The promise of eternal Kleos, a legacy unmatched, drove Achilles' arm. Fire overwhelmed the icy waters of the Styx that rushed through his veins, searing his muscles, fueling his will to kill a god with his own hands.
The Pelan Ash spear glinted under the two suns as he hurled it inside the abyssal maws that threatened to consume them all in an agony of divine flames, of inescapable dread.
Bahamut's eyes locked on the spear that appeared no bigger than a splinter; the flames roiling in his throat roared in answer. "Let this be your final attempt to resist the divine, son of Tethis. Powerless, pathetic, fighting for things greater than men, and in the image of your cursed life."
As Bahamut's words echoed, the abyssal maw was abyssal no more. The flames in his throat surged, the light blinding every man on the battlefield, vaporising moisture, air, and pieces of reality itself.
