The punch landed like the birth of a galaxy.
Zeus's fist connected with Michael's jaw, and the sound wasn't a crack or a boom. It was a tear. Reality split open behind the Archangel, a jagged wound in the fabric of Heaven that bled void-light and screaming silence. Michael flew backwards, his sword spinning from his grip, his perfect armor dented, his face a mask of shock and pain.
He crashed into a formation of angels, scattering them like leaves, and for a moment, the battlefield went still.
Zeus lowered his fist, breathing hard. The chaos energy crackled around him, responding to his will, eager to be unleashed. But he held it. Not yet. Not until the moment was right.
He looked at his hands. They were shaking. Not from fear. From the sheer, overwhelming pressure of what was happening. The souls were free. The gods were whole. And somewhere behind him, something vast and terrible was approaching. His brother. Changed. Consumed.
