Hades stepped back, his form wreathed in deeper shadows as he raised his bident high. "Tell me, mortal," he called out, his voice carrying the weight of the lord of the dead, "how does it feel to struggle so desperately? Your veins burn with stolen power, your very existence a theft from the natural order." His eyes gleamed with cruel amusement. "And my Helm of Darkness—did you truly think it would suit your pathetic existence? That relic of mine has tasted your essence, and through it, I know your every weakness."
The Lord of the Underworld gestured, and the shadows around him surged forward like living spears. Each tendril of darkness struck with the force of a battering ram, seeking to pierce Adam's defenses. But these weren't mere shadows—they were death itself given form, carrying the power to end life with a touch.
