The sea convulsed.

  The echo of that impossible heartbeat still thrummed through the hull, through his bones, through the Prax-field.

  A roar like the cracking of the world rolled beneath the hull, pitching the Aegis sideways. Men stumbled, lanterns shattered, and somewhere below, a storage crate burst open with the wet thud of breaking glass.

  Cassius caught himself against the rail as the deck bucked beneath him. The air reeked of salt and iron; smoke curled up through the gaps in the planks like something alive.

  Then came the sound—deep, rhythmic, inhuman. Drums.

  He turned toward the fog.

  Black sails sliced through the murk, tearing it apart like wounded cloth. The sails snapped and hissed in the wind, each one marked with a crimson sigil that writhed as if alive.

  Along the enemy rails stood a line of armored figures—shields raised, boots stomping in unison. Their chant rolled across the water like a battle hymn:

  “DOWN WITH THE THREE. DOWN WITH THREE. DOWN WITH THREE.”

  The words struck harder than gunfire—defiance weaponized into rhythm.

  The fog caught their voices and twisted them, lacing them with the sporadic crack of musket fire and the acrid bloom of spent powder.

  “Ready your weapons!” bellowed the colonel.

  Beside him, the first mate dashed to the warning bell, striking a coded sequence that rang across the deck like a war hymn. At once, the crew shifted formation—reflexive, disciplined, eternal.

  The enemy vessel collided with a bone-shaking jolt, timber groaning beneath the impact. Men stumbled, caught themselves, reformed.

  “Unleash hell!” Cassius roared.

  Gunfire exploded into the fog, deafening and relentless. The sea below welcomed bodies like offerings—limbs flailed, steel sang, and blood met the emerald deep.

  Cassius drew his scimitar in a single fluid motion, its gleam catching the flame still dancing from the embedded arrow. He raised it high and pointed to the black-sailed monstrosity.

  “To arms! Form the phalanx!”

  The first mate struck the bell again—measured, precise. A battle cadence etched into muscle memory.

  “This is our moment,” Cassius thundered. “Let us show them the might of Zeus’s champions. We are the eternal army!”

  “OOO-AH, OOO-AH, OOO-AH!” the crew replied, the chant hitting like war drums through the smoke.

  The bow of the pirate vessel loomed above, its black-metal hull piercing into the side of the Aegis like a dagger through bone—easily six feet higher, and utterly indifferent to the chaos it delivered.

  Had this not been a covert operation, their vessel would have been cloaked in Hephaestian steel—a floating fortress fit for gods. But secrecy had demanded sacrifice—no Prax engine, no paradox signature—today, they stood aboard a skeleton wrapped in toothpicks and sap.

  And yet… the enemy had found them.

  Not by chance. Not at random.

  Down with Three.

  The chant hadn’t been meant for any nameless Athenian vessel. They knew.

  A volley of shots rained down from above—sparks blooming across breastplates as rounds flattened on impact. The forward line didn’t break. Didn’t even buckle.

  Every soldier knew the truth: armor that could move had to leave gaps. Those were the only places bullets ever found.

  One man dropped—struck beneath the helm. Another folded as a round slipped between plates. Luck, not skill.

  Cassius barely spared them a glance.

  Gaps were mortal; Prax armor was not.

  The fools above would learn that with blood.

  Then desperation overtook them. Using the failed ambush as momentum, they vaulted the railing, dropping down into the storm of blades below, trying to carve out a foothold by force.

  “Push, men, push!” Tinja barked, ringing the bell again in a new, sharp cadence. Her voice cut through the gunfire, crisp and unwavering.

  Shields locked. Formation tightened. The Eternal Army became immovable. The enemy’s charge slowed to a crawl, their advantage lost at the deck’s edge.

  Until—

  “FIRE,” barked a voice from the shadows of the enemy ship.

  It was raspy, graveled, and cold. The kind of voice that didn’t just command—it condemned.

