those you deemed lesser."
The God of Light's eyes, pools of golden light now dimmed to amber, flickered with something between defiance and resignation. "They were never meant to rise so high," he said, his voice thin but carrying the echo of celestial authority. "We created them to be watched over, to be protected—"
"To be controlled," Alectryon interrupted, a sneer twisting his lips. He lowered his blade, the sharp edge biting just enough into the god's breastplate to draw a thin line of golden light. "You confuse your desire for power with protection. You spoke of balance, but all you ever sought was dominion."
Silence fell between them, broken only by the distant cries of the wounded and the groan of fractured stone. The God of Light met Alectryon's gaze, searching for something within those burning eyes. Understanding? Compassion? But all he found was judgment — a divine wrath born not of hatred, but of an unyielding truth.
Alectryon's voice lowered, becoming almost gentle, and that made it all the more terrifying. "You and your brother played with the lives of mortals, weaving destinies without ever understanding the weight of choice. You watched as they struggled, as they bled and sacrificed, and you claimed it was for balance. But balance forged in chains is no balance at all."
The God of Light's lips parted as if to argue, but no words came. The light within him, that radiant glow that once illuminated the heavens, sputtered and dimmed further. He looked to the horizon, where the shadows of those he had governed moved, their eyes lifted not in worship but in defiance, in hope. The realization settled like a weight in his chest — the world he had sought to control had outgrown its need for him.
Alectryon took a breath, the seething rage within him tempered now by something colder, sharper. "Your reign is over. Let this be the end of the gods' dominion over mortals, and the beginning of their true freedom."
With a fluid motion, he drove his blade downward. The sound was not of metal on flesh but of power meeting power, a surge of divine energy that crackled and flashed, casting the battlefield in stark, blinding light. The God of Light's form shuddered, eyes wide with a mixture of pain and an odd peace as the blade cleaved through the essence of his mortal shell. For an instant, time seemed to still, the world holding its breath.
Then, with a final, brilliant burst, the God of Light's form dissolved, his body crumbling into motes of golden light that scattered into the wind. The glow faded, leaving behind nothing but silence and the lingering warmth of a power that had once been overwhelming but was now gone.
Alectryon stood over the place where the god had lain, his chest heaving, the echoes of battle still ringing in his ears. The silence pressed in, heavy and profound, broken only by the whispers of those who watched, their expressions a mixture of awe and fear. He lifted his gaze to meet theirs, the embers in his eyes now smoldering with something more solemn.
"It is done," he said, voice carrying over the battlefield. "No longer will you be ruled by those who do not know your struggle. Your fate is your own, and you will rise or fall by your own will."
He turned, the weight of his divine role pressing down as he walked away, leaving behind a world on the cusp of a new era — an era not shaped by gods, but by the mortals who had once been bound by their designs.
As he stepped away from the ruins, Alectryon felt the whisper of an old truth stir within him. War, in all its fury, was not just about conquest or victory. It was about breaking chains, about defiance, about claiming the right to exist on one's own terms. And as he looked out across the battered realm, he knew that Remnant's true battle was only beginning. But it was a battle they would face together, free and unbound.
And for the first time in eons, Alectryon — Jaune Arc, god of war and bearer of hope — felt a flicker of peace amidst the embers of war.
The classroom hummed with anticipation, the air charged with the quiet excitement of students eager to learn about the moment that had defined their world. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting patterns of light across the desks where young minds leaned forward, eyes wide with curiosity. The teacher, an elder with silver-streaked hair and a voice steeped in history, stood at the front of the room, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he began.
"Today," he said, his voice deep and resonant, "we turn to the story that marked the end of one era and the beginning of another: the defeat of the Brother Gods and the rise of the Age of Man."
The students fell silent, their eyes fixed on the large display that flickered to life behind the teacher. Images formed, painted in hues of gold and shadow — the Brother Gods in all their splendor, the God of Light radiant and noble, the God of Darkness fierce and unforgiving. They stood above the world, their power absolute, their gaze indifferent.
"These were the beings who shaped our world, who dictated the balance of life and death, light and shadow," the teacher continued. "But even before them, there was Alectryon, the God of War — a being not bound by the will of others, but forged in the fires of conflict and strife that predated even the creation of Remnant."
The display shifted, showing a figure clad in crimson and gold, eyes glowing with the light of a thousand battles. His presence was both terrifying and awe-inspiring, a reminder that war was not only a force of destruction but one of transformation. "Alectryon existed long before humanity walked the earth, a god who reveled not in chaos for chaos's sake, but in the raw power of struggle and the will to defy."
One student, a boy with sharp features and keen eyes, raised his hand. "Why did he come to Remnant if he was already a god?"
The teacher nodded, as if expecting the question. "Alectryon's nature was one of challenge. He watched as the Brother Gods manipulated the mortals they had created, weaving destinies that left no room for defiance or true freedom. And so, he came not as a savior, but as a warrior who sought to test humanity's mettle — and in them, he found a spirit that mirrored his own."
The next image on the display showed the final battle: Alectryon standing over the fallen God of Light, his sword blazing with divine fire. The students could almost hear the echoes of that fateful clash, the roars and screams that heralded the end of the gods' reign.
"Alectryon challenged the gods not to conquer, but to break the chains that bound mortals to their will," the teacher said, his voice tightening with the weight of the tale. "He judged the God of Light, whose claim of balance masked a thirst for control. And with a strike that resounded through the heavens and the earth, Alectryon ended their dominion."
The room was silent, every face reflecting the awe of that moment, the understanding that their world had been shaped by that clash of titans.
"But Alectryon did not remain to rule," the teacher said, his tone softening. The display changed again, showing the god standing on the peak of a shattered mountain, sword lowered, eyes fixed on the horizon where mortals gathered, uncertain but free. "Instead, he gave a final blessing, one that would mark the true beginning of the Age of Man. He unlocked the secrets of Dust, allowing it to burn and empower even in the cold, airless reaches of space."
A girl with bright eyes leaned forward, unable to keep the question from spilling out. "Is that when we started exploring the stars?"
The teacher's smile returned, warm and proud. "Yes. With Alectryon's blessing, humanity turned its gaze upward, no longer bound by the limits set by gods. Ships powered by Dust engines pierced the sky, carrying the hope of Remnant into the vast expanse beyond. The kingdoms, once divided by borders and mistrust, found unity in this shared purpose — to explore, to build, to claim their place among the stars not as subjects but as masters of their own destiny."
The final image on the display was of a massive starship, its hull gleaming with the sigils of all four kingdoms intertwined as one. Behind it, Remnant shone like a jewel, and above, the infinite stars awaited.
"Alectryon was more than a god of war; he was a catalyst," the teacher said, his voice barely more than a whisper now. "He reminded us that strength comes not just from power, but from the will to fight for what we believe in. And though he left, his legacy lives on in every journey we take beyond the stars."
The students sat in silence, eyes reflecting the endless possibilities born from that fateful battle. They could almost feel the presence of Alectryon, not as a distant figure of legend but as a silent guardian who had challenged them to rise and claim their place in the universe.
As the bell rang and they filed out, the teacher watched them go, knowing that the spirit of that ancient god would live on in every step humanity took into the unknown.
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