Achilles watched as the dust-laden sky shifted from grey to blinding. The light seared his eyes, and divine mana crackled like a physical blow to his ears. He lowered his face, shielding his eyes. But the heat pounded at his throat with each breath he took, agonising pangs throbbed in his lungs as the scent of evaporating tiles, wood, and thatch suffocated him.
Cataclysms capable of rewriting realms—that was why mortals never defeated gods.
But his side wasn't unprepared either. They just needed a few more minutes to prove it—to their citizens, to the realms: mortals were not the slaves of artificial fates shaped by gods. They could live their own lives, make their own choices, and ultimately, rise above them.