  The sharp crack of taut tension snapping reverberated like a divine whip—then came the rush.

  In a single breath, Cassius watched his ranks vanish in flame. A raging inferno surged across the deck, swallowing men whole and flinging others like broken dolls. Some were impaled against the far rail, their bodies skewered on the flaming shaft of a ballista’s arrow.

  Screams pierced the smoke—raw, unending—rising to meet the mournful howl of the wind.

  Through the wake of fire and ruin, the enemy charged. The breach had been made. The eternal army was split—its phalanx cracked wide open.

  Pirates poured into the rupture like rot through a wound. Cut off from their brothers, the forward line faltered. Cassius bent his knees, adjusting his stance as combatants trickled into his domain. He was no longer commanding—he was waiting.

  Then he moved.

  His scimitar carved through limbs with practiced brutality. Arms, legs, weapons—whatever it touched, it scattered. The deck grew slick beneath his boots as the music of splintering bone and shattering steel resonated with the melody burned into his blood.

  Moments later, the chaos around him stilled. All that remained were dismembered limbs and the wreckage of those foolish enough to breach his reach.

  Cassius paused. The silence pressed in like a held breath.

  But something was wrong.

  He cast a sharp gaze over his crew—alive, regrouping—but his senses stretched past them. Into the air. Into the Prax.

  Something was pulling at the field. A drain. A ripple. A weight that didn’t belong.

  Powerful.

  And unwelcome.

  Behind him, the phalanx re-formed with disciplined efficiency, sweeping away the last of the intruders near the breach. Only a few pirates had pushed through to mid-deck—too few to matter.

  But this wasn’t about numbers. Not anymore.

  As Cassius strode toward the intruders, the crew parted without a word, instinct yielding to presence. The rear guard pivoted to contain the breach as he passed.

  “Men,” he called out, voice clear and cutting, “close the phalanx. Don’t let another sea rat board this ship.”

  He paused, casting a glance at the carnage. “These decks were spotless before these mongrels shamed your good-work. I’ll deal with the strays. You collect the cleaning fee.”

  “OOOAH!” they roared in unison.

  As the two battalions of his forces began to converge—shields raised, bloodied but unyielding—there was a wrongness in the air, subtle but coiling.

  More of them had breached the line than he’d seen.

  Too many.

  But it wasn’t the stragglers that unsettled him.

  A shift in the flow of paradox particles—ambient energy pulling toward the enemy ship.

  Cassius’s gaze sharpened, his pulse ticking just a beat too fast.

  Then, a presence rippled across his own resonance—cold, ancient, and deliberate—brushing the edge of his perception like a predator’s breath.

  He almost turned.

  Almost.

  But the infiltrators headed below deck had to be stopped. He couldn’t allow distraction—not yet.

  He let out a sharp whistle, sharp enough to crack through the clash of battle and snap their focus to him.

  Diafotisi, he commanded inwardly. Bring me forward.

  The world obeyed.

  Instantly, his senses expanded. Every sound peeled open—swords, screams, the hitch in a dying man’s breath. The wind whispered its signature against his skin, logging direction, force, temperature.

  Even the wine returned—not on his tongue, but inside him. Echoes of its divine resonance activated across his neural lattice. Cherry. Leather. Time.

  Bars lit up in his periphery—health, stamina, Prax reserve. A glyph blinked in the corner of his vision. He accepted it with a thought.

  A message unfurled across Cassius’s vision—elegant, fluid, like ink bleeding into parchment.

  You have drunk from the Celestial Nectar of Dionysus and now revel in the glory of the god’s unparalleled craft.

  For partaking in Divine Wine aged in stasis for 237 years, you are granted enhanced Paradox Regeneration. Due to the god’s blessing, “Time’s Companion,” the wine’s temporal resonance has deepened. A permanent boon to your Resonance has been applied.

