Last knight

Ares's Past

With all his strength, Ares pushed against the temple door. The ear-piercing screech of rusted hinges echoed as the ancient dust from the door's crevices began to fall. The spiderweb at the edge of the door stretched and stretched, pulled taut by the movement.

The long-dead, hollowed-out remains of an ugly spider dangled from the web, swaying as if mocking the frail Ares. He felt as though he had exhausted the last of his strength, but the temple door had only opened a tiny c***k. Ares envied the rats—even a fist-sized rat could have slipped through that gap. But Ares, though thin and weak, was still a human. The c***k was barely wide enough for his fist.

This temple had not been opened in the ten years since Ares had become aware of his surroundings. Every year, the rituals were conducted through a small, dimly lit door at the back. But this time was different. This was not a ritual. More importantly, the small door at the back was guarded by a burly man who seemed to have a relationship with Ares's aunt that went beyond mere friendship. Perhaps it was nothing, but the problem was this: Ares's aunt would rather feed spoiled food to the dogs than give it to Ares, who had gone three days without eating.

"Whoosh!" A spear flew past Ares, embedding itself in the ground less than a fist's width away. The thrower—a tall tribesman—clearly found amusement in Ares's pale, frightened face and the scream that followed.

He pointed a thick, club-like finger at Ares and sneered, "Hey, if you can't become the Chosen One, you'll have to leave the tribe and fend for yourself in the wilderness! You useless coward!"

Useless coward. Yes, that was Ares's nickname in the tribe. No one liked him—except perhaps the elder. Seven years ago, on a dark night, the elder had poured a bowl of hot leftover porridge over Ares, who had collapsed from hunger. The scalding porridge left a scar that still marked Ares's face, but he believed that if he hadn't licked the porridge off his face and body, he would have starved to death.

But this time, Ares had eaten Feiyan's food because he was so hungry that he couldn't bear it anymore. This finally provoked the entire tribe's anger, and even the elder could no longer protect him.

"Whoosh!" This time, the spear landed between Ares's legs as he collapsed to the ground. If it had been just a little higher, it would have hit his manhood. But this time, Ares's tribesman didn't get the satisfaction of seeing him panic. Ares struggled to his feet, leaning against the door. Perhaps it was for the elder, who had always looked out for him, that he had to keep trying. Ares still remembered the elder's words when he sent him to the temple: "Ah, child, if you become the Chosen One, you can share Feiyan's food. Yes, I promise you. Go, take the sacred bow and bring it back to my tent!"

Feiyan's food. Even now, Ares wasn't sure if the elder's promise could be trusted. After all, Feiyan was the tribe's beloved little dog. But no matter what, it was a glimmer of hope. Ares staggered back a few steps, let out a yell, and leaped at the door with all his might.

The door stood firm, unmovable like a mountain.

"Thud, thud... thud, thud..." Ares knew he was going to die. At the very least, he could already see the white of his bone peeking through the torn flesh of his left arm. He remembered seeing a wild boar like this once, lying dead and stiff by the time he passed by the next morning.

Even the tribesman who had always been at odds with him couldn't bring himself to urge Ares to get up. But Ares struggled to his feet anyway. Even if he died, he would die after bringing back the sacred artifact and eating Feiyan's food. He didn't know what would happen after death, but he believed that dying on a full stomach was better than starving.

Perhaps the pain cleared his mind, or perhaps it was the hunger that had clouded his thoughts before. Either way, Ares realized that clearing the dust from the door's crevices might make it easier to open. So he did just that. When he finished, he leaned against the door, exhausted, and suddenly felt himself falling. He straightened up and heard a creaking sound as the massive door slowly began to open on its own. Before Ares could fully comprehend what was happening, the dimly lit temple was revealed before him.

"Whoosh!" Lamps along the long corridor of the temple suddenly lit up. Though not bright enough to fully illuminate the spacious temple, they were far better than torches. Ares looked at his bloodied shoulder and the suddenly open door, letting out a helpless, trademark bitter smile.

No one knew how Ares managed to bring back the tribe's sacred bow. The tribesman guarding the door only remembered that when the door, which was said to open only for the Chosen One, swung wide, he gave Ares a packet of(hemostatic powder) out of either conscience, reverence for the temple, or perhaps just pity. He also handed Ares a half-eaten, moldy(flatbread) that had been lying around in his bag. Ares devoured it before entering the temple, thanking the man profusely. The tribesman swore on his late grandmother's name that Ares had gone in empty-handed.

But when the burly man guarding the back door—the strongest in the tribe—returned half-dead, he was riddled with seven spearheads. The shaman's face turned pale as he pulled out the first deeply embedded spearhead. He didn't even bother treating the other wounds before dragging the man to the elder's tent.

The elder's face turned ashen when she saw the gleaming spearheads. Her aged, wrinkled face trembled, and her toothless mouth mumbled incoherently. It wasn't until the shaman pulled out the second spearhead, eliciting a scream from the wounded man, that the elder snapped out of her daze.

The seven bloodied spearheads were laid out on the table. The wounded man, freshly bandaged, was forced to recount his experience. He said, "I... I just wanted to test Ares. Yes, it had nothing to do with his aunt. But he attacked me. The lamps in the temple suddenly lit up, exposing me in the light. Ares hid in the darkness—you know how good he is at that, like how he can pick any lock. Then he started throwing spears at me. So many spears, one after another. I swear there were at least twenty, maybe more. When I fell, he emerged from the shadows, holding another spear. He stood about six or seven steps away, looking at me the same way he looks at Feiyan's food."

This translation aims to preserve the tension, the raw emotion, and the gritty realism of Ares's struggle, while adapting it to a more natural English narrative style. Let me know if you'd like further refinements!