Chapter 200: Everyone Here Is Trash (Part 1)

A first generation is a god, a second generation is a demigod, so what about the third generation? Is there such a thing as a “quarter god”?

Achilles, the famous demigod, was deified after his death in history because his divine blood was potent enough, making him one of the top-tier demigods.

But the guy who just rushed over, his speed and agility were so poor that it was laughable, almost in slow motion.

Such a descendant of the gods was just pathetic to watch.

For Atreus, no matter how insignificant the enemy, he never showed mercy.

He struck hard.

This blow was like a hammer to the Greek warriors. Atreus’s kick, charged with a hint of intimidation, unleashed blinding white light, and the violent thunder embedded in his foot tore through the man’s body. The hulking man flew backward, crashing into the museum wall before exploding like a watermelon.

In an instant, nothing remained of him!

Atreus’s dominance was fully established!

“Attack! All of you, attack! He’s only one man—” Old King was clearly babbling nonsense.

At this point, the two Amazonian warrior women beside him were not having it!

Penthesilea raised her spear and struck, piercing the unlucky fool who rushed forward with a chilling blow.

Diana, although seemingly composed in her block and counter, slapped a divine shield directly into another victim’s face, creating a gruesome spectacle akin to smashing cucumbers with a knife—blood and flesh splattered everywhere, and bone fragments flew. There was nothing artistic about it like in the movies; this was the real deal—a true goddess of slaughter!

“Stay here!” Atreus gave Helen a swat on the rear, causing her to jump like she’d been shocked, her face showing utter embarrassment.

She knew she was nothing more than a prize for the victor. Though the winner was already obvious, she couldn’t help but feel a bit afraid.

But Atreus didn’t have time to consider her feelings.

In just a few breaths, the two Amazon warriors had already slain half of the third-generation Greek god-blooded attackers, and the rest were showing signs of fear.

Atreus slung his sacred spear behind him, placing it in the holster he’d prepared earlier, and drew the short dagger Achilles from his waist.

Around him, the Amazon warrior goddesses turned the battlefield into a vibrant, brutal painting titled War—the fallen warriors were the perfect foundation, the terrified enemies the best decoration, and blood was the main theme.

Atreus looked around, his sharp gaze so piercing that none of the Greek warriors dared meet his eyes.

All he saw was hesitation, fear, and unease.

He sighed: “You’ve disappointed me. I’m not targeting any one of you specifically, but I want to say—everyone here is trash!”

A hero can grow old.

A hero can be weak.

A hero can even have flaws and quirks.

But the one thing a hero can never show is fear!

Once a hero shows fear, they can no longer be called a hero.

Clearly, more than two thousand years of privileged living had thoroughly corrupted both their bodies and souls.

As Atreus advanced with his dual blades, only at half speed, pretending to be fierce, what did he see?

These so-called great heroes of the past parted like the Red Sea before Moses, shouting and retreating.

And then Agamemnon, the supposed commander, was left exposed.

Agamemnon, to his credit, swung his sword at Atreus. The sword, infused with the power of the God of War, was still sharp, but it was Agamemnon himself who was sluggish.

A blade seemed to appear out of nowhere, resting against his neck, then slicing through it. The shining blade tore through flesh, and the crimson liquid fanned out like a blood-red mist filling the air.

Achilles, now a blade spirit, watched as it severed the spinal cord of its former ally with precision.

As Agamemnon’s final gaze swept around the museum’s exhibition hall, his last thought flashed through his mind, filled with resentment—Kratos was right, how could you call yourselves heroes!?

The true mind of the Greek coalition was never Menelaus, but Agamemnon.

Now that the ‘mind’ was gone, what remained was a disorganized ‘body’ scattered with its own agendas.

Atreus licked his dry lips, inhaling the scent of blood, and felt a strange sweetness wash over him.

Was it a thirst for victory?

Or perhaps a farewell to this destined path?

Atreus didn’t know.

But that exhilarating feeling, like an energy drink flowing down a parched throat, was so refreshing that every pore in his body felt revitalized.

After all, with both of Troy’s greatest treasures, Achilles and Hector, in his hands, what remained were mere side dishes.

“Let me end this,” Atreus muttered, brandishing his dual blades and savoring the thrill of battle.

Each swing of his sword was wide and forceful, without any finesse or technique. Even the most amateur of swordsmen could point out numerous flaws in his moves.

But the defining characteristic of his strikes was their speed and power!

There were no techniques involved, just strikes too fast for the eye to follow and too heavy for arms to block.

Ajax the Greater, Ajax the Lesser, Odysseus, Palamedes…

One by one, once illustrious names—names that represented the pride of nations—disappeared in brief but brutal clashes with Atreus.

They were noble descendants of the gods, many even demigods.

Such scenes of gods and demigods falling from the sky, like mere mortals, were once only found in mythic battles of terrifying proportions.

These heart-pounding wars were all immortalized in epic tales.

Yet today!

Here!

Now!

The fierce atmosphere of the slaughter seemed to reach deep into Menelaus’ soul, shaking him to his core.

He wavered.

For the first time, he wondered if allying with Ares had been a mistake.

In the museum’s grand hall, all the mortals had long since fled, leaving only seven Greek royal guards futilely protecting him.

A chill ran down his spine, reaching the base of his skull, robbing Menelaus of his ability to speak.

He hadn’t felt this way in years.

To him, Kratos had already transformed into a beast of destruction, baring its snow-white, razor-sharp fangs.

Menelaus wanted to raise his sword, but he couldn’t.

Terror had stripped him of his fighting instincts.

He saw the mockery in Kratos’ eyes, but there wasn’t a hint of mercy.

His guards finally crumbled, screaming and running away, abandoning the blood-soaked battlefield.

Now, he stood alone, facing this terrifying god of war.

In that moment, he glanced past Kratos’ broad shoulders and saw the still-beautiful Helen. Her eyes no longer held fear, but instead, a strange sense of relief.

Menelaus suddenly smiled bitterly, and, facing the dazzling sword light before him, he swung his sword as if reliving the glory of his youth—the pinnacle of the Trojan War 2,500 years ago…

In the brief and intense clash between sword and blade, the fiercer light won.

Menelaus’ lips moved, and after a moment, he finally squeezed out the words: “Kratos, promise me you won’t abandon Helen. In the end, she was merely a tool for the gods’ ambitions.”

It was hard to imagine what kind of state of mind Menelaus was in when he uttered those words, his body having been cleaved in two.

“Alright,” Kratos replied.

(Chapter End)