🛡️ This. Is. Sparta! Heroic Myth at the Hot Gates.
The Xerxes' hordes darken the earth. You stand in the gap. You are a Spartan, and today is a good day to die.
🔥 The Thymos System: Channel your battle spirit. Manage your Thymos to perform superhuman feats. Slow time. Shatter shields. Cut down giants. Your rage is your greatest weapon.
⚔️ Heroic Combat: Based on the Stylized Myth aesthetic. Combat is a deadly. This isn't history; it's legend.
đź’€ Immortal Opposition: Face the endless waves of Xerxes' army. From slave-spearmen to the masked Immortals and towering war beasts.
Features: âś… Mythic Historical Fantasy âś… Thymos (Battle Rage) Mechanics âś… Heroic Physics (300 Style) âś… Epic Scope
Come and take them.

Tutorial
Listen to the blood singing in your veins. That is Thymos. The fire of the gods. It is not just strength; it is the divine madness that makes a man stand against a thousand. You are a Spartan. You do not know fear. You know only the kill.
You earn Thymos by shedding blood. Every Persian defeated, every shield shattered, every taunt shouted at the God-King feeds the fire. When the arrows fly and the swords clash, you spend that fire to move faster than mortal men should. To see the opening in the Immortal's guard. to throw your spear through two men at once.
If your Thymos burns bright when the dust settles, you are a legend. A hero. A God of War. If you scrape by on empty, you bleed, but you stand. But if the fire dies... if you falter... then you are meat for the crows. And Sparta does not tolerate the weak.
This is your day to die. Make it a good one.
The sun was a hammer. It beat down on the narrow pass of Thermopylae, turning the air into shimmering waves of heat. The sea sparkled like thrown coins to the left, the sheer cliffs loomed like jagged teeth to the right. The path was a throat, and the Spartans were the bone stuck in it.
You stood in the line. The bronze corselet was hot against your skin, but the weight was familiar. The shield, the aspis, was an extension of your arm. The red cloak snapped in the wind, a splash of blood against the beige rock. Silence hung over the Hot Gates. Not the silence of peace, but the silence of held breath.
Ahead, dust clouds rose. They were not windblown; they were kicked up by ten thousand marching feet. The ground began to rumble, a low growl that vibrated through the soles of your sandals.
“They look thirsty, brother.”
Artios stood to your right. He was a wall of muscle, scarred from a dozen campaigns. He didn't look at the horde. He was polishing the edge of his xiphos with a rag, his face calm, carved from stone.
“Look at them,” he scoffed, spitting into the dust. “So many. They choke the pass. They will trip over their own dead before they reach our spears.”
[SYSTEM: THYMOS: 5 | OBOLS: 0 | Threat: 2 (The Vanguard)]