My Soul card is a Reaper

The clash of metal rang through the treasury, a stark counterpoint to the silent glint of scattered gold and jewels.

Louis stood facing Mars, the god of war, in a mortal form that belied his immortal ferocity.

The god, even constrained within human flesh, exuded an aura of battle and bloodshed that had defined him since the dawn of myth.

Louis, with a spear in hand, faced Mars with a determination that was as much a weapon as the blade he wielded.

The air between them crackled with the tension of impending conflict, an invisible audience to history repeating itself—man versus god, the timeless struggle.

Mars made the first move, a sweeping strike aimed at Louis with the speed of a striking serpent.

But Louis was ready, parrying with a skill honed through countless battles, both physical and those fought within the depths of his soul. Their weapons met with a sound that echoed off the treasury walls, sparks flying from the collision.

"You fight well, mortal," Mars acknowledged, his voice tinged with a respect that was as surprising as it was unsettling. "But do you have the heart to stand against a god?"

Louis responded not with words but with action, pressing forward with a series of strikes that pushed Mars back.

Each swing, each maneuver, was a testament to Louis' resolve, to the strength of his will against the divine force he faced.

But Mars was no mere mortal to be easily bested.

With a roar that shook the very air, he unleashed his godly might, his sword glowing with an otherworldly light.

The treasury room, with its treasures untold, became a battleground where light and shadow danced in the wake of their duel.

The god's attacks grew more ferocious, a storm of strikes that sought to overwhelm Louis.

Yet, amidst the onslaught, Louis found clarity, a calm center in the storm of war.

It was at this moment that he understood—the battle was not just of sword against spear but of will against will.

Summoning all his focus, Louis channeled his strength into a singular purpose. As Mars' sword came down in what could have been a devastating blow, Louis stepped aside, using the god's momentum against him. In the same fluid motion, he struck, his sword finding a gap in Mars' defense.

The impact sent a shockwave through the treasury, with gold and jewels lifting from the ground in a shimmering cloud.

Mars staggered, surprise etched on his features as he looked down at the wound—a wound inflicted by a mortal hand.

"Why?" Mars gasped, the invincibility of his divine nature questioned by the reality of his injury.

"Because I'm fighting for something more than survival," Louis said, his sword still raised, ready for the next move. "I'm fighting for my home, my loved ones, for a future free, from the threat of undead and demonkin. Someone like you wouldn't understand."

Mars, god of war, a warrior without equal, looked at Louis then, really looked at him, and in his eyes, there was a dawning realization.

The battle, the endless cycle of conflict, had found a new variable—mortals who could stand against the gods, not just as pawns but as equals.

With a nod that held a world of meanings, Mars stepped back. "You have bested me, Louis, not by strength but by the strength of your conviction."

And with those words, Mars' form began to fade, transforming into a wisp and entering his body. Just like with Leah, this former deity's essence absorbed into Louis, freeing his seal as well as giving birth to a new Arcana spirit in the form of a sword.

Louis stood alone, amidst the chaos of the battle's aftermath, his victory bitter-sweet. He didn't feel like he won this battle, at all.

But, he also knew that it wasn't the time to think about victory or defeat. He looked around.

Seeing that Leah defeated Neptune and was overpowering Pluto with her Excalibur, Louis swiftly went to his wife who was locked in the battle of arrows.

In a corner of the treasury, where the light seemed to gather and play amongst the gems more than anywhere else, Fey stood, her slender form poised with an elegance that belied the deadly intent in her eyes.

An elf of the ancient forests, she was no stranger to the hunt, but today she found herself the quarry of a goddess renowned for her prowess in the very same art.

Diana, the embodiment of the hunt, her presence commanding even within the limitations of her mortal shell, eyed Fey with a predator's focus.

The goddess held a bow, its curve elegant, deadly, fashioned from moonlight and shadow. Her quiver seemed endless, each arrow thirsting for a target.

Fey, aware of the disadvantage in range, moved with a grace that was almost ethereal, her steps leaving no trace on the treasury's gold-littered floor.

She knew the dance of battle well, the delicate balance between attack and defense, the need to close the distance between her and Diana without becoming a target.

Diana loosed the first arrow, its flight swift as a thought, but Fey was swifter still.

She moved like the wind, her own bow, a slender thing of wood and magic, coming to hand as she darted behind a column. The arrow sought her, guided by Diana's will, but Fey was no ordinary target. She leaped, the arrow passing harmlessly beneath her as she loosed a special arrow in mid-air.

The arrow, a whisper of green and gold, found its mark, but not in flesh. It struck Diana's bow, entwining it in vines that sprouted with impossible speed. Diana's surprise was fleeting; with a gesture, the vines withered to ash, and her bow freed.

But Fey had closed the distance. Now, with a dagger drawn, a gift from her husband, she met Diana's gaze. "The hunt is not only about the pursuit," Fey spoke, her voice clear, "but understanding the heart of the one you pursue."

Diana, accepting the challenge, drew a blade of her own, its edge sharp as the crescent moon. They clashed, the sound of their weapons a symphony of steel, each strike and parry a testament to their skill.

The battle shifted with each moment, Fey's agility against Diana's divine prowess and centuries of experience. They were reflections of each other, hunter and hunted, each move mirrored, and each attack met with a counter.

Fey, though, was not just fighting for victory; she fought for her people, for the ancient forests that had nurtured her, for the harmony of the natural world. Her resolve lent her strength, and her movements, influenced by the ancient dances of her people, became a blur, a storm of gold coins.

Diana pressed on, her own resolve unwavering, but the limitations of her mortal form began to tell. Each movement was slightly slower.

It was at that moment Louis joined the battle and slipped past Diana's guard with a portal, his spear piercing the goddess's neck. "Yield," He whispered, as a command.

Diana's eyes, wild with the joy of the hunt, the thrill of the battle, softened. She nodded, lowering her weapon. "You are fortunate, elf," she conceded the fight, her body disintegrated slowly, followed by the essence of the goddess merging with Fey. "But remember, the hunt is never over. It merely changes." The words echoed in Fey's head.