Kratos's hand closed around Adrestus's throat.
The grip was iron, unyielding. Adrestus's feet left the ground, his broken arm dangling, his good hand clawing at the Spartan's fingers. The burning village spun around him. The smoke filled his lungs. His vision darkened at the edges.
This is it, he thought. This is how I die.
But somewhere deep inside, beneath the pain, beneath the fear, something stirred. It was not the golden lightning of Zeus—that had been a gift, a leash, a foreign thing that had never truly belonged to him. This was older. Darker. It was the red lightning, the evolution he had paid for with Fame Coins, the power that the system had forged from his own life force. He had never used it in combat. He had never needed to. But now, with death squeezing the breath from his body, he had no choice.
He reached deep inside himself—past the cracked ribs, past the dislocated shoulder, past the blood that filled his mouth. He touched the red lightning at its source. His own soul. His own will. His own fury.
It answered.
The red lightning exploded from his chest in a violent, uncontrolled burst. The force of it threw Kratos backward, ripping his hand from Adrestus's throat. Adrestus crashed to the ground, gasping, his lungs burning as they filled with air. The crimson energy wrapped around him like a living thing—coating his arms, his chest, his legs. It was not the golden lightning of Zeus. It was deeper, darker, the color of fresh blood and dying embers.
Kratos landed hard on his back, slid through the mud, and came up on one knee. His eyes widened. For the first time in the fight, he looked uncertain.
"What..." he breathed. "What is that?"
Adrestus rose. The red lightning surged along his right arm, crackling, hungry. He had never used it before—not like this, not against a living enemy. He did not know its limits. He did not know if it would be enough. But he could feel it waiting, eager to be unleashed.
"It's not Zeus's," Adrestus said, his voice raw from the choking. "It's mine."
He thrust his palm forward, and the red lightning answered. A bolt of crimson fire shot from his hand, striking Kratos in the chest. The Spartan grunted and staggered back, his leather armor smoking, but he did not fall. He looked down at the burn mark, then back at Adrestus, and his expression shifted from uncertainty to something harder.
"You think a new trick will save you?" Kratos growled. "I have killed men with stronger magic than yours. I have broken champions blessed by the gods themselves. Your little light show means nothing."
He lunged again, faster than before, his remaining Blade of Chaos whistling through the air. Adrestus threw himself to the side, the red lightning propelling him, and the Blade buried itself in the mud where he had been standing. He rolled, came up, and unleashed another bolt. This one caught Kratos in the shoulder, spinning him halfway around.
But the Spartan did not stop. He never stopped.
He tore the Blade from the mud and advanced, his teeth bared, his eyes burning with a rage that had no bottom. The red lightning flickered around Adrestus, but he could feel it draining him. Every bolt cost him. Every burst left him weaker.
I can't keep this up, he realized. I need to end this.
He charged.
The red lightning coated his right fist, turning it into a blazing comet. He ducked under Kratos's wild swing and drove his fist into the Spartan's wounded thigh. The crimson energy discharged directly into the muscle, and Kratos's leg buckled. He dropped to one knee, roaring in fury, and swung his Blade in a wide arc. Adrestus leaped over it, landed behind Kratos, and wrapped his good arm around the Spartan's throat.
The red lightning surged between them, burning Kratos's skin, making him gasp.
"Yield," Adrestus hissed.
Kratos thrashed, trying to throw him off. His free elbow slammed into Adrestus's ribs. Pain exploded through his chest. But he held on, the red lightning feeding him strength, refusing to let go.
"I will never yield," Kratos snarled.
He threw himself backward, crushing Adrestus against the ground. The impact drove the air from Adrestus's lungs. His grip loosened. Kratos rolled, came up on top, and raised his Blade for a killing stroke.
Adrestus had one chance. He gathered the last of his red lightning into his palm and pressed it against Kratos's wrist.
The Spartan's muscles seized. His fingers spasmed. The Blade fell from his hand, clattering into the mud. His arm hung limp, the nerves scrambled by the crimson fire. Adrestus shoved him off, scrambled to his feet, and stood over the fallen Blade. He picked it up. The weight was enormous, the edge hungry. He pointed it at Kratos's throat.
"I said yield," Adrestus repeated. His voice was barely a whisper. His body was failing. The red lightning was gone, drained, leaving him hollow and shaking.
Kratos looked up at him, his chest heaving, his eyes still burning. But he did not attack. He could not. His arm was useless. His leg was ruined. For the first time in the fight, the Spartan was still.
"This isn't over," Kratos said.
Adrestus lowered the Blade. "No," he agreed. "It never is."
But neither of them moved. The village burned around them. The survivors watched from the shadows. And two broken demigods stood face to face in the ashes, the fight hanging in the balance.
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