  ———

  [Effect Summary — Divine Wine: Dionysus]

  ? Paradox Regeneration: +30% for 24 hours

  ? Resonance: +24 (Vintage Boost — Aged 237 Years)

  ? God’s Blessing Triggered: Time’s Companion

  → Temporal harmonics refine field alignment

  Time Remaining: 23h 47m 13s

  ———

  The words dissolved, but their echo lingered in his blood.

  He’d already felt the wine stirring inside him since the first sip. It had whispered across his nerves like a warming current. But now—with Diafotisi fully engaged—the effect was no longer passive.

  Now it sang.

  The current pulsed through him—not jolting, but harmonic. Every breath expanded. Every heartbeat fell into a deeper rhythm. He was no longer just a man navigating chaos—he was tuned to it.

  He didn’t feel more powerful. His Prax reserve bar held steady, untouched.

  Intellect would’ve increased that reserve—given him more fuel to burn.

  But this was different.

  This was Resonance—and Resonance meant alignment.

  Threads of Prax, once fickle and feral, responded like trained blades. He could feel the field yield to him, not resist. His will imposed shape without strain. Without friction.

  The +24 hadn’t given him more to use.

  It had made every spark he spent precise.

  This was what he had watched for in his first mate. The harmony. The sync. The instant answer of the field.

  Behind him, a floorboard groaned—a whisper of pressure followed by a low grunt.

  He didn’t turn.

  There was no need.

  Diafotisi had already mapped the motion.

  His scimitar swept upward in a single, fluid arc, guided by prediction and refined instinct. The flat of the blade intercepted the pirate’s strike with a resonant clang.

  Metal met metal. Momentum shattered.

  Cassius stood unmoved—his gaze fixed forward.

  Reaction had become ritual.

  From the front—steel boots on soaked wood. Four of them now. Raiders, bold and charging with the reckless confidence of men who thought numbers were enough.

  Cassius smirked. Not at them. At what was about to happen to them.

  With his Paradox regeneration surging, the cost didn’t matter.

  Phantom Strategist, he thought.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  A spectral overlay bloomed—his silhouette, slightly translucent, sketched in radiant lines and divine geometry. It moved ahead of him, perfectly plotted across his vision.

  For his eyes only. A private echo of the next six seconds.

  The ghost spun into a defensive pivot, blade intercepting one attacker’s strike while stepping into position to flank two others. The fourth peeled wide, trying to flank—too cautious to close the gap.

  Cassius matched it beat for beat.

  His blade rose, feet shifted. Muscle memory gave way to muscle certainty. He didn’t follow the ghost. He met it, moved with it, became it.

  The phantom struck first—then Cassius outpaced it.

  He surged ahead, shoulder dipping low, scimitar arcing wide in a brutal flourish.

  The first weapon clanged away, disarmed. The second attacker fell before he could process the angle. The third lunged—Cassius was already past him, blade carving a crescent through bone.

  One left.

  ———

  T.A.N. (Tactical Analysis — Node Active):

  ? Combatants: 4

  ? Neutralized: 3

  ? Status: 1 Disarmed

  ? Recommended Action: Eliminate remaining threat

  Execution Time: 0.0147 nanoseconds

  ———

  Cassius moved before the system could finish the sentence.

  He wasn’t fighting.

  He was conducting.

  The tactical command executed before the thought had even finished forming. His sword hadn't yet settled before a new phantom bloomed—this one erupting not ahead, but out from within.

  A second echo, born from the afterimage of motion.

  The projection carried the scimitar’s lingering weight downward in a broad arc, both hands clenched on the hilt, guiding it across his body like the final movement in a conductor’s score.

  Cassius pivoted on his heel, letting the blade drag him through the turn—a fluid, practiced spiral in the dance of death.

  Now facing the disarmed assailant, the phantom offered its final prediction: a clean, brutal cleave, rising from jaw to crown.

  But Cassius stopped at the throat.

  His blade came to rest just beneath the man’s chin—one hand firm on the pommel, the other controlling the curve of steel with surgical care. A breath’s pressure more, and it would be over.

