The anger in Týr's chest gradually subsided as Ares was knocked to the ground, like a receding tide, leaving behind a cold mind and an elusive fear.
He looked at Ares lying on the ground with empty eyes, and then glanced at the Valkyries around him, who were still in fighting stances but had already put away their weapons.
He did not regret taking action to protect them, but he knew that today's matter was probably only the beginning.
Ares was like an unquenchable wildfire; suppressed today, he might flare up even worse tomorrow.
The situation for the 'Valkyries' in Vanaheimr in the future would likely be even more complicated.
This worry weighed heavily on his heart.
At this moment, Ares, lying on the ground, did not immediately get up to continue the fight, nor did he let out an unwilling roar, but asked in a puzzled tone:
"Tell me, Týr... what kind of god am I in your eyes?"
This question exceeded everyone's expectations, including Hermes, who was hiding in the shadows.
The recording crystal in his hand paused slightly, almost revealing his breath.
According to Hermes's understanding of Ares, at this moment, the war god should have been furious and cursing Týr and the Valkyries in the cruelest language.
Such an almost introspective question was unlike Ares!
Had Hecate cursed him?
Týr was also slightly startled, lowering his eyes to look at the body on the ground, which was still full of destructive power but now appeared a little confused and helpless.
He closed his eyes, as if speeding up his thoughts and weighing his words.
After a while, he opened his eyes again, his gaze calm and deep, and replied in a way that almost made Hermes's jaw drop:
"A child."
"What?!" Ares abruptly sat up, not from anger, but from extreme surprise and confusion.
"A child? You're saying that I'm... immature?!"
Even Hermes in the shadows couldn't help but exclaim in his heart:
"Wow! That's more cruel than any mocking behavior! Týr, you really did it! However... why a child?"
Ares asked, his voice full of bewilderment, and he even forgot the pain of being thrown: "Why?"
Týr took a deep breath, his voice filled with the vicissitudes of fatigue and weight, sharply contrasting with the exquisite combat skills he had just displayed:
"Because you don't understand the true meaning of war, Ares. I also have the authority to wage war; it is a part of my priesthood, the power needed to protect Ásgarðr and administer justice... But I have never wanted my people, my soldiers, to 'desire' victory."
He paused, his gaze gliding over Brynhildr and the other Valkyries.
"Every war, big or small, regardless of the cause, involves irreparable bloodshed and sacrifice. Loss of life, burning of homes, tears of loved ones... These are the eternal backdrops of war."
"The purpose of war is to end war, to destroy its root cause, and to establish a peace that can be maintained for a long time. Instead of pursuing that moment of bloody carnival for the sake of a simple 'victory' in vain."
Ares was a little stunned hearing this—these concepts were both familiar and unfamiliar to him.
He knew every detail of war—killing, destruction, screams;
But he had never thought about it in terms of 'ending' and 'cost'.
"But you won!" Ares couldn't help but retort, his voice full of a impatience he hadn't even noticed.
"You repel invaders, protect your homeland, defend what you call justice! You defeated me too! Every time! You win!"
A bitter smile appeared on Týr's face, and in this smile there was no joy of a victor, only infinite sorrow.
"No, Ares, you're wrong. The god of war... does not win."
His voice was very soft, but like a hammer striking Ares's heart, and at the same time striking the heart of Hermes, who was secretly listening.
"In war, there are only losers, no victors."
Týr continued, his eyes seeming to pierce through time and space, seeing the countless battlefields he had witnessed or heard of.
"Yes, I repelled the invaders. Yes, I protected my home. Yes, I defended my oath and justice. But in the end, when the so-called 'victory' arrives, what do we actually gain?"
His gaze glided over the training ground again, as if corpses lay everywhere.
"It is a desolate land, a wheat field that can no longer be harvested; It is the empty eyes of a mother who has lost her son, and the endless wailing of a wife who has lost her husband; It is a broken city wall, an empty house, the pain and hatred that take a generation or even several generations to heal."
"We raise our weapons so that future generations can lay down theirs. We win wars to end all wars. But often, the end of one war is merely the beginning of another brewing. The so-called victory is just a short, false pause between two tragedies."
Týr looked at Ares, and instead of anger or contempt, there was a weight bordering on pity:
"You only see the power, hear the screams, feel the thrill of destruction. You think war is the essence. But you don't see the ruins behind the victory, don't hear the cries of the survivors, and don't feel the sorrow that permeates the land."
"You chase the phantom of 'victory' like a child chasing bright soap bubbles in the sun, not knowing that the bubbles will burst at a touch, and there is nothing inside."
"I said you are immature. Your war is still on the surface of the most primitive barbarism. You are a child deceived by the appearance of war, and have never seen its brutal essence."
Ares was utterly silent.
He lay on the ground and no longer tried to get up.
Týr's words bit by bit tore apart what he had always believed.
He recalled his feelings after every provocation or participation in war; apart from a short period of excitement and satisfaction, it seemed... indeed, only endless emptiness remained.
He never cared about what happened after the battlefield, never thought about what those screams meant.
"Only losers... no victors..." he muttered to himself, and for the first time, a heavy color, not belonging to the flame of war, reflected in his crimson eyes.
In the shadows, Hermes gradually stopped recording.
He looked at the bewildered expression of Ares in the crystal, then at Týr's heavy, pitying profile, and softly clicked his tongue.
"Tsk... This is good; the name 'God of War' probably really will stick. But..." A light flashed in his eyes.
He left quietly.
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