Hera’s fingers trembled before she clenched her fists, her breath shallow.
“Is this… a dream…?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
She didn’t even have the strength to be angry anymore.
Athena turned her gaze toward Hera.
The Queen of the Olympus Gods looked utterly broken. Her once proud and commanding presence had withered into silence, her expression frozen in disbelief. The goddess who once dictated the fates of battles, who pulled the strings of heroes and kings alike, now sat motionless, powerless against the events unfolding before her.
But Athena was no different.
For the first time in her existence, she—Athena, the Goddess of Victory—was forced to accept the impossible.
Every war she had ever blessed, every side she had ever chosen, had always emerged victorious. It was not arrogance that made her believe in her own invincibility—it was simply fact. A fact that had remained unbroken for eons.
And yet, this time, she would lose.
This time, her blessing, her wisdom, her divine might—none of it would be enough.
The source of her defeat stood below, cutting through fate itself with every step.
The man who had returned from the abyss, whose very existence defied the gods themselves.
Heiron. Samael.
No…
His true name.
Nathan.
Athena slowly lifted her gaze, her piercing gray eyes narrowing as they fell upon Aphrodite.
Aphrodite had been the first among them to realize what Nathan was.
No, that wasn’t quite right.
The first to know had been Khione—the goddess who had once been declared dead, vanished even from the sight of the divine.
Regardless of how it had come to be, one truth remained absolute.
“This is the end,” Athena muttered, her voice a whisper of finality.
She had lost.
Below, the battlefield raged on.
Nathan toyed with Agamemnon, his movements effortless, weaving around the Greek king’s furious attacks as if he were dancing rather than fighting.
Meanwhile, Hector was unleashing his fury upon Paris.
“You betrayed your own family!!” Hector roared, his fist crashing into Paris’s cheek with the force of a thunderclap.
The younger prince was sent sprawling across the blood-soaked earth, his body bouncing off the ground before coming to a painful halt.
For a moment, Paris lay still, his breath ragged. Then, with a grunt, he forced himself up, staggering to his feet. His fingers trembled as he reached for his bow, summoning it with what little strength he had left.
His body ached. His vision blurred.
But none of that mattered.
With one final desperate act, he drew an arrow, pouring every ounce of his remaining power into its tip. The corrupt god who had granted him strength had long abandoned him, yet the twisted energy still lingered, coiling around the arrowhead like venomous smoke.
Paris narrowed his eyes and loosed the arrow.
It flew straight toward Hector’s head, slicing through the air like a bolt of divine judgment.
But Hector had already seen it coming.
His golden-bladed sword flashed, cutting through the incoming arrow with a single stroke. The projectile detonated upon impact, its explosive force sending shockwaves across the battlefield.
Yet Hector stood firm, his stance unshaken.
Paris’s eyes widened in horror.
“You bastard!! I will kill you!!!” he screamed, his voice laced with hysteria.
He lunged forward, abandoning his bow, his fist swinging wildly in desperation.
But Hector caught his hand with ease.
For a single moment, the two brothers locked eyes.
And then Hector’s knee crashed into Paris’s stomach.
“GARK—!”
Paris’s body convulsed as the air was forced from his lungs. He staggered backward, his knees buckling, before collapsing onto all fours. His fingers clawed at the dirt, his body wracked with pain as bile and blood spilled from his lips.
Hector loomed over him, his expression dark with sorrowful resolve.
“You gave me no choice, brother,” he murmured.
“E-Eh?”
Paris lifted his gaze, his breath shallow, his body trembling.
His brother stood over him, his sword gleaming under the blood-red sky. The look in Hector’s eyes sent a chill down his spine—cold, merciless, devoid of hesitation.
No.
No, this wasn’t happening.
There was no way.
“W….Wait! What are you doing?!” Paris shouted, his voice rising in panic as he scrambled backward, his hands clawing at the dirt.
Hector stepped forward, his boots crushing the ground with slow, deliberate force.
“You have crossed every line, Paris,” he said, his voice like steel. “You have even killed our own people. Did you even notice?”
“I-I… I have fought for Troy all this time!” Paris stammered, his body shaking as he desperately tried to justify himself. “Just as much as you! When you were injured, I defended the city! I killed Menelaus!”
Hector did not falter. His gaze remained piercing, his judgment absolute.
“You did it for yourself,” he said. “You would have slaughtered all of us if it meant keeping Helen by your side.”
Paris’s lips trembled. His mind raced for an escape, an excuse—anything.
“Y…you can’t kill me!” he gasped. “I am a Prince of Troy!”
“Only in name,” Hector answered.
Paris’s breath hitched.
He was losing.
He was losing everything.