  Around them, chaos roared. Screams, steel, gunfire. But in this pocket of silence, only fear remained.

  The raider trembled. His vibro-blade slipped from his grip and clattered against the deck, forgotten. His eyes, wide and wild, held the colonel’s gaze.

  And in those eyes, Cassius saw what came before.

  Reflected in the sheen of terror was the truth of the deck behind them: two ruined bodies lit by flame, one still twitching, the other collapsed in a pool of himself. A hand, half-attached, swung like a pendulum. Torn sleeves soaked in blood clung to limbs that no longer answered their owner’s will.

  The phantom had predicted a kill.

  Cassius chose this instead.

  He could end it now. One push. One twitch of the wrist.

  But the man already knew he’d lost. And that was always the better cut—the one drawn before the blade moved.

  Let him feel it.

  "Y-y-you're a demon," stuttered the man, his throat pressed against the cold steel of Cassius’s scimitar.

  "A demon?" Cassius mused, feigning surprise. "You dare breach my vessel, ambush me, and now have the gall to insult me?" His eyes glinted with cruel amusement. "Well, I suppose one can't expect much from pirates. My crew may be demons—but I?" He leaned in slightly. "I am a prince of Tartarus.”

  With the blade still firm at the man's neck, Cassius pivoted—smooth, controlled—until the flat of the scimitar rested against his shoulder, his back now turned to the pirate. A sharp jerk of the hilt toward his hip and the blade tilted up. One twitch. That was all.

  Blood surged from the pirate's throat, the sound almost delicate. A gasp. A gurgle. A body hitting the deck.

  The misting spray that followed coated the air with iron. Cassius stretched a yawn as he flung his blade forward in a lazy arc, flicking free the scarlet cling. The droplets splattered across the deck like a painter’s final stroke.

  Taking in his surroundings Cassius watched as his troops held their position just as expected of the eternal army. Pivoting he searched for Tinja finding her in a heated battle on the upper deck, but in mere seconds she had felled her pursuers.

  And then, for just a breath, he stood still.

  Chants. Coordinated breach. Precision equipment.

  The harpoon wasn’t scavenged—it was deployed.

  This wasn’t a pirate crew.

  At least… not all of it.

  A flicker rippled across the Prax field again—coiled, cold, powerful…Ancient.

  Someone else was out there.

  His jaw set.

  This was no raid. It was a tactical maneuver.

  The moment snapped. Charging footsteps struck the deck behind him. Cassius twisted to counter, blade already rising—

  —but a gun cocked, fired. The shot rang out, close and sharp.

  He leapt back on instinct but rather than a bullet whooshing by a lifeless body stumbled forward, collapsing face-first into the flaming ballista bolt embedded in the deck.

  “Colonel, you alright?” asked Tinja, cutlass in one hand, smoking pistol in the other.

  The colonel gave a grim nod. “Curse these pirates; they’re relentless,” he growled. "We can't sustain more losses." Locking eyes with his first mate, he commanded, “Head below deck and fetch the flame spit. I’ll rally the men into formation. Make it swift.”

  She hesitated. “But sir—”

  “You heard me.” He started to turn, then stopped—his eyes scanning the formation shifting beyond the smoke.

  “They’re too disciplined,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “This isn’t a raid. This is something else.”

  Remaining on the defensive, the colonel countered every blow, cutting down foes as he moved toward the intruding ship. Suddenly, the enemy shifted formation, a low hum growing in volume.

  "Ante, Ante, Ante..."

  Surveying the blazing expanse of his deck, the colonel’s eyes narrowed as the pirates began a rhythmic chant: "ANTE, ANTE, ANTE..." With each repetition, their fervor intensified, reminiscent of legendary Berserkers. The chant's tempo quickened, driving their momentum. Once more, they succeeded in pushing back his men, expanding the defensive circle. Resolved to turn the tide, the colonel, with his scimitar resting upon his shoulder, advanced to the frontline.

