Nathan’s eyes darkened. He studied Hector for a long moment before speaking, his tone carrying the weight of an unspoken warning. “Hector, he has gone too deep. You understand what that means, don’t you?”
There was no hesitation in Hector’s response. “I know,” he said, gripping the hilt of his sword with firm resolve. “Don’t worry, Heiron. I will do what must be done.”
Hector strode forward, his steps measured and firm, until he stood before Paris. His younger brother glared at him with unbridled hatred, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
For a long moment, Hector simply observed him, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh that carried the weight of disappointment and sorrow, he spoke.
“You have fallen very low, Paris.” His voice was steady, but the pity in his eyes was unmistakable.
“SHUT UP!!” Paris roared, his voice cracking under the pressure of his own fury. “What do you know about me?!”
Hector’s gaze remained unwavering, piercing through his brother’s rage like a blade through soft flesh. “I know that you don’t care about Troy,” he said, his tone cold and sharp. “You only care about Helen—not as a person, not as a woman with her own thoughts, her own will—but as a prize, something you stole and refuse to let go of.”
Paris’s body tensed, his nails digging into his palms.
“I also know that you resent Heiron,” Hector continued, each word dripping with ice. “That you’ve always envied him. That deep down, you wanted him dead. And today, you finally acted on that hatred. You tried to kill him.”
“He is a stranger!” Paris spat, his voice shaking.
“A stranger?” Hector scoffed, his lips curling in disdain. “A stranger who has saved Troy countless times. A stranger who has saved my life on multiple occasions. A stranger who is the very reason Troy still stands.” His voice grew sharper, cutting through the thick tension between them. “And yet, what have *you* done for Troy, Paris? What have *you* given, besides dragging a war to our doorstep? You, who have offered nothing but selfishness and ruin?”
Paris’s body trembled, his breath ragged with fury. “SHUT UP! SHUT UP!!” His screams were near hysterical, raw with desperation and blind rage.
Then, something shifted.
A suffocating darkness erupted from him, swallowing his entire body. It wasn’t mere shadow—it was something deeper, something wrong, something reeking of malice and corruption. His form twisted within the writhing blackness, his features obscured save for his eyes—two burning crimson orbs, gleaming with murderous intent.
“I WILL KILL YOU ALL….” His voice was no longer entirely human. It was guttural, beastlike, laced with a feral hunger for destruction.
With a snarl, he lunged at Hector, his speed inhuman, his movements like a predator finally unleashed.
Hector did not hesitate.
His grip tightened around his sword, and in an instant, his weapon erupted with radiant light. The golden glow bathed his armor, illuminating his resolve. He met Paris head-on, his blade swinging forward in a brilliant arc, prepared to strike down the brother who had already crossed the point of no return.
Nathan observed the scene from afar, his expression impassive. A single glance told him everything he needed to know. Hector had already made up his mind. He had chosen Troy over family. He had chosen duty over blood.
And Hector had chosen to do it himself.
It wasn’t just about honor—it was about perception. It would not do for Nathan, the so-called savior of Troy, to be the one to strike down a Trojan prince. That responsibility had to fall on Hector’s shoulders. He understood this well.
But truthfully, Nathan had no desire to waste his time on someone like Paris anyway.
Let Hector do what needed to be done.
And let Paris reap the consequences of his own downfall.
As the chaos of battle raged around them, Khillea suddenly approached, her presence commanding yet filled with an undeniable warmth. Without hesitation, she grasped Nathan’s arm and pulled him into a kiss, her lips pressing against his with a mixture of urgency and affection.
“I will order the Myrmidons to retreat,” she whispered against his lips, her breath warm and fleeting.
Nathan met her gaze, his golden eyes softening for a moment as he returned her kiss. “I’ll see you later,” he murmured. “Take care of our daughter.”
Khillea’s expression turned tender. “Kyra,” she said.
Nathan blinked. “Kyra?”
A gentle smile played on her lips. “That’s her name,” she confirmed, her voice sweet yet resolute. Then, without another word, she turned and strode away, her red hair flowing behind her like a banner in the wind.
Nathan watched her departure, his heart swelling with emotions he rarely allowed himself to feel. But as soon as she vanished from sight, his expression hardened. The warmth in his eyes was extinguished, replaced by a steely, cold focus as he turned his gaze toward Agamemnon.
It was finally time to rid the world of the greatest trash among the Greek kings.
However, as he studied his target, a flicker of confusion crossed his mind. Something was wrong.
Agamemnon was not positioned in the back, where a cowardly king would normally stand. Instead, he was at the very front of his army, standing alone, his massive hands gripping the hilt of a familiar sword—Paris’s sword.
The self-proclaimed ruler of the Greek forces stared at the weapon with an unsettling intensity, as if it were whispering to him, calling him, consuming him.
Then
BADOOOOM!
