For a moment, the battlefield fell silent except for the distant sounds of the Hecatoncheires battling the three strongest Olympians. Achilles stood perfectly still, Jörmungandr's Kiss held loosely in his grip, its drill tip still stained with the ichor of war gods.
When he finally spoke, his voice was steady as granite. "I remember the pain, yes. The confusion of a wound that shouldn't have been possible piercing my protected flesh." He began to walk toward Apollo, each step measured and deliberate. "But most of all, I remember the lesson."
Apollo nocked an arrow of pure sunlight, its radiance painful to look at directly. "And what lesson was that, little hero?"
"That gods," Achilles said, his spear beginning to spin lazily in his hands, "are just bullies with better weapons."