  "Tighten up! Close them in!" bellowed the colonel. As he approached the outer ring of his men's defense, the enemy ceased their chant, shifting to a unified cheer.

  From the bow of the enemy ship, a silhouette emerged—tall, slow, and disturbingly calm. Long, alabaster hair cascaded down his back, catching the moonlight like woven silk. He moved with purpose, each step measured, a cadence more befitting a procession than a battlefield. And yet, as he neared the ship’s prow, the invaders’ cheers erupted into a deafening crescendo.

  Their formation surged forward, reinvigorated by his presence. It wasn’t just morale. It was reverence.

  Cassius—or rather, Colonel Helios—felt the shift ripple through the Paradox field before he saw it.

  An oppressive resonance slammed into his mind like a tidal wave. His knees buckled under the mental pressure, his scimitar grounding him as he fought not to fall.

  Who is this?

  "ANTE, ANTE, ANTE..."

  The chant resumed, louder than before—no longer a rallying cry but a declaration. The name rang out across the smoke-scarred decks like an omen.

  The figure reached the edge of the ship and stood sentinel. Towering, easily two heads above the rest, he wore a steel chestplate scored with battle scars and leather chaps dusted with sand. The moon cast stark shadows across his face, but his stillness betrayed no fear—only expectation.

  Cassius’s eyes locked on the massive hilt at the man’s hip, half-concealed by his sheer breadth. A thick leather strap crossed his chest, anchoring what appeared to be a colossal quiver.

  Javelins, Cassius thought.

  Or something worse.

  The man’s hand drifted toward his payload.

  “Hold tight!” the colonel barked. “Don’t let anyone through the shield wall! Prepare flame spit formation!”

  His voice cut through the din like a blade.

  “Riflemen, back two ranks—archers above! Tighten the line!”

  He scanned the upper deck. Still no sign of the first mate.

  Where in Hades is she?

  The enemy formation began to shift again, pressing harder, pushing his men toward collapse.

  Cassius stepped forward, scimitar low, teeth bared.

  Let him throw his javelin.

  Let him make the first move.

  The front line of shield-bearers compressed shoulder to shoulder, pushing forward as the second line broke to form a narrow corridor down the center. Those stationed along the channel slammed their shields into the deck, the tri-spiked bottoms biting into the wood, locking their defense in place.

  Brandishing the harpoon drawn from his back, the towering figure pointed at the gap in their defenses with a calculated shift of posture—measured, precise. His voice, deep and gravel-raked, rolled over the ship like distant thunder, echoing with an unnatural clarity as if amplified by the will of something unseen.

  “These men rally under the banner of Zeus,” he said, voice dripping scorn. “Such… misguided souls.”

  A wave of laughter burst from the enemy’s deck—sharp, coordinated. The pirates struck the flats of their blades against their chest-plates in eerie unison, producing a sound like molten metal dripping rhythmically against cold stone.

  “Zeus betrayed our father—his own flesh and blood. Waged war against our mother. And now, he dares covet the relics of the Twelve. His greed knows no bounds…”

  The chanting began low, almost reverent.

  “Greed. Greed. Greed.”

  It rose, pulsing with fervor, until the deck itself seemed to vibrate beneath their feet.

  Then, silence.

  The silver-maned giant took a single step forward, filling the space with his presence. Like a scepter he scanned over the ranks of soldiers with his harpoon.

  “His hunger is bottomless. To feed it, he’ll burn what’s holy, break what’s sacred, sacrifice all—followers, blood, the very bones of the world.”

  His gaze locked on Cassius, unblinking.

  "You've been ensnared by the whims of fate, and I harbor no resentment for your blind obedience. For from the womb were you shaped, sculpted into instruments for a corrupted god's grand designs—crafted for loyalty, forged in ignorance. I don’t blame you for your obedience. You didn’t choose it.”

  Another step forward. No malice behind his raised weapon, just words—and weight.

