CHAPTER 468: THE FIRST HEARTBREAK 1

Half an hour ago.

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The sulfurous winds carried more than the scent of brimstone—they carried the weight of destiny itself, heavy and oppressive as storm clouds. Three figures materialised from the writhing shadows at the edge of the demon territories, their emergence heralded not by fanfare but by the very air growing thick with divine retribution. The temperature dropped ten degrees in an instant, frost forming on obsidian stones despite the hellish heat that had reigned moments before.

Megaera stepped forward first, each footfall causing hairline cracks to spider through the volcanic glass beneath her feet. Her serpentine hair writhed with barely contained rage, each strand the thickness of a man’s arm, dripping venom that hissed and steamed against the ground like acid rain.

"Mortals drunk on borrowed power," she spat, and the very words seemed to corrode the surrounding air. "Playing at godhood with their divine trinkets and cosmic hand-me-downs. Time to remind them why the gods feared us before they learned to chain us with pretty words and prettier lies."

The fiery venom from her hair pooled at her feet, eating through solid rock as if it were paper. Steam rose in writhing columns, carrying with it the screams of souls who had felt her justice across the millennia.

Beside her, Tisiphone’s whip of living scorpions coiled and uncoiled with eager anticipation, each segmented creature the size of a hunting hound, their stingers gleaming with poison that could torment souls across lifetimes and dimensions. The creatures chittered amongst themselves, their compound eyes reflecting the hellish light like fractured mirrors of malice.

"Look how they strut about their little plateau," she laughed, and the sound was like the final snap of a neck in the executioner’s noose. "Divine patrons treat them like beloved pets, whispering sweet promises of power and glory. We’ll show them what happens when the leash breaks—when reality comes calling to collect what’s owed."

Her new whip lashed out, and where it touched, the air seemed to flinch backwards, leaving brief tears that bled darkness.

Alecto’s bronze wings spread wide, each feather sharp enough to slice through dragon scales, casting shadows that seemed to devour light itself rather than merely blocking it. The shadows moved with a will of their own, reaching toward the distant armies like grasping fingers. When she smiled, it was sharp enough to cut through the pretensions of gods and mortals alike.

"The ancient pact is broken. These contractors think they understand divine favor? Think they comprehend what it means to stand in the presence of justice?" Her wings beat once, sending hurricane winds across the battlefield. "We are vengeance itself. We are the consequence they forgot to fear, the price they forgot they owed."

Behind the three Furies, Adam’s champions prepared for war with the methodical precision of veterans.

Zane stepped forward, his movements fluid as water, deadly as poison. Twin blades hummed in his grip, their edges thrumming with inverted energy that made reality bend away from their kiss—fallen grace weaponised into perfect destruction. The blades were beautiful in the way that a cobra was beautiful, mesmerising until the moment they struck. His dark wings spread wide behind him, his aureole flickering like a newborn star above green hair that moved with scalding winds.

"Eleven years," he murmured to himself, testing the weight of his blades. "Eleven years since we fought predestined servitude. Today, we find out if it was worth it."

Morwen’s fingers drifted across the strings of her bone-lyre with the reverence of a lover’s caress, each note a lamentation that could drive armies to despair or rage depending on her whim. The instrument was carved from the ribs of a dragon, its hollow chambers resonating with the echoes of her fallen foes. Her own fallen wings whispered against the sulfurous air, green eyes reflecting not just the hellish light but the accumulated madness of divine music turned to warfare. The melody she played was older than empires, a song of endings that made even demons weep.

"Music," she said, her voice harmonising with her instrument, "is the language of souls. And I’ve learned to speak it fluently in many dialects—lullabies and funeral dirges, war songs and requiems. Today, we compose an epitaph for these lords’ arrogance."

Gawain stood with Galatine in hand, the legendary blade already beginning to glow brighter as the sun climbed its inexorable path through the hellish sky. Even in the demon realm, the connection held—one of Camelot’s greatest knights drawing power from that distant star. His blonde hair caught the malevolent light, transforming it into something that seemed almost holy, blue eyes burning with righteous fury tempered by the wisdom of too many battles fought for causes both noble and foolish.

"The sun rises," he declared, his voice carrying the authority of Round Table oaths and Camelot’s glory, of knights who died for ideals rather than gold. "It reminds me of home, of what I fight to protect. These borrowed gods, these false kings—they know nothing of true loyalty."

He hefted his blade, testing its balance against the growing solar power within it. The sword seemed to sing with anticipation, its edge beginning to blur with accumulated light.

But it was Gilgamesh who commanded the most attention, his presence filling the battlefield like a force of nature barely contained within mortal flesh. His golden double-edged axe gleamed with the authority of the world’s first hero-king, its head inscribed with cuneiform that pulsed with each heartbeat, each symbol a law he had carved into the cosmic order through sheer will and divine defiance. Dark hair fell past his shoulders like a mane, his beard threaded with gold that caught light and reflected it back with interest. Blue eyes held the weight of ancient sorrows—the death of his dearest friend, the failure of his quest for immortality, the slow decay of the civilisation he had built with his own hands.

He had built the walls of Uruk stone by stone, had walked between gods and men as their equal when both were young and the world was malleable. He had sought immortality itself and found something more valuable—the knowledge that mortality made every moment precious, every choice meaningful.