“W…wait! Let me speak!” Paris pleaded, his hands raised.
Hector hesitated.
For just a moment.
Paris’s mind sharpened. He had one last chance.
“I-I… I’m sorry…” he muttered, lowering his gaze, letting his voice waver with emotion. “I never wanted this… I… I…”
His fingers curled into the dirt.
His heart pounded.
Then—
With a sudden, wicked grin, he flung a handful of sand straight at Hector’s eyes.
Hector flinched, instinctively turning his head.
Now!
Paris lunged, snatching a fallen sword from the ground and driving it toward Hector’s chest.
But before the blade could reach its mark—
The weapon was struck clean from Paris’s grasp, spinning through the air before clattering onto the battlefield.
An arrow had pierced its hilt with perfect precision.
Paris’s breath hitched as he turned his gaze.
Far in the distance, Atalanta stood with her bow still raised, her green hair flowing in the wind, her expression like carved ice.
Hector wiped the dust from his eyes and looked at Paris.
There was no anger. No hatred.
Only sorrow.
Paris had really tried to kill him. Again.
All hesitation, all lingering brotherly love—gone.
“Y…You can’t!!” Paris shrieked.
His last vestiges of composure shattered, his body turned toward the towering walls of Troy, where his family stood watching.
His voice cracked.
“Father! Mother!”
But Priam’s expression was grave, his eyes heavy with the weight of his decision. His son had gone too far.
Hecuba’s lips quivered. She did not speak. She simply buried her face into Priam’s shoulder, muffling the sound of her silent sobs.
Even now, he was still her son.
But even she could not save him.
Paris turned frantically, his gaze darting between his siblings.
Kassandra’s expression was cold, unreadable.
Polyxena, however, looked stricken, her hands clasped over her mouth, unable to bear the sight of one brother killing another.
Paris’s blood ran cold.
No one spoke for him.
No one would save him.
He turned to Hector one last time.
His lips trembled. His voice came out in a broken whisper.
“…Brother.”
Hector exhaled softly, his grip tightening around his sword.
“Sorry.”
The blade plunged into Paris’s heart, swift and final.
Paris let out a strangled cry, his body seizing as blood poured from the wound. His eyes widened in shock, as if he still couldn’t believe what had happened.
Then, his body slumped forward, his form going limp.
The battlefield was silent.
The Prince of Troy had fallen.
Hector stood motionless, his gaze fixed upon the lifeless body of his brother. His heart pounded within his chest, but he forced himself to remain composed. There was no time for grief—not yet. He had done his part. Now, it was Nathan’s turn to finish what had been started.
A chilling silence hung in the air before it was shattered by a deafening roar.
“I WILL RIP YOU APART!!!”
Agamemnon’s voice thundered across the battlefield, raw with fury and madness. He raised his massive sword high, his bloodshot eyes burning with uncontained rage.
Then, the sky darkened.
From the depths of the void, a colossal black sphere manifested—an abyss of pure malevolence, writhing with shadowy tendrils. The monstrous appendages lashed out in all directions, snatching up warriors—both Greek and Trojan—dragging them into the swirling darkness. Their screams filled the air, terror-stricken voices pleading for salvation.
“GRYAA!!”
“SAVE ME!!”
“STOP!!”
Yet Agamemnon did not flinch. He did not care. Instead, he laughed—a mad, unhinged sound that echoed like the cackling of a demon. His wild eyes remained locked onto Nathan, who stood still, unbothered, gazing at him with an unsettling calm.
Nathan slowly lifted his sword.
At that moment, a golden radiance erupted from his blade, illuminating the battlefield like a second sun. The divine light surged forward, cutting through the thick darkness, shimmering with an overwhelming power that sent shivers down the spines of gods and mortals alike.
“A…Apollo’s Light?!” Hera’s voice trembled with disbelief.
Even Athena, ever composed, could not hide her astonishment. Her sharp gaze darted toward Apollo, who merely watched in silence, his lips curving into the barest hint of a smile.
Had the Apollo lost his mind? Bestowing such power upon someone like Nathan—someone so unpredictable, so unyielding—was nothing short of madness.
Nathan’s smirk widened as he harnessed the divine radiance. The light surged, crackling with unrestrained force, before he swung his sword downward.
The heavens trembled.
BADOOOOOM!!!!
In an instant, Agamemnon’s monstrous black sphere shattered, the void of darkness vanishing as if it had never existed.
Agamemnon stumbled back, his expression frozen in stunned horror.
“Wh…What….” The words barely escaped his lips, his mind failing to comprehend what had just occurred.
Nathan did not grant him the time to understand.
With another effortless swing of his sword, a blinding arc of light carved through the air.
A wet, sickening shick echoed across the battlefield.
