Silence followed Hercules' halted punch.
It wasn't the awkward hush of embarrassment, nor the confused quiet of a trick gone wrong. It was reverence—raw, stunned, bone-deep reverence—descending on the training grounds like an invisible second sky. The air itself seemed to thicken, pressing down on thousands of shoulders, forcing breaths to shallow and hearts to stutter.
Atlas stood exactly where he had stopped, wooden axe held loosely in one hand, body angled in the precise aftermath of evasion. The rack behind him lay in ruins—splintered timber and shattered stone still crumbling, dust billowing outward in slow, lazy waves that rolled across the pale floor. Pebbles skittered past boots; a few demigods blinked as grit stung their eyes.
No one spoke.
Hercules straightened slowly, fist still extended for a heartbeat longer, as if savoring the moment. Then he laughed.
