The silence didn't break; it exploded.
Grendel moved with a speed that defied the laws of mass. He didn't run; he blurred, a streak of white porcelain and obsidian shadow that closed the distance in a heartbeat. His first strike was a horizontal lash of his claws, aimed at Beowulf's throat.
Beowulf, fueled by the agonizing surge of Odin's Vision, didn't retreat. He leaned into the attack, his massive forearm rising like a shield of oak. The obsidian claws tore through his leather bracers, carving deep furrows into his skin. But instead of the spray of red blood, a golden, ethereal light flickered from the wounds—the divine ichor of Asgard acting as a cauterizing balm.
"Is that all, Architect?" Beowulf roared.
His counterattack was a punch that carried the weight of a falling mountain. His fist, broad as a man's chest, slammed into Grendel's midsection. The sound was not the wet thud of meat, but the thunderous crack of a sledgehammer hitting a marble pillar.
Grendel was hurled backward, his spindly body skipping across the bone-white floor. He twisted in mid-air with the fluidity of a ribbon, landing on all fours. A large fissure appeared on his chest, a spiderweb of cracks in his porcelain skin, but no blood flowed. Instead, a gray, ashen smoke leaked from the wound.
The monster hissed, and the Labyrinth responded.
As Grendel shrieked, the white marble floor beneath Beowulf's feet began to ripple like water. Stairs shifted, walls groaned, and the pillars of skulls began to tilt. Beowulf stumbled as the very geometry of the room betrayed him. A flight of stone steps erupted from the ground, striking him in the ribs and lifting his three-meter frame into the air.
Grendel was upon him before he could land. The Architect moved like a spider, scuttling up the shifting walls and leaping from a floating cornice. His claws worked with surgical precision, seeking the gaps in Beowulf's defenses. He wasn't trying to kill the Titan quickly; he was trying to disassemble him.
Slash. A ribbon of flesh torn from Beowulf's thigh.
Stab. A claw piercing the meat of his shoulder.
Rip. The wolf-skin cape shredded into gray rags.
Beowulf fell onto a platform of floating marble, blood dripping from a dozen wounds, staining the pristine white stone in a macabre map of his suffering. Above him, the golden eye of Odin pulsed with a cruel, rhythmic light, demanding more. The pain in his skull was a whip, lashing him forward.
"You are just material!" Grendel screamed, his voice echoing from every corner of the shifting hall. "I will break your bones and use them to brace my arches! I will drain your divine blood to paint my ceilings!"
Beowulf spat a mouthful of blood and rose. His eyes were no longer human; they glowed with a dull, volcanic amber. He ignored the pain. He ignored the bleeding. He focused on the only thing a Hound knows: the kill.
He waited for Grendel's next leap. When the pale shadow descended, Beowulf didn't strike. He reached out and caught the monster.
His massive hands clamped around Grendel's spindly waist. The Architect shrieked, his claws digging into Beowulf's face, gouging out lines of blood, but the Titan did not let go. He squeezed.
The sound of Grendel's ribs snapping was like a forest of dry wood breaking in a storm. Crack. Snap. Shatter. The porcelain skin fell away in jagged shards, revealing the dark, hollow void within the monster.
Beowulf slammed Grendel into the floor with such force that the marble cratered. He followed it with a knee to the chest, pinning the creature down.
"I am the Hound," Beowulf whispered, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. "And I don't care about your art."
He raised his fists, ready to pulp the Architect into dust. But as he looked down into Grendel's milky eyes, he didn't see fear. He saw a horrific, knowing smile.
The Labyrinth began to scream. The white walls started to bleed.