Agamemnon’s left arm was severed, spinning through the air before landing with a lifeless thud.
“GARGHHH!!” Agamemnon let out an agonized shriek, his body writhing as unnatural energy surged through him, attempting to mend his lost limb. The pain was unbearable, yet before he could even process it…
His right arm followed.
“AARFHHHH!!” He howled, crimson blood gushing from the open wounds, drenching the ground beneath him. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling violently.
For the first time in his life, Agamemnon knew true fear.
Nathan’s cold, piercing eyes bore into him, the gaze of an executioner looking upon his next victim.
Panic seized Agamemnon’s limbs. His body moved on instinct—he turned, attempting to flee.
But mercy was an illusion.
Another swing.
With a nauseating noise his right leg was cleaved away.
“GYAHH!!” Agamemnon let out a choked scream as he collapsed onto the blood-soaked earth. His fingers dug into the dirt, desperation overtaking his senses.
He lifted his gaze, scanning the battlefield, looking for his men—his loyal soldiers, his warriors.
They were still there. But none moved.
Only horror filled their eyes.
“HELP ME!!” he shrieked. “KILL HIM! SAVE YOUR KING!!!”
Silence answered him.
Not a single Greek soldier stepped forward.
The battlefield had fallen into a suffocating silence.
The Greek soldiers—those who had once fought so fiercely for their king—now stood motionless, their weapons lowered, their eyes filled with the cold weight of inevitability. They all knew the truth. Their king was no longer the ruler they once followed with unwavering loyalty. He was nothing more than a pathetic man, reduced to a quivering wreck, begging for his life in the dirt.
And Nathan… Nathan was an executioner standing above him, merciless and unshaken.
None dared to move. None dared to challenge him.
Even Odysseus, the last true commander of the Greek forces, averted his gaze. He had always been a man of reason, of wit. And reason told him that this battle—no, this war was lost. There was no sense in throwing away the lives of his men in a futile struggle. No fight remained. No victory could be salvaged.
This was the end.
Agamemnon turned his wide, desperate eyes toward Nathan, his bloodied hands reaching forward in supplication.
“N-No…!! I—I will give you anything!!” His voice was raw with terror, cracking as he scrambled for a chance to survive. “Ask me! Name your price!”
Nathan gazed down at him, his expression void of sympathy. There was no hesitation in his voice as he uttered his only demand:
“I want you to die.”
With a swift, brutal thrust, Nathan plunged his sword straight through Agamemnon’s open mouth.
The blade pierced through flesh and bone, driving deep into his throat. Agamemnon let out a strangled, inaudible gurgle, his body convulsing as agony tore through him like wildfire. His eyes bulged, hands clawing uselessly at the sword impaling him, but it was futile.
Then, Nathan spoke again.
“Swallow him.”
A suffocating darkness bled from his sword, writhing like living shadows.
“UGHHJNNNNNN—!!!”
Agamemnon’s screams were inhuman, distorted by pure suffering as the abyssal magic devoured him from the inside out. His flesh blackened, rotting away before their eyes, as the unholy force consumed him whole. His limbs flailed, his body twisted unnaturally, his agony stretching into an eternity of horror.
The watching soldiers—Greek and Trojan alike—shuddered as the bloodcurdling wails of their once-mighty king echoed across the battlefield. Some turned away, unable to bear the sight. Others simply stood frozen, fear gripping them in an iron vice.
And then, silence.
When it was over, nothing remained.
No corpse. No armor. Not even the bones.
Only his blood, staining the earth.
Nathan let out a slow breath, his golden eyes shifting toward Odysseus.
“T…The Greeks will retreat. We concede out defeat,” Odysseus quickly spoke up in fear as well.
With that, he lifted his sword before tossing it to the ground. The weapon struck with a heavy, resonating sound that seemed to mark the end of an era.
The Greek soldiers, one by one, began dropping to their knees. Not in reverence, but in surrender.
Odysseus closed his eyes for a moment, before exhaling deeply. He had no words. Only resignation.
“Good,” Nathan murmured.
Turning away, he cast a glance toward Hector.
Their eyes met, and Hector gave a solemn nod.
Nathan understood.
There would be no massacre of the Greeks—not today. Their humiliation was absolute, their defeat undeniable. There was no need to stain the battlefield further with unnecessary bloodshed. They would leave. And they would never dare to challenge Troy again.
Of course, there would be consequences—reparations would need to be made. But that was for Priam to decide.
Nathan then dismissed his magic. The swirling darkness dissipated, fading into nothingness.
And as he turned his back to the battlefield, he spoke the final words that would mark this moment in history as the beginning of living Legend in the whole Greek Continent also in the world…
“The Trojan War is over.”