A deafening silence enveloped the battlefield as Menelaus’s severed head soared through the air, its trajectory a macabre arc against the pale sky. A torrent of crimson erupted from his neck, gushing violently and splattering onto the ground like a grisly fountain. The sticky warmth of the blood painted not only the soil but also drenched Paris’s bronze armor, staining it in stark red. The metallic tang of blood hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of death.
Paris stood amidst the chaos, his smirk twisting grotesquely as he gazed at the headless body of the Spartan king crumpling to the ground. The gleam in his eyes was unhinged, the triumph on his face a mask of madness. And then, a sound erupted from his throat—a wild, maniacal laughter that tore through the eerie quiet like a blade through flesh.
“GAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”
The battlefield trembled with his voice, a booming echo that carried across the plains. The Spartans, hardened warriors who had witnessed countless deaths, felt an unfamiliar chill creep up their spines. Their resolve faltered as they tightened their grips on their weapons, their knuckles white with fear. For the first time, they hesitated—not because of what Paris had done, but because of what he had become.
He radiated something unnatural, something far beyond the Paris they had known. This was not the prince who had fled humiliated weeks ago, broken and defeated after his disastrous duel with Menelaus. That Paris had disappeared, vanished like a shadow retreating from the light. Whispers had circulated: some claimed he had fled Troy itself, too ashamed to return. Others believed he had perished in the wilderness, his story a cautionary tale of arrogance undone. But no one—no one—had imagined this: Paris returning to the battlefield, not just alive but transformed into a harbinger of death.
“I am the strongest among you miserable Greeks!” Paris roared, his voice dripping with contempt. He raised his blade high, the polished steel glinting malevolently in the sunlight. With a single, deliberate motion, he swung it behind him.
The air itself seemed to scream in protest as the force of the swing unleashed a piercing, unnatural sound, slicing through the atmosphere with a deadly hum. And then, silence—before the unimaginable happened.
Fifty of Spartan soldiers fell at once, their heads and limbs severed in a grotesque display of precision and power. Blood rained down in thick, warm torrents, pooling around the lifeless bodies as if the earth itself was drinking its fill. Fifty men lay dead in an instant, their lives extinguished with a single swing.
“What is this madness?!” one Spartan cried, his voice trembling with disbelief.
“I don’t know!” another replied, his face pale with terror.
“Kill him!” a captain roared, though his voice betrayed his own fear.
The Spartans charged, their disciplined formation crumbling in the face of their desperation. But every soldier who dared to approach Paris met the same fate—instant death. His sword moved with a speed and precision that defied comprehension, each strike a symphony of carnage. Heads rolled, limbs flew, and screams of agony filled the air, mingling with Paris’s deranged laughter.
Despair took hold of the Spartan ranks. Those who had survived the initial massacre began to retreat, keeping their distance and opting for ranged attacks. Fireballs, jagged spikes of earth, and razor-sharp gusts of wind hurtled toward Paris. But each assault struck an invisible barrier, dissipating harmlessly as though the gods themselves had intervened to shield him.
“What sorcery is this?” a soldier whispered, his voice cracking.
Paris’s smirk deepened as he raised his sword once more, unleashing another arc of death. The battlefield became a slaughterhouse, the prince moving with an inhuman grace that bordered on divine. Blood soaked the ground, and the once-proud Spartan warriors were reduced to scattered remnants, paralyzed by fear and helpless against his onslaught.
Above the battlefield, the gods watched from Mount Olympus. Hera’s face twisted with rage as she turned to Zeus, her voice rising in accusation. “This is treachery! It must be Apollo’s or Aphrodite’s doing! They’re cheating, and you must intervene!”
Zeus’s expression remained stoic, but a shadow of unease flickered in his eyes. He glanced at Apollo, Artemis, Aphrodite, and Ares, all of whom seemed as stunned as the mortals below. The surprise etched on their faces was genuine; none of them appeared to be the source of Paris’s newfound power.
“No,” Zeus said gravely, his deep voice silencing the others. “This is not their doing.”
The king of the gods narrowed his eyes, his gaze fixed on the blood-soaked battlefield below. Though he did not voice it, he could feel it.
