Many moons ago in a town now covered by time, there lived a humble warrior named Kostas. Kostas was a kind man with a lion’s courage and strength as large as the gods.

When he was not in battle, Kostas would often spend his spare time teaching the young about the gods. Kostas was the best warrior Marinoz –the town he called home- had ever seen or heard of. He won every single battle he went into coming out with soldiers surrounding him.

What Kostas didn’t know that it wouldn’t be a battle that would kill him.

Kostas awoke in the night screams around him. He slipped on his old clothes and headed outside, thanking the gods he had not been harmed. He stared out across the town he once called home. Wooden houses were strewn across the land leaving citizens begging for the gods.

He crawled back into his house, afraid of the world outside, and knelt down putting his heart and soul into the prayer that left his lips. He stood up, a new emotion overtaking his heart: passion.

He carefully placed on his newly polished armour and set out across the battle field to help his fellow citizens.

With three slashes of his sword five enemies were down on the ground crying for help.

“Wimps.” He muttered to himself.

He pushed the enemies back, not caring to encourage the rest of his army. Then Kostas realised something: they had won, he had won.

The citizens cheered with sheer joy in their eyes. They praised Kostas for his courage and gave him a town to thank him.

Kostas wanted to rule the best city that was ever made so he told his servants to go and find the best gold, marble and silver. When they came back Kostas told them to replace all the houses and shrines with new buildings.

The servants hurried off not daring to warn Kostas of his bad ways.

When the work was done Kostas looked over his town in pleasure, remembering the day he had won his place on the thrown and what a good city he had created. He knew he was a better ruler and warrior than the gods.

He went for his morning walk mumbling this to himself, not caring on insulting the gods. When he looked up he realised a stranger storming towards him with anger in his eyes. He had dark hair and a muscular shape.

The large figure stopped in front of Kostas eyeing him up and down.

“You there, what makes you think you can insult the gods?”

Kostas ignored him and carried on walking,

“Stop and listen, Kostas!” he shouted his veins bursting.

Kostas didn’t answer but ran away scared of the huge beast.

Kostas wanted to prove the stranger wrong so the next day he headed off to war to show he was the best warrior that ever lived.

“I am a better warrior than the gods, come get me!” Kostas shouted.

The stranger appeared again this time right in front of Kostas. Kostas could almost smell his breath through the large helmet this beats was wearing

“MORTAL, DO NOT COMPARE YOUR SELF TO THE GODS!”  Shouted the stranger.

“You’re not much of a mortal yourself.” Exclaimed Kostas cheekily.

With that the stranger disappeared into an ora of smoke and as the smoke disappeared he realised who he had been challenging: Ares, the war god.

Ares was raging, his lips were curled into a deep scowl and his eyes were narrowed as if he were staring at the sun. He picked up his spear and stared at Kostas with anger in his eyes. He let out a low growl and with one slash of his spear Kostas was lying on the floor.

Ares stood over him with triumph in his eyes.

Kostas, was dead.