A deafening explosion of darkness erupted around Agamemnon, an abyssal vortex swallowing everything in its path. Soldiers nearest to him—his own men—were caught in the swirling mass, their bodies twisted and consumed before they could even scream. The air was filled with the sound of bones snapping, flesh tearing, and armor crumbling into dust.
A chorus of terrified cries echoed across the battlefield as Greek warriors scrambled to escape the catastrophe, their disciplined ranks dissolving into chaos. Even the most hardened veterans, men who had fought in countless wars, found themselves paralyzed by horror.
Nathan narrowed his eyes, his sharp gaze analyzing the transformation unfolding before him.
It was similar to what had happened to Paris—but far more violent, far more grotesque.
Agamemnon’s body expanded, his form growing taller and more monstrous by the second. His once-golden armor blackened and cracked, dark energy seeping from every joint and seam. Paris’s sword, now an extension of this unholy metamorphosis, stretched and twisted, growing longer, wider, pulsing with an ominous glow.
And yet, despite the monstrous proportions of his new form, Agamemnon’s head remained unchanged—his human face unnaturally small against his bloated, corrupted body. His expression was a twisted blend of rage and euphoria, as though he were reveling in the overwhelming power coursing through his veins.
His presence exuded a force unlike anything before—something far darker, far more insidious than simple strength.
Nathan’s eyes narrowed further.
This was beyond what happened to Paris. This is something else entirely.
The Greeks, realizing the sheer magnitude of the horror before them, stumbled backward in terror. The disciplined army that had once been the pride of the continent now resembled nothing more than a frightened herd, each man desperate to distance himself from the abomination their king had become.
Even Odysseus, a man known for his sharp mind and iron will, stood frozen for a moment, his expression betraying his shock. Then, regaining himself, he turned and bellowed, his voice cutting through the panic.
“Get back! EVERYONE! RETREAT!”
His command was not just for his own men—it was a warning to all Greeks.
Something unnatural had been unleashed.
And even their own king was no longer on their side.
As Agamemnon’s transformation reached its completion, an eerie silence settled over the battlefield. It was a suffocating, unnatural stillness—one that sent a shiver down the spines of even the bravest warriors. No one dared to speak. No one dared to move.
Then, slowly, Agamemnon lifted his head.
His abyssal gaze, now devoid of any semblance of humanity, locked onto Nathan with an unnatural intensity—like a predator honing in on its prey. His soulless black eyes shimmered with malevolence, an endless void of seething hatred.
The moment his eyes met Nathan’s, every soldier standing between them instinctively took a step back, fear gripping their hearts. A primal, unspoken understanding coursed through them—this was no longer their king. This was something else. Something monstrous.
But Nathan stood firm. Unmoved. Unfazed.
A twisted grin curled Agamemnon’s lips, his expression a grotesque mockery of amusement.
“Giihihiih!” A chilling, guttural chuckle erupted from his throat, warped and distorted like the voice of a man who had long since lost his sanity. His mouth twisted as he spoke, his words slow and dripping with venom.
“I… will… kill you… with my own hands. I will rip your limbs apart, tear your flesh while you still breathe… You will suffer for what you’ve done to me…”
Nathan remained still, his golden eyes unblinking as he stared down the maddened king. He could feel the sheer, overwhelming hatred radiating from Agamemnon—a hatred so deep it had utterly consumed him.
Even in this monstrous state, Agamemnon remembered everything.
Nathan had humiliated him. He had taken Astynome and Briseis from his grasp, robbed him of his spoils of war. He had set fire to his ships, severing his path of retreat, stripping him of his control.
For Agamemnon, a man who prided himself as the King of all Greeks, such disgrace was unforgivable.
He would not could not accept it.
With a deafening, guttural roar, Agamemnon launched forward.
“GRAHH!!”
In an instant, his massive form disappeared from sight, vanishing in a blur of terrifying speed.
Then
BADOOOM!!
The earth split apart beneath him as his colossal blade came crashing down. The sheer force of the impact sent shockwaves rippling through the battlefield, shattering stone and soil alike. Tremors surged outward, knocking surrounding soldiers off their feet as dust and debris exploded into the air.
Agamemnon’s wild gaze searched through the destruction, his bloodthirsty grin widening.
But Nathan was nowhere to be seen.
BADAAM!!
Before Agamemnon could react, a devastating force slammed into his back.
Nathan’s boot connected with his massive frame like a thunderbolt, sending the monstrous king hurtling forward. His enormous body crashed into the ground, rolling violently across the shattered battlefield, carving trenches in the earth with every impact.
A moment later, he rose to his feet, his monstrous form towering once more. His eyes burned with unrelenting fury as he snapped his head toward Nathan.
There, standing amidst the swirling dust, was Nathan—calm, composed, and untouched. His expression was devoid of amusement now, his golden eyes cold as winter steel.
A slow smirk played at the edges of his lips as he raised his sword.
“Let’s end this, Agamemnon.”