The campus of Olympus is a ghost of its former self, a testament to shattered ambition. Only the injured and the incapable remain, huddled around campfires that do little to ward off the chill of defeat. Among them are Bia, Nike, and Zelus, the only children of Styx who did not participate in the war. Zelus's gaze keeps darting towards his sisters, his lips parting as if to speak before sealing shut once more. He finally tightens his fist until his knuckles bleach white.
"Have you noticed…" he begins, his voice low. "Brother hasn't been himself. Not since the Underworld legion withdrew."
Bia narrows her brows. "What do you mean?"
"His behavior has become… extravagant. Reckless, even," Zelus answers, his eyes fixed on the struggling flames.
Nike nods, her usual confidence subdued. "He insisted we not join the war. He made us swear on our mother's name. It felt less like a request and more like a command."
Before they can ponder further, an intense, searing heat slams into the camp, followed by a light that bleaches the color from the world. Every eye widens, fixed on the sky. Silence, heavy and absolute, smothers the camp. A soldier with one leg amputated, struggling to stand with his crutch, loses his balance and falls to his knees. His whisper is a ragged breath of pure terror.
"Hyperion…"
The silence shatters. Those who comprehend the celestial threat scramble for horses, for cover, for anything that might offer a few more seconds of life. Chaos erupts, a frantic, hopeless dance of survival.
Metis and Prometheus burst from their tent. "What is happening? What is this chaos?" Metis shouts, but her words are lost in the panicked screams.
Crack. Crack.
Two crystals on her bracelet splinter apart. She freezes mid-step. The wind itself seems to die, and the only sound is the frantic hammering of her own heart. Her unsteady gaze finds Prometheus, who is staring at the sky, his face pale. He feels her stare and meets her eyes. She slowly raises her hand, showing him the broken bracelet.
Prometheus stumbles, grabbing a tent rope for support. He massages his temples, a low groan escaping him. 'This is it. The end of the line.' Metis stumbles to his side, her voice a terrified mumble. "We have to… escape."
Prometheus gives a single, grim nod. "Hmm."
They each pull a dark crystal from their pockets and crush them simultaneously. A portal of swirling shadows manifests at their feet and swallows them whole.
High above, Hyperion observes the chaotic island, his hands folded over his chest. His lip curls in a sneer. "Lowly beings, forgetting their place." He raises his hands, his voice a thunderous proclamation that rolls across the sky. "Let me remind you of the price of defiance!"
'Judgment of Sol Invictus'
Light bends around him, condensing into a swirling, miniature sun held between his palms. He thrusts his hands toward the island. The clouds above twist and burn, turning from grey to a blinding, molten gold. A beam of divine sunlight descends—a white so pure it devours all other color. It pierces through sky and ground, connecting heaven and earth in a single, merciless line.
Where the beam touches the island, the camp, the soldiers, the very air—everything simply vaporizes. The ground flashes into a vast, searing lake of molten glass. A heartbeat of absolute silence is followed by a soundless, expanding shockwave that scours the land. Then, the ocean roars in to claim the newly formed, steaming crater, the waves violently filling the void until every trace of the island is erased, as if it had never existed.
---
In an Unknown Relic Castle
A portal shimmers into existence and violently spits out Metis and Prometheus. Metis's eyes snap open, adjusting to the dim light. Her breath catches.
Zeus hangs suspended in a giant sphere of water, his body limp. Thousands of tiny, needle-sharp jets of water constantly prick his already heavily injured body. Poseidon stands before him, eyes closed, his palms resting on the surface of the sphere, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Metis's mind reels, refusing to process the scene for a heartbeat. Then, it snaps into terrible focus. The dread in her chest ignites into a white-hot fury.
Without a weapon, she does the only thing she can. She throws herself at Poseidon, not to harm him, but to slam her body into his arm, breaking his connection to the water prison. "Get away from him!"
The sudden impact shatters Poseidon's concentration. The water prison collapses, and Zeus's unconscious body drops to the stone floor with a sickening thud. Poseidon's eyes snap open, his gaze burning with rage as it locks onto Metis. As she raises her hand for another futile strike, he grabs her wrist, his grip like iron, and drives a kick into her stomach.
