The golden light faded.
Silence fell like a veil over the battlefield.
The wind carried no cries, no clash of blades—only the faint hum of sacred energy slowly dissipating into the air, like the final breath of a vanishing god.
Where once stood a vast and terrible army blessed with divinity, armed with celestial steel, and trained by the will of Olympus, now, there was nothing.
Not even ash.
The very essence of the divine army had been obliterated, erased from reality by a single, world-shaking swing of Pluton, the Sword of Truth.
Only six figures remained.
Veron, at the center, knelt with one hand plunged into the earth, his armor fractured, the silver plating dimmed to dull gray.
Divine blood—luminous and silver-gold—oozed from the cracks in his form.
Around him, the other five Divine Spirits groaned and struggled to rise, their radiant mantles torn, their once-proud forms bruised and bent.
Their pride had suffered more than their bodies.