But then, who was responsible for what had happened to Paris? The question lingered unspoken, an ominous cloud over the battlefield. Paris continued his frenzied slaughter, his mad laughter ringing out like the tolling of a death knell. His movements were a blur, faster and more precise than any mortal could follow. He cut through the ranks of Spartan soldiers with an effortless cruelty, their screams silenced before they could fully escape their lips. Even from the far edges of the battlefield, his rampage was unmistakable—a hurricane of blood and chaos visible to all.
“King Menelaus is dead!” one of Agamemnon’s soldiers cried out, his voice trembling with disbelief as he relayed the grim news.
The proclamation sent ripples through the ranks, but Agamemnon’s expression betrayed little grief. His jaw tightened, but not from sorrow; his eyes narrowed in contemplation rather than rage. In truth, he hardly cared for his brother. Menelaus had always been a fool in Agamemnon’s eyes—an inept man who couldn’t even keep his wife in check for a week, let alone protect her from the cunning charms of a Trojan prince. No, Menelaus’s death did not wound Agamemnon’s heart. It was a distraction at best, a minor inconvenience. What truly troubled him now was Paris—his sudden, unholy resurgence and the implications it carried for the war.
The Greeks had been on the cusp of victory. Troy’s walls were battered, its defenders faltering. And now, as if the fates had decided to mock them, Paris had returned, wielding power far beyond his previous limits. Agamemnon clenched his fists as he observed the carnage from his vantage point. This was not a moment to mourn. This was a moment to calculate.
Nearby, Odysseus stood with a grim expression, his sharp mind racing to piece together the implications of what was unfolding. Chiron had been slain; now Menelaus had fallen. The Greeks were losing pillars of strength, one after another. Paris had to be stopped, and yet… how?
Odysseus’s thoughts were interrupted by a thunderous cry from across the field. He turned to see an army charging toward Paris, their spears and shields gleaming in the sun. Unlike the Spartans, these soldiers showed no hesitation, no fear. They moved with the precision and ferocity of wolves closing in on their prey.
It was the Myrmidons—Achilles’s elite warriors. At their head rode Patroclus, his face fierce with determination, his armor catching the light like a beacon of hope amidst the chaos.
“With me, Myrmidons!” Patroclus roared, his voice carrying over the din of the battlefield. “Let’s show him the strength of the strongest army—the army of Achilles!”
The Myrmidons answered with a battle cry that shook the ground itself, their voices unified in purpose. They surged forward with unrelenting speed, their spears glinting like deadly stars.
Odysseus’s eyes widened, a cold dread gripping his chest. A terrible premonition clawed at the edges of his mind. No—Patroclus must not fight Paris. This was wrong. He could feel it in his bones.
“Patroclus!” Odysseus called out, his voice urgent, but it was already too late. Patroclus and the Myrmidons were locked onto their path, their charge unstoppable.
Before Odysseus could act, Agamemnon’s voice cut through the tension. “Odysseus,” he called, his tone calm yet laced with a dangerous undercurrent.
Odysseus turned sharply to face the king. “Agamemnon! We can’t let him fight Paris! This is madness! He’s running to his death!” His words were desperate, laced with anger and frustration.
But Agamemnon’s expression was cold, calculating. A smirk spread across his face, one that sent a chill down Odysseus’s spine. “Let him fight,” Agamemnon said dismissively, his voice dripping with indifference. “If Paris is killed, it’s good. If Patroclus is killed…” He paused, his smirk widening. “…it’s very good.”
Odysseus froze, his mouth agape in shock. “What?” he demanded, his voice barely a whisper. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How could the death of Patroclus—a hero in his own right—be considered a boon?
Agamemnon’s smirk turned into a cruel grin. “Think, Odysseus,” he said, his tone condescending. “If Patroclus is killed, he will come, won’t he?”
The realization hit Odysseus like a thunderclap. He staggered back, his mind reeling. He didn’t need to ask who Agamemnon meant. The answer was clear—terrifyingly clear.
Achilles.
The wrathful demigod. The greatest warrior the world had ever known. If Patroclus fell, Achilles’s fury would burn brighter than the sun. And when Achilles unleashed his rage, not even the gods themselves would escape unscathed.
Odysseus’s heart sank as he turned his gaze back to the battlefield, where Patroclus was charging toward Paris with fearless resolve.