A week passed in the blink of an eye.
In the cold void before the Eighth Earth, the contract materialized—a vast monolith of blackened stone and living infernal script, towering larger than mountains, suspended weightless between the planet and the stars. Golden runes crawled across its surface like veins of fire, and at its center burned a single, merciless countdown.
One hour remained.
Then, from Earth's shadowed curve, figures rose.
Father Black led them, cloak snapping in solar winds that no longer carried warmth. Beside him flew Perseu, his expression was grim—then Kanada, Crusher, Athena with her glow, and finally King Alexander the Great, armor radiant, eyes burning with the unquenched fire of a conqueror who had already died once and refused to stay dead.
Each one of them formidable.
Cosmic energy cloaked them all, as their auras flared like newborn suns.
At their flanks hovered Odin riding upon Sleipnir.
