Hours had passed.
Time meant nothing in Tartarus, but the damage caused by their battle told another story. Walls that once stood for millennia lay crumbled. Columns as old as some gods were snapped like bones while craters littered the obsidian ground, pools of golden ichor shimmered in the dark, and the stench of divine blood hung thick in the air.
Still, they kept fighting.
Their forms, once regal and untouchable, now looked monstrous.
Ares's left arm dragged limply, torn at the shoulder joint, only partially held together by twitching sinew and stubborn will. His chest bore countless gashes, some deep enough to show the glint of fractured ribs beneath. His right eye was swollen shut, and a jagged tear across his scalp had soaked his hair with golden blood, now dried into brittle clumps.
