The air didn't just tremble. It screamed. The perfect, geometric descent of the Heavenly host faltered as the ground birthed nightmares.
A Titan, all craggy granite and glowing magma fissures, swung a fist the size of a cathedral. A dozen angels in its path didn't so much dodge as cease to exist, smeared into bursts of golden light. Wukong cackled, becoming a thousand duplicates, each one poking and prodding at the serene formations, his staff a blur that left cracks in celestial armor. "Rule number one: no standing in neat lines!" he yelled, his voice echoing from a hundred places at once.
Kratos didn't speak. He moved. He was a crimson-and-ash blur, the Blades of Chaos whirling. He didn't fight angels; he dismantled them. A shield was split, a wing was severed, a silent face met his spartan boot. He was a machine of deconstruction, carving a path of disassembled holiness towards the front ranks.
