The view projected above the Colosseum shows more than just the battle.
It shows the fracture.
Athena fights.
In the center of the field, the goddess of strategy faces Medusa in a clash that has ceased to be merely physical. Every movement is calculation against adaptation, concept against instinct, divine against something that shouldn't exist on that plane. The clash of powers reverberates as an error in reality itself.
But far away, above, on one of the platforms reserved for the Olympian gods, the scene is different.
Athena's original body rests there.
Seated on a white marble throne, perfectly intact, motionless. Her eyes closed. Her breath nonexistent. Not dead—just disconnected, her consciousness forcibly projected onto the battlefield by means that none of them dared to admit aloud yet fully understand.
Zeus observes in silence.
