Back on the sand, the dust still floated in the air like a golden mist beneath the relentless sun. In the middle of that circle, Achilles remained standing, holding what was left of his sword: a metallic stump, twisted and smoking.
The son of Peleus observed the useless fragment with a mix of curiosity and disappointment.
"I thought weapons forged by Hephaestus would last longer than this…" he said, tilting his head.
In front of him, Diomedes did not lower his guard.
"They last as long as necessary" he replied in a deep voice. "They are made to break…"
Achilles raised an eyebrow, then, without giving it much importance, threw the shattered metal over his shoulder.
"A shame" he added carelessly. "It had good balance."
Then he smiled. It was not a wide or loud smile. It was worse: it was the smile of someone who had just remembered that he didn't need weapons to win.
Diomedes felt it before understanding it. A chill ran down his spine like an invisible hand. His instincts began to scream.
Achilles flexed his neck, his shoulders… and began to bounce lightly on the balls of his feet, light, almost playful. Diomedes' eyes widened; he knew that gesture. He had seen it before.
Cold sweat slid down the back of his neck as his hand instinctively moved toward a fallen shield just inches away. He only needed a second. One damn second to lift it.
But against Achilles, a second was an eternity.
In less than a blink, the son of Peleus disappeared. He did not run, he did not advance. He simply ceased to be where he was… and appeared in front of him. The distance between them was devoured by a speed that did not belong to men. Not even to lightning.
The world slowed down.
For Diomedes, those fragments of time, barely microseconds, stretched as if the gods wished to force him to contemplate his fate. He saw every grain of sand suspended in the air. He saw Achilles' golden hair float like a living flame. He saw his eyes.
And that arrogant smile.
Achilles' fist closed; there was no warning cry, no signal. Only the impact.
The blow exploded against Diomedes' torso with the force of a divine battering ram. The sound was sharp, like thunder trapped inside a human body.
Diomedes felt the air leave his lungs even before he understood the pain. His feet left the ground, his hand released his axe, and the sand burst beneath him.
He was sent flying. He cut through the sand like a projectile, his body spinning in the air before crashing violently against the opposite end of the coliseum. The stone cracked upon receiving him, and a cloud of dust rose toward the sky.
"Did you see that?!" exclaimed Calliope, standing up in her box, her eyes shining like newborn stars. "A single blow from mighty Achilles was enough to send the son of Tydeus flying!"
The coliseum roared. The stands erupted in cheers, the name of the son of Peleus vibrating like thunder repeated a thousand times.
At the other end of the arena, Diomedes spat a mouthful of dark blood onto the hot sand. Behind him, the stone wall had given way, leaving a deep crater with cracks spreading like broken veins.
With his chest burning and his breath in tatters, he placed one knee on the ground. He rose with clenched teeth and blazing eyes.
From the center of the field, Achilles watched him. He only smiled, tilting his head slightly, satisfied. Like a lion that has already tasted blood.
Their gazes clashed through the suspended dust. Fire against fire.
And then…
Achilles was no longer there.
A swirl of sand marked the place he had occupied a moment before.
"What?"
The impact erased the question from his face.
A brutal punch crashed against his jaw. His body was sent flying again, slammed violently into the ground, bounced like a stone skipping over water, and rolled several meters before managing to stagger back to his feet.
He had no respite. Another blow struck him from the flank. The impact hurled him toward the opposite side of the arena as if he were a rag doll.
Diomedes stood again. Blood dripped from his mouth. One of his eyes was beginning to swell. His legs trembled… but they did not give in.
Achilles watched him from the other side of the sand, with that same superior, almost amused smile.
"What's wrong, old man?" he mocked, flexing his fingers. "Can't keep up with me?"
Diomedes did not answer. With a low growl, he grabbed a nearby spear. His muscles tensed like iron cables. And he threw it.
The spear cut through the air at such speed that the sound seemed to split in two as it passed. The projectile whistled, aimed straight at the son of Peleus' heart.
Just inches from its target…
Achilles vanished in an explosion of dust. The spear continued its course until it embedded itself in the stone.
The hero reappeared several meters away, in a relaxed pose, one arm resting on his shoulder as if waiting for the next attempt.
Diomedes did not hesitate. He grabbed another weapon and threw it, and another, and another. Swords, spears, fragments of steel flew like deadly rain. But each time, the result was the same: a cloud of sand, a fleeting trail, a golden flash moving faster than human sight.
Achilles danced among the projectiles.
"These are…!" shouted Calliope, placing a hand on her chest, overflowing with emotion. "The legendary light feet of Achilles!"
The stadium exploded again in cheers.
Diomedes raised a sword, ready to throw it… and then he saw it. It was only an instant, a pattern. Every movement of Achilles left behind a cloud of dust. In that very second, Achilles appeared in front of him, short axe in hand. The blade rose violently.
Diomedes reacted in time, raising his sword to block the strike. The impact shook his arms to the shoulders.
Achilles did not stop. One axe strike, then another, and another.
The speed was inhuman. Steel clashed against steel in a storm of incandescent sparks. Each blow forced Diomedes to take another step back, digging his heels into the sand.
The son of Peleus attacked like a golden gale; Diomedes roared and counterattacked, unleashing a slash loaded with all his strength. At that distance… it should have been impossible to miss.
But Achilles was no longer there; the blade cut through empty air.
And the assault continued. More axe strikes, more flashes, more pressure. The son of Tydeus blocked by instinct, by sheer will to survive.
"This is Achilles' divine speed!" proclaimed Calliope, her voice vibrating like an epic chant. "The one that, in ten years of war, no weapon ever touched his skin!"
She raised her arms to the sky.
"The legendary… invulnerability of Achilles!"
And in the arena, among sparks and dust, the son of Peleus smiled.
The clash of steel against steel continued, a rain of sparks illuminating the sand like furious fireflies. Each impact echoed through the coliseum.
Until, suddenly… it changed. Achilles stopped smiling. The satisfaction evaporated from his face like mist at dawn. His eyes opened fully, without a single blink, sharp as freshly tempered blades. He was no longer playing.
With a sudden movement, he propelled himself backward. His figure blurred into a trail of dust that crossed the arena like a horizontal lightning bolt.
Diomedes, surprised by the sudden retreat, took two steps forward before regaining his stance. His sword remained firm, but his balance had wavered for an instant.
And that instant was enough. Achilles reappeared in front of him; there was no clash of weapons this time, only a flash. The axe traced a short and precise arc; a clean cut sliced through Diomedes' thigh. The son of Peleus was no longer there when the blood began to flow.
The Achaean growled, spinning around, searching for his enemy. He barely had time to tense his muscles when another presence materialized before him. Another cut, this time on the arm. The steel bit into flesh and vanished in the same fraction of a second.
And thus the dance began.
Achilles moved so fast that his figure seemed to fragment into overlapping images, as if multiple versions of him attacked from different angles. Each trail of dust marked a path impossible to follow with the eye.
Cut on the shoulder, cut on the side, cut on the calf. None were deep. None sought to maim or incapacitate immediately.
They were messages; Diomedes understood it as he felt the blood dampen his skin.
He was not trying to kill him, he was trying to break him. Trying to plant fear. He clenched his teeth, his breathing heavy but steady. He remembered the fury of the gods on the battlefield. If not even the Olympians had managed to bend his spirit… a boy would not.
Then he felt it—not the blow, nor the movement. The cold, the icy edge resting with surgical delicacy against his throat.
Achilles was behind him, his breath barely brushing his ear. The steel pressed a millimeter further.
A drop of blood slowly slid down Diomedes' neck...