[ He listens dispassionately, too used to this cycle to be disturbed by the prospect of mass bloodshed, if he ever was. The only oddity here is that grand-scale war usually wasn't an issue in the afterlife. The Underworld was its own entity, ruled in a vacuum, and shades were too permeable and too eternal for battle to mean anything besides a little sport for the bored spirits of Elysium (unless it was Zagreus, roaming about and wreaking havoc). The afterlife could make mild the worst of crooks, and persuade even men as fearsome as Achilles to set their spears down.

But here, his own body feels... less timeless. He's somehow more incarnate than death. The other shades here must be just as vulnerable, if not moreso—and he feels the tug of oblivion from somewhere, an end without a beginning, death without life.

It provides plenty of opportunity for the people here to turn against one another. Finally, his mouth pulls into a tight frown. ]

I know the difference between death and peace. [ He's an expert. ] ...But I can't tell where your slain shades will go. Or how they got here.

[ It's begrudgingly admitted. He doesn't like being in the dark when it's his own domain. ]

So I might recommend caution, Lord Ares. [ Who can say what's going on here, in an afterlife that even he doesn't understand? ]