And at the apex of the mountain of blood, like a war titan enthroned, he sat.
Broad and brutal, with starlight flowing across his bronze skin like living veins, the man waited. The corpse beneath him oozed streams of gold-red ichor, but he did not shift. He watched.
Achilles hovered before him seriously.
He stepped forward. His boots touched the brittle skulls of beasts larger than cities, his breath catching as the sheer weight of carnage pressed in from all sides.
That figure looked up. Eyes sharp, jaw set. He had no crown, no robe, only the authority carved into muscle and battle-hardened bone. His aura burned from conviction.
Achilles approached, pulse steady but thoughts racing.
This had to be one of his grandfathers. Multiple greats away. Maybe the Fourth or Fifth Adrastia Emperor King? But the closer he drew, the more unplaceable the man's presence became.
His voice was deep, hoarse, weathered by centuries, if not more.
