Battles raged throughout the city. Sparta mobilized its last forces, preparing to repel the onslaught at the gates. Heavy guns were drawn up to the walls, while additional garrisons rushed to Pelops's palace, which was under threat. The Spartans had to save their god.
Suddenly, countless holograms of a man in a black leather cloak, with a sword slung over his back and steel gauntlets on his hands, appeared as shadows. His face was hidden by a helmet.
"Pathetic creatures," his first syllable rang out. "Fifteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds. That's how long your lands have been under attack by my troops, and yet you, proud Spartans, have failed to fulfill your primary duty."
He raised the hand that held Pelops' head. Even the Spartans, who had seen the horrors of battle, were frozen in shock, and the women were on the verge of a heart attack.
"The finest warriors, you say? You are nothing, fallen before my warriors in a mere fifteen minutes! What are you without Pelops? Only pitiful, wandering shadows, seeking sustenance, deprived of a dignified afterlife. You are weak and insignificant. I once thought to take pity and allow you to serve me, the god Szarekh. But you are nothing. I encountered so much arrogance on Aegis! Your women, instead of educating men, practiced managing slaves. What nonsense! You are needed for only one thing—war. You have weakened under the favor of your master, who gave you strength, and this is how you repay him."
Szarekh shook the dead lord's head.
"Here is your payment for the favor you showed him—you failed to protect him. Swear allegiance to me immediately, and I will allow you to learn from my warriors. You will be made into true fighters, not the laughingstock you are. Now go to your homes. My warriors will inform you when to come and swear your oaths. And to those fools who still do not understand how you have failed your master—throw down your weapons immediately and do not hinder my warriors from entering the palace. Remember, you no longer have a paradise to return to. Pelops's paradise, like his planet, now belongs to me."
Imotekh, Lord of Storms, smiled beneath his helm and raised his Guardian Spear, signaling victory! The warriors remained silent to the outside world, but their victorious cries echoed across the ethers used by the troops, celebrating yet another great victory for their master.
The Spartans, arriving in time, threw their staffs at the feet of the victors. There was no point in fighting any longer—they had disgraced themselves by failing to save their god. Now only shame was their lot. Their entire lives had been devoted to serving Pelops, but now that he was dead through their fault, they couldn't even commit suicide in atonement, for the afterlife belonged to their enemy.
They handed over all their weapons to the arriving warriors, who marched with unrivaled precision and pride. For they were the victors, and the defeated Spartans were obliged to serve them.
Imotekh entered the throne room, where the blood of crushed Spartans flowed beneath the invading Teltak. Phaeron Szarekh sat with his head held high. His guards, teleported to fight alongside him, stood at his sides. The old warrior envied them—they had witnessed a battle between gods, a rare spectacle. Usually, the Jaffa brought a captured god to their master, who would judge him personally. A battle between gods should be great. But Imotekh had his own mission—he commanded a cohort breaking through the gate. He diverted attention from his master and completed his task with honor.
"Imotech, Lord of Storms!" thundered the voice of their master. The old Jaffa was unaware that the image was being broadcast across the city. "You have shown great valor, attacking enemy forces superior in numbers and firepower. But your skill, your endurance, and your strength have been proven. Spartans are twice as strong as you, live twice as long, and can sometimes survive mortal wounds. But now they are on their knees, not you. They are defeated, and you are triumphant."
"You are generous, my lord! None of this would have happened if you, Phaeron Szarekh, had not given me strength!" The man removed his helmet and bowed his head. Everyone could see his tattoo, signifying his service before Ra. And then the Spartans began to realize who had come to them—a direct vassal of the Supreme Overlord Ra, one who used his troops.
"And yet, your feat deserves a reward. Know that you have won life for yourself and your brothers, that you have conquered Pelops's magic. So I will fulfill my promise to you and give you a significant personal reward. Your home will be expanded, as will the resources available to you."
"Thank you, my lord. It is an honor to accept your reward."
"Excellent. Now, have a delegation of Pelops's Jaffa Masters come to me. We'll see you. And I'll judge you on your accomplishments."
Imotekh chuckled. Considering they were the victors, the Spartans had no significant achievements left.