Six months after the purchase.Cylrea's lower prisons.
The hunt had stalled.
That truth gnawed at Achilles more than he let on. Five divinities had fallen—two by their own hands—but the remaining ones were different. Smarter. Older. Hardened by loss and paranoia. Cylrea was not merely another obstacle; he was a general who had survived long enough to learn how men hunted gods.
Achilles stood before the cell door, lantern light trembling against stone walls stained with age and neglect.
Inside sat a girl.
She was smaller than he expected. Knees pulled to her chest, dark hair matted, eyes like a starless sky staring back at him with fragile hope she had no reason to carry.
Her name was Hailey.
She looked at him as if he were salvation.
"Worry not," Achilles said, measured and calm, the way one speaks when they need someone to trust them. "I will free you from Cylrea's grasp. Only at one expense."
Her head lifted immediately.
He hated that part—the way desperation always leaned forward.
"You must join me," he continued, "in the eradication of the orthodox divinities."
Silence followed.
Not fear. Not anger. Just a quiet, searching look, as if she were weighing which prison was worse.
She nodded.
That was how it always went.
Cylrea awaited them in the fortress courtyard, clad in armor so dark it swallowed the torchlight around him. It wasn't ornate. It wasn't divine. It was practical—layered steel reinforced with sigils, each etched deliberately, like scars turned into warnings.
His greatsword rested against his shoulder, massive and unadorned, its edge worn not from neglect, but from use.
Cassia froze the moment she saw him.
Her breath caught, dagger trembling in her grip. She took a step back, then another, instinct screaming louder than reason.
This was wrong.
This was too much.
Cylrea moved first.
The ground split where he struck, shockwaves tearing through stone as Achilles barely raised his blade in time. The impact rattled his bones, sent him skidding backward, boots screaming against fractured rock.
"Spread!" Achilles shouted.
Too late.
Cylrea was already moving.
Artorius unleashed a spell that shattered the air itself—but Cylrea walked through it, armor scorched but intact. He backhanded the orc aside, sending him crashing into a pillar hard enough to collapse it.
Jules shouted, hands glowing as he dragged Artorius back from the brink.
Cassia turned and ran.
She didn't think. She didn't plan. She just fled, heart pounding as the sounds of battle thundered behind her. Stone dust choked her lungs. Screams echoed—some human, some not.
She pressed herself against a wall, covering her ears.
I don't belong here.
Achilles barely noticed she was gone.
He was fighting for survival.
Cylrea was relentless, every strike calculated, every movement efficient. Achilles landed blows—real ones—but they did nothing but slow the general for fractions of seconds. Each clash sent pain screaming up his arms.
Hailey moved without thinking.
She darted in, blade flashing, striking where Achilles couldn't. Fast. Desperate. Effective—but reckless. Cylrea turned on her instantly.
The sword came down.
Achilles intercepted it at the last moment, his knees buckling under the force.
"Fall back!" he barked.
Hailey didn't.
She moved again—and Cylrea caught her by the throat.
Everything stopped.
Jules acted on instinct.
He stepped forward and drove his fist into Cylrea's jaw.
Not magic. Not technique.
Just raw, furious force.
The impact cracked through the courtyard. Cylrea staggered, grip loosening long enough for Hailey to tear free and collapse, gasping.
Achilles didn't waste the opening.
Together, they forced Cylrea back—inch by bloody inch—until the general fell to one knee, armor shattered, breath heavy.
It wasn't victory.
It was survival.
Cassia watched from hiding as Cylrea finally fell, not dead, but broken enough to retreat into the fortress depths. Her hands shook violently. She didn't cheer. She didn't cry.
She just stared.
The world wasn't a story.
It was a slaughterhouse.
And she was trapped inside it.