"Heuk!"
The air explodes from her lungs. She flies backward, crashing against the wall and slumping to the ground. She grabs her stomach, heaving and coughing violently, tears of pain and frustration streaming from her reddened eyes.
Poseidon glares at her, his voice a low, dangerous bark. "I despise him. I want to kill him with my own hands. But I am no coward who uses tricks and unfair means to do it." He gestures dismissively at Zeus. "Now go! Treat your man!"
As Poseidon stalks away, Prometheus and Metis scramble to Zeus's side. His body is a canvas of horror: unhealed bruises, blackened burns, a deep hole in his chest, and the severed stump of his right arm.
Metis's hands tremble as she pours a healing potion over him. An emerald glow radiates from his wounds. He groans, and the burns and bruises begin to fade, the hole in his chest knitting shut. She pours more onto the severed arm. The golden ichor stops flowing, but the flesh refuses to knit, the skin repelled by an invisible force.
"It's not working… why isn't it—" she whispers, panic rising.
Prometheus places a steadying hand on her shoulder. "It is a wound from Iapetus's blade, Metis. Mortality is woven into it. It cannot be undone by any potion." He gestures to the humble supplies he has laid out—a needle, thread, and herbal pastes. "For this, we need the medicine of those who are born to die."
Metis looks up, her eyes pleading. "But—"
"Metis!" Prometheus's voice is stern, his gaze unwavering and knowing. She falls silent, her head bowing in grim acceptance.
Prometheus sets to work, his movements precise and practiced. He cleans the wounds, stitches the deepest gashes, applies a pungent medicinal paste, and wraps Zeus's torso in clean cotton bandages.
From across the room, Poseidon leans against the wall, his arms crossed. He watches the entire procedure, a scornful sneer on his face. "Huh," he snorts. "A weakling duck, desperate to become a swan."
After a few hours, a pained groan echoes in the chamber. Zeus's eyes flutter open. He tries to push himself up using the wall, but his body fails him, and he collapses. Prometheus and Metis are at his side in an instant, supporting him. His gaze falls upon the bandaged stump where his hand used to be. The fire in his eyes guttered and died, leaving behind cold ashes. A long, weary sigh escapes him.
"So," he rasps, "how do things stand?"
Prometheus and Metis exchange a heavy glance. Zeus's eyes narrow. "How bad is it?"
"The army is gone," Metis says, her voice hollow. "Wiped out. Hyperion scours the world like a hound, and we are the prey. Our chances of victory are... less than slim."
Zeus's head hangs low. Then, Prometheus speaks, his voice cutting through the despair. "There is one way."
The postures of both Zeus and Poseidon straighten almost imperceptibly. A flicker of desperate hope lights Zeus's eyes.
"Your eldest brother," Prometheus continues. "Hades."
The room darkens again. "The Underworld is the only realm where Cronus and his Titans dare not tread. His legions are the only force that can stand equal to the Cardinals. And it is the home of the world's finest craftsmen." Prometheus meets Zeus's glare without flinching. "If you want to win this war, his presence is not just helpful. It is necessary."
Poseidon interjects, his voice a skeptical rumble. "And you believe he will simply agree?"
"He must," Metis insists, her voice low and intent. "He has remained silent during war, and he holds a deep respect for Lady Rhea and Hestia. We will used that weakness against him."
"But—" Zeus tries to protest, the old rivalries and pride surfacing.
Metis cuts him off, her voice firm. "Zeus. Look at us. Look at you. We have no other choice."
---
Meanwhile, on the Banks of the River Styx…
Kratos's eyes flutter open. His vision is blurry, his mind hazy. He holds his throbbing head and groans. "Ahh… where am I?"
A familiar, cheerful voice cuts through the fog. "Yo! Brother!"
Kratos rubs his eyes, his vision clearing to reveal his siblings—Nike, Bia, and Zelus—and his mother, the goddess Styx, all sitting on smooth, dark stones. And they are all looking directly at him.