CHAPTER 502: OLYMPUS FALLS, ATLANTIS BURNS

The marble of Mount Olympus cracked and split beneath Adam’s feet, the ancient foundations finally succumbing to the forces that had been unleashed upon them. Where pillars had stood for millennia, now only rubble remained.

Adam stood motionless among the devastation, his dual blades dissipating into dark mist as he surveyed the ruins of what had once been the seat of divine power. Zeus’s headless corpse lay crumpled at his feet, golden ichor pooling around the fallen god’s form. The King of the Gods’ final words echoed in his mind: "You don’t know what you’ll free if you kill us all. We never chose order. We were forced to. By them..."

But those cryptic warnings seemed distant now, overwhelmed by a more immediate grief. Adam’s gaze drifted to the eastern slope of the mountain, where three massive forms lay broken among the shattered stone. The Hecatoncheires—Briareus, Cottus, and Gyges—had fought with the fury of beings who had suffered eons of imprisonment. They had died avenging themselves against Olympus’ injustice, their hundred hands finally stilled, their fifty heads bowed in eternal rest.

A glorious death, but death nonetheless.

Adam’s jaw clenched as he stared at their fallen forms. Part of him hoped they would revive somewhere in the universe. But he held no high hopes. If his hammer could kill gods permanently, he had no doubt that Zeus’s lightning could do the same. The Hecatoncheires had chosen their fate, and they had chosen it with eyes wide open.

The unconscious form of Achilles lay nearby, his golden hair matted with blood. The greatest warrior of the Greek pantheon had fought and survived, though barely. Adam knelt beside him, checking for signs of life. The steady rise and fall of Achilles’ chest confirmed what Adam already knew—the warrior would live, though his recovery would take time.

He lifted Achilles’ limp form and slung him over his shoulder. The hero’s weight was negligible compared to the burdens Adam had carried, both physical and metaphorical. As he straightened, his right hand swept through the air, tearing a portal in space. The familiar obsidian depths of his throne room beckoned beyond the spatial rift.

But before he stepped through, Adam cast one last grief-stricken gaze at the Hecatoncheires. "You deserved better," he whispered to their still forms. "We all deserved better."

The portal closed behind him with a sound like breaking glass, leaving Mount Olympus to crumble in solitude.

Adam materialised in his throne room just as the entire structure shuddered around him. The tremors that rocked Atlantis were not from within—they were the percussion of war, the thunder of battles fought in the skies above his city. He gently lowered Achilles to the floor beside his obsidian throne, the hero’s breathing still steady despite his injuries.

Through the massive windows that dominated the eastern wall, Adam could see the chaos unfolding above Atlantis. His city’s flying warships—sleek vessels of dark metal and arcane energy—soared through the air in tight formations, their weapons systems painting the sky with beams of destruction. But they were not alone.

Asgardian forces descended from the clouds like a divine storm. Aesir warriors rode flying steeds whose hooves sparked with lightning, their armor gleaming with runic inscriptions that pulsed with power. Einherjar—the chosen slain of Valhalla—fell from the sky in savage formations, their spectral forms wreathed in the cold light of the afterlife. Valkyries wove between them, their wings cutting through the air as they launched spears at his ships.

The sight would have been magnificent if it weren’t so deadly.

His forces fought back with everything they had. Balor’s Eye, repurposed from the severed organ of the Fomorian king into a massive defensive tower, tracked the aerial threats with mechanical precision. When it fired, the annihilating rays that erupted from its crystalline lens turned matter into nothing, leaving only empty air where Asgardian warriors had been moments before.

But even with such devastating weapons, his army was on its back foot. The Aesir had brought their full might to bear, and the skies above Atlantis were thick with enemies.

Adam picked out individual combatants in the chaos below. Zephyr, his green hair streaming behind him as his dark wings carried him through the aerial battle, wielded his crackling whip. The fallen angel’s aureole burned with black flame as he carved through a squadron of Einherjar, his attacks precise and brutal.

Silas, Victoria, and Sarah fought nearby, their own fallen angel forms moving with the coordinated precision of warriors who had fought side by side for years. Victoria’s spear impaled a Valkyrie, while Sarah’s vortex of night wrapped around an Aesir warrior and dragged him from his mount. Silas wove between them, his hammer singing as it crushed bones.

Ifrit towered above them all, the fire djinn’s massive form wreathed in flames that burned cold and hot simultaneously. His claws swept through the air, each strike creating waves of fire that consumed everything in their path. Asgardian warriors fell before him like wheat before a scythe, their divine protections useless against flames that burned the concept of existence itself.

Maven, the bronze dragon, soared through the battle with the grace of a creature born to the skies. His breath weapon—a stream of molten metal that hardened instantly upon contact—had created a barrier of bronze spikes that jutted from the sides of nearby buildings. Aesir warriors who tried to use them for cover found themselves impaled on metal that adapted to their movements.

Loki and Fenrir fought as father and son. The wolf-god’s jaws snapped shut around a Valkyrie’s wing, while Loki’s magic twisted reality around them, creating pockets of space where up was down and time flowed backwards. Asgardian forces that entered these zones emerged disoriented and vulnerable.

On the eastern front, Megaera, Tisiphone, and Alecto—the three Furies—carved through enemy lines with the inexorable advance of justice itself. Their whips of guilt and chains of retribution found purchase in the hearts of even the most hardened warriors. Beside them, Gilgamesh wielded his golden axe, hurling light and earth spells simultaneously.

Gawain moved through the battle like a knight of old, his sword trailing light that burned the eyes of his enemies. The Round Table’s power flowed through him, granting him strength that waxed and waned with the sun’s position.

Zane and Morwen, the last two fallen angels, fought with the desperate fury of beings who had lost everything and found purpose in destruction. Their aureoles flickered with dying light as they poured their essence into attacks that shattered divine armor and pierced celestial flesh.

But for all their power, for all their skill, Adam could see that his forces were being pushed back. Smoke rose from crumbled buildings throughout Atlantis, and the air was thick with sulfur, dust, flames, and all the elements raining in chaos. His city—his kingdom—was being torn apart by a war that had followed him home.

The weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders like a mantle of lead. Every death, every destroyed building, every scream that rose from the streets below—it all traced back to his choices.

Adam’s hands clenched into fists as he watched another of his warships explode in a ball of divine fire. The war was far from over, and his people were paying the price for his ambitions.

It was time to join the battle himself. But first, he had to know how much stronger he had become.