The air stilled. The waves that had once lapped and hissed against the island's edge fell into silence, as if the sea itself had forgotten how to move. No bird called. No wind stirred. The shadows that slithered beneath the surface of the island trembled as if waiting to hear the next breath that Achilles would take.
But he didn't speak.
He didn't move.
He simply stood with his fingers resting on the edge of the shovel, calm eyes meeting the wavering form of the one who had called himself the Primordial Light of Darkness.
There was no more thunder.
No eruption of fury.
Only a quiet, cracking sound.
A sound so small, yet so filled with devastation, that even Rose instinctively reached out to place a hand on Achilles' back. The Monkey King stood frozen beside her, his golden staff humming low like a dirge, uncertain whether to defend or simply bear witness.
The being before them, that terrifying sovereign wrapped in shadow, wavered again.
It clutched no wounds.
