"What a fucking disaster," said Akhon while walking through the ruins of Olympus.
The divine marble that once gleamed like sunlight incarnate now lay shattered in blood-slick heaps. Great columns—each once a symbol of eternal rule—jutted from the ground at broken angles, twisted like shattered limbs. Fires flickered between cracks in the ancient stone, painting the desolation with an eerie orange glow.
While the fighting still occurred in distant courtyards and echoing temples, Akhon had accomplished the unthinkable—he'd reached the heart of Olympus. The battle's eye. The silence here was deceptive, heavy, almost sacred. But he didn't slow down.
He stepped over a pile of armor—burned black, steaming. Whoever had worn it was long dead, reduced to nothing but melted bone and divine essence. His boots left dark footprints over the soot and golden ichor pooling across the fractured walkways.
His fingers twitched.
The system interface opened behind his eyes like instinct.
