Tides of Soul's (pjo x ror)

𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓻 5: 𝓝ã𝓸, 𝓷𝓸, 𝓷𝓮𝓲𝓷, 𝓷𝓲𝓮𝓽...

Oh, Ares. If Percy had to describe the god of war in one word, he'd probably choose "walking headache." Seriously, the guy seemed to have a life mission that involved ruining any semblance of peace or sanity Percy might have had. Every time Ares showed up, it was like the universe screamed, "You want a problem? TAKE IT!"

Percy imagined that if Ares were a TV show, he would be the one that only showed cockfights and cheap beer commercials. "Ah, here comes Ares again, the king of testosterone and tantrums," Percy thought. It was almost funny, if it weren't so tragic. Every conversation with him felt like a cross between a lecture on how awesome he was and a practical lesson on "how to start a fight over nothing." Percy, of course, was not impressed. "Have you ever won a fight without blowing up half of Olympus in the process? Honest question," he found himself thinking.

The biggest problem, for Percy, was that Ares had the same level of self-control as a kid in a candy store. And look, Ares and common sense were like oil and water, they never mixed. Whenever Ares decided to open his mouth, Percy felt the pressure rising. No wonder he preferred to fight gigantic monsters than to have to hear one more word about the god of war's "incredible" feats. "Look, Ares, no offense, but I would really rather fight a hydra than argue about whose knife is sharper."

If I had to sum it up, Percy considered Ares to be the divine equivalent of a football player, who was always ready to fight, even if the other team was just going to get some water. If he could, Percy would definitely put the god in a shirt that said "Best to Leave No Comments" just to avoid the migraine that came with his every appearance.

When Percy found Ares again on the beach, after all the mess involving his uncle Hades, he didn't even need to think twice. Something inside him stirred, and before he knew it, the Voice of Ruin was already in charge. This wouldn't be a serious fight, not for Percy, and certainly not for Ruin. It was another moment to vent all the pent-up frustration and, in addition, give the god of war the beating he so deserved.

For the Voice of Ruin, this was a gift from the gods. The pleasure of finally being able to rub Ares' face in the sand was almost poetic. Percy, normally more controlled, wasn't exactly willing to hold Ruin back. He wanted, needed, to let the chaos flow, and Honestly, after all the hell (literally) Ares had put him through, why not enjoy the moment?

As Ruin fought, it was as if Percy's body had no limits. Ares might have thought this was a fair fight, but Ruin? Ruin wasn't here to play around. He fought without fear of breaking bones, of bleeding, of throwing himself head first into battle. Each strike was sharp as a blade, not just in technique, but in intent, a silent revenge for everything Percy had hardened.

And of course, Ruin couldn't help but enjoy the irony. Rubbing Ares' face in the sand? That had a certain touch of comedy that Percy would definitely approve of. After all, the god of war deserved to feel the literal taste of humiliation. Ares, the great, the invincible, with his face full of sand, swallowing a bit of his own arrogance.

If this had been just Percy and Ares, it might have been different. But with the Voice of Ruin in control, this was a battle that was sure to leave the god of war on his back—and preferably with a good bit of sand in his mouth. Ruin wasn't just vengeful, he was brutal and precise, with an almost primal pleasure in seeing his enemy humbled. For Percy, it was enough to let that part of him do what it did best: make sure Ares never forgot that afternoon on the beach.

Percy held his sword tightly, the wind swirling around the blade as if answering his summons. The Voice of Ruin was in command now, and Percy felt its power flowing like a river of pent-up fury, ready to destroy any obstacle in its path. The sword glowed with a greenish light, pulsing in time with his heart, the ground shaking slightly with the intensity of the attack that was to come.