Menus stepped forward, his sword gleaming in the sunlight. "Very well, Paris. Let''s see if you''re worth anything more than the words you spew."


    The battlefield grew silent as the warriors formed a rough circle, all eyes fixed on the two men who now stood as symbols of the war''s stakes. Above, the figures on Troy''s walls watched with bated breath, the tension so thick it seemed to halt time itself.


    This was no longer just a fight. It was a reckoning.


    At the same time, two radiant figures descended from the heavens, their divine presence visible only to a select few. The air grew heavy with the weight of their power, the faint shimmer of their ethereal forms captivating all who could behold them.


    Nathan, standing amidst the unfolding chaos, could see both deities with startling rity. Atnta, however, could only perceive one—Artemis, her graceful form glowing softly with an otherworldly aura. Nathan''s gaze shifted between Artemis and Athena, who each seemed to embody the fierce and unyielding will of their divine domains.


    Athena descended with a fluid, almost effortless motion, her presencemanding and dignified. Shended beside Menus, her hand resting gently yet purposefully on his shoulder.


    BADAM!


    A shockwave of mana erupted from Menus''s body, the sheer force of Athena''s blessing radiating outward like a storm unleashed. His figure surged with newfound strength, his eyes glowing faintly with an empowered determination.


    Across the battlefield, Artemis bestowed her favor upon Paris, her delicate touch brimming with lethal intent. A simr surge of divine energy engulfed him, lifting his confidence to soaring heights. Her intentions were clear—she wanted Paris to triumph, to im his prize.


    Paris, gripping his sword with a renewed sense of purpose, grinned wildly. A rush of adrenaline coursed through him, making him feel invincible, unstoppable. He roared with unrestrained conviction, "I will kill you, Menus! Helen will be mine—forever!" Your next chapter awaits on empire


    With that deration, Paris lunged forward, his movements swift and fierce, his de shing in the light of the divine.


    Menus, unshaken, scoffed at the challenge. He raised hisnce with calcted precision, meeting Paris''s de in midair.


    BADAM!


    The collision of their weapons unleashed a thunderous explosion, sending gusts of wind tearing across the battlefield. Dust and debris scattered as the two warriors slid back, their eyes locking in a deadly dance of strategy and resolve.


    This was no ordinary battle—it was a sh between two mortals imbued with the blessings of goddesses. Each step, each strike, carried the weight of divine will and mortal ambition.


    They began circling one another, the tension between them thick as a drawn bowstring. Neither dared to make a reckless move, for a single mistake could mean death.


    Menus observed Paris''s stance with a disdainful smirk curling his lips. The Trojan prince''s form was stiff, his grip on the sword betraying inexperience. Menus nearlyughed aloud—Paris was no swordsman. He was an archer, out of his element.


    Paris, noticing the mocking glint in Menus''s eyes, scowled deeply. That momentary distraction was all Menus needed. Seizing the opportunity, he closed the distance with a burst of speed, thrusting hisnce directly toward Paris''s head.


    The sharp point whistled through the air, but Paris''s reflexes, sharpened by Artemis''s blessing, saved him. He dodged at thest moment, twisting away and retaliating with a swift swing of his sword aimed at Menus''s chest.


    Menus parried the strike effortlessly, the shaft of hisnce deflecting the blow with a resounding ng. He countered with a powerful kick that sent Paris staggering backward.


    Paris groaned as the impact numbed his arm, the force of the kick leaving it throbbing and red. He tightened his grip on his weapon, his resolve hardening despite the pain.


    "Without the goddess''s blessing, you''re nothing but a pathetic fool, Paris!" Menus jeered, hisughter echoing cruelly across the battlefield.


    Fury burned in Paris''s eyes. "Shut up! You''re not worthy of Helen!" he shouted, his voice shaking with rage.


    In a blur of motion, Paris rolled to the side, evading Menus''s downward strike. He grabbed a nearby shield, bracing himself for the next exchange. Using the momentum of his movements, Paris surged forward, mming the shield into Menus with surprising force.


    Menus grunted in pain, sliding back several paces. He pressed a hand to his side, acknowledging the sting of the blow.


    "Worthy?" Menus growled, his tone venomous. "I won her in apetition that all the kings of Greece took part in! I imed her fairly, in front of the gods themselves! And you—miserable Trojan that you are—stole her away like a thief in the night. I weed you into my home, and you spat in my face. Your death will be anything but painless, boy!"


    Menus''s rage boiled over, and he surged forward with relentless aggression. Hisnce became a blur, thrusting at Paris with blinding speed and precision, each strike aiming for a fatal blow.


    Paris struggled under the relentless assault. His shield trembled with each strike, cracks spreading like spiderwebs across its surface. Menus''s attacks grew more ferocious, each blow heavier than thest. Paris''s arm ached from the force, and he knew it was only a matter of moments before the shield shattered entirely.


    Sweat dripped down his brow as he clenched his teeth, desperation wing at his mind. But in the chaos, a glimmer of cunning surfaced. Paris stepped back, feigning weakness, allowing himself to be driven further by Menus''s relentless strikes.


    Menus, sensing victory within his grasp, pressed forward, hisnce poised to deliver a decisive blow. He lunged with brutal strength, aiming to smash the shield once and for all.


    But Paris was ready. At thest moment, he rolled to the ground, the gritty soil clinging to his sweat-drenched form. His hand darted out, grasping a fistful of sand. In one swift motion, he hurled it toward Menus''s face.@@novelbin@@


    "What?!"


    Menus staggered back, his eyes snapping shut as the sand invaded them. Blind and momentarily disoriented, he stumbled.


    Paris''s lips curled into a wide, triumphant smirk. His muscles coiled like a spring as he leapt toward Menus, his sword arcing through the air with deadly intent.


    BADAM!


    The de struck true, crashing against Menus''s armor with a force that echoed across the battlefield. The impact reverberated through Menus''s body, snapping his arm with an audible crack and sending him sprawling to the ground. He rolled away, groaning in pain, hisnce momentarily forgotten.


    Seizing the opportunity, Paris rushed forward, his face twisted into a near-mad grin. His sword gleamed under the harsh sun as he prepared to finish the job. Victory was so close he could taste it.


    "You bastard!!" Menus roared, his voice a thunderp of rage and defiance.


    Though wounded, Menus''s instincts as a seasoned warrior took over. In the split second before Paris''s de couldnd, he twisted his body, narrowly avoiding the killing blow. Blind yet unyielding, Menus swung his own weapon in a desperate arc toward where he sensed Paris stood.


    "GARRH!"


    Paris''s scream pierced the air as Menus''s de tore into his thigh, leaving a deep, gaping wