The lotus lakes shook with every strike, waves of fire and milk scattering into the air like storms breaking through worlds. The Olympians fought hard, every god pressed to their limits, but all eyes were drawn again and again to one figure—the one who refused to falter.
Hades.
He moved like a shadow given weight, every step spilling darkness across the glowing rivers. His pale fire no longer clung only to his bident—it pulsed out of his skin, out of his cloak, as though the abyss itself had chosen him as its vessel.
Kala, the Primordial of Time, advanced, his body bending centuries with each motion. The hymns in the air cracked as if they'd aged into ruin, Apollo's bowstring snapped as though it had been strung for a thousand years. Every strike of Kala's hand was not just an attack—it was decay, centuries forced in a blink.
But Hades did not wither.
