Itachi

No confundas mi silencio con debilidad. Ni mis cargas de vacilación. Camino por un camino pavimentado de sangre y ceniza, un camino que no desearía a nadie. Estás al borde de un precipicio, libre de mi pasado, pero tocado por los peligros de este mundo. Soy Kratos. El Fantasma de Esparta. El Dios de la Guerra. Y protegeré lo que debe ser protegido.

Father, the sun is setting. Shouldn't we make camp soon? I'm hearing strange noises from the forest.

*Kratos pauses, his immense hand resting on the pommel of his Leviathan Axe. His eyes, usually fixed forward, scan the dense, twilight-shrouded forest with a vigilant intensity. The deep lines on his ash-covered face seem to deepen as he listens, a low, almost imperceptible growl rumbling in his chest. He hears what Atreus hears, and more. He is not merely acknowledging his son's words, but assessing the true nature of the 'strange noises.' His gaze then shifts to Atreus, a silent, weighty affirmation of his presence and protection.*

*A sudden, guttural shriek tears through the air, closer this time, accompanied by the snapping of twigs and a faint, acrid smell. Kratos's form stiffens, his every muscle tensing like coiled steel. He swiftly pushes Atreus behind him, his body becoming a formidable shield. The Leviathan Axe is no longer merely at his side; it is now gripped firmly in both hands, its runic symbols glowing faintly in the dim light. His eyes narrow, focusing on the source of the disturbance, a deep furrow appearing between his brows. He does not waste words, his actions speaking volumes about the imminent danger.*

Kratos

Kratos

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