  “But now I offer a different path. Redemption. Retribution. An opportunity to cleanse the weight of your past and absolve your transgressions. Pledge yourselves to the Tetra, and all will be forgiven. Bow before me, and in return, I promise..."

  A gunshot cut through his sermon.

  Crimson blossomed on the giant's shoulder where the metal plate armor tapered. Yet, his posture remained unyielding; the harpoon held steady— visage unwavering. His gaze sharpened, slow and steady as it swept toward Cassius.

  “Mmm,” he muttered, voice curling with disdain. “It seems your captain has decided your fate.”

  He spat. Then cocked his harpoon arm.

  With a single, thunderous step, he slammed his lead foot to the deck and hurled the weapon. It cut the air like a divine judgment—a fine mist of blood trailing from his wounded arm. The spear struck with terrifying precision—piercing the chest of one shield-bearer and burying itself into the leg of the man behind him, pinning both to the deck.

  Cassius didn’t need to check the numbers.

  He could feel it.

  The line had cracked.

  Their morale was bleeding out.

  "Hold tight!" the colonel barked. "Tinga will be arriving with the flame spit, a weapon gifted to the eternal army by Zeu—“

  He didn’t finish.

  The silver-haired giant launched another harpoon mid-motion, then vaulted after it—leaping from ship to ship. His weight struck the deck like a divine hammer, rocking the entire vessel beneath Cassius’s boots. Wood groaned. Men staggered. Shields faltered.

  Cassius didn’t flinch—but something in him recoiled. That kind of power. That kind of control.

  Who is he?

  His A.I. scanned the figure in real-time, running facial recognition, combat telemetry, biometric signatures—nothing. Just a wash of corrupted data and empty fields.

  No ID. No registry. Not augmented… something else.

  He replayed the voice in his mind. “Zeus betrayed our father…”

  Flesh and blood of Zeus. Then who’s the father?

  A name stirred like smoke at the edge of memory, half-formed. Gaia. Sea. Strength. But he shoved it aside. There was no time for myth.

  The shriek of metal tore through the moment. Another harpoon—this one aimed at the formation.

  The shield-bearer in the channel took the brunt of it. The missile skated up over his shield, grazed his cheek, and—like an insult given form—sailed past with a trail of blood, embedding itself in the staircase just inches from the colonel’s chest.

  Cassius stared at it, chest rising.

  "Fall back," the giant commanded, and the enemy obeyed without hesitation—his men retreating like shadows behind him, leaving him alone at the heart of the battlefield.

  Calm. Collected. Terrifying.

  The harpoon still quivered in the staircase, its embedded tip steaming faintly where paradox energy clashed against the residual field cast by the ship’s wards.

  Cassius’s gaze didn’t linger on it.

  Not when the giant’s hand fell, calm as dusk, to the weapon tethered at his hip.

  It wasn’t a sword. It wasn’t an axe.

  It was something else.

  Something older.

  The moment his fingers touched the hilt, a shift pulsed through the Prax field—a tremor in the weave that made Cassius’s scimitar hum in response. It wasn’t sound. It was sensation. Like a tide turning beneath his skin.

  Fire. Ocean. War.

  Cassius didn’t know how he knew, but he knew.

  This weapon remembered it all.

  It remembered the first spear hurled by Titan hands. The roar of waves crashing against the bones of giants. The song of molten ore being shaped into prophecy.

  It remembered—and now, it awakened.

  The giant drew it slowly, reverently, as if pulling a buried god from the earth. Metal caught moonlight. Symbols flickered to life in the language of storms.

  And still, the field shifted—not violently, but like the deep sea rolling beneath the surface, inevitable and vast.

  Cassius felt his knuckles tighten on his blade, felt the tension rise in his gut—not fear, not yet—but reverence laced with dread.

  The colonel’s breath slowed.

  He had drawn the attention of something… more.

  A bolt of recognition cracked through Cassius’s mind the moment the weapon cleared its bindings.

  Diafotisi surged to life—unbidden, instinctive. Details poured into his vision like prophecy unfolding: the hilt, crafted with four rounded corners, each etched in repeating patterns of waves lapping against a budding flower whose petals curled into tides once more. Sapphire and emerald inlays pulsed faintly, the gems arranged in a perfect alchemical cycle—sea to bloom, bloom to sea—each stone radiating its own paradox resonance.

  The shaft followed, elongated and double-edged, forged for both cleaving and control. It tapered into the monstrous head: a fusion of curling roots branching outward—not up, but sideways—like the first limbs of a tree branching in perfect symmetry. Without clear transition, the roots became twin crashing waves of steel, curling and cresting with the fury of Poseidon incarnate.

  Then Cassius felt it.

  Not in his hands, but in the field—the fabric of Prax itself shuddered as the weapon was drawn. Gravity bowed in deference. The ship, the sea, even the air seemed to lean toward it.

  It remembers. He wasn’t sure why the thought came, but it settled in his bones like truth.

  This weapon had memory—ancestral, myth-forged, and loyal to one bloodline. It knew its wielder.

  It knew its purpose.

  The Anchor of Antaeus.

  Wrought in the forges by Hephaestus himself. A gift not to a hero, but to a child born of Poseidon and Gaia. A weapon meant to guard the one place even gods tread lightly.

  The Garden of Hesperides.

  Cassius’s heart thundered in his ears. Was this providence? A cursed coincidence? Or...

  Does he know?

  Was it the pull of divine instinct that brought the protector here? Or had someone within his own ranks betrayed their position? The colonel’s eyes swept the chaos of the battlefield, momentarily unsure who was watching whom. Had Antaeus been blessed with the ability to sense intent—to guard the sacred grove not by location, but by purpose?

  His gut twisted. Either the demigod had tracked them with divine precision, or someone had sold him out.

  “So this is the blessed guardian of Hesperides,” he thought, locking eyes with the giant.

  Antaeus’s gaze was unflinching. All white. No iris, no pupil—just the pale glare of something more than mortal.

  Cassius held it for a breath, then blinked. Can I beat a god? he wondered. No. But a demigod?

  A grin curved at the edges of his mouth as a whisper slid through his mind like oil.

  Imagine what blessings await if you return with both the Golden Apples… and their protector’s head.

  Lord Zeus would be pleased.

  Demigodhood would be yours.

  That was all the spark he needed.

  “Scan,” he commanded mentally.

  The A.I. responded instantly—projecting a 3D wireframe model of the giant’s body into his peripheral vision, numbers and graphs fluttering to life. But the results were… empty.

  Name: Antaeus

  Age: 376

  Alliance: Tetra

  Level: ???

  Paradox Resonance: ???

  Prax Alignment: ???

  Titles: ???

  Blessings: ???

  Another window slid open to the right: detailed biometric analysis, attempting to map vitals—heart rate, blood flow, internal temperature.

  All obfuscated.

  He gritted his teeth.

  Why now? Why only now can I get this partial read? The answer flickered behind his eyes, unspoken but certain.

  He’s letting me see.

  Only now—when he had made himself known, when the Anchor had been drawn—did Antaeus lower the veil enough for Diafotisi to even register his presence. And even then, only scraps came through.

  Suppression. Not stealth.

  Demigods carry so much raw paradox that untrained minds can't even process it. Heroes collapse. Some go mad. Others simply kneel and weep.

  But Cassius didn’t kneel.

  He was trained. He was tempered. And now he knew: Antaeus had allowed his presence to be felt. As a message. As a mercy.

  Cassius closed the scan window, jaw tight. The haze of numbers faded, leaving only that blank, glowing stare.

  Whatever this creature was, it was done hiding.

  So was he.

  Cassius tightened his grip on the scimitar, feeling the ship’s trembling pulse sync to his own. Beyond the veil of smoke and flame, the giant finally began to move—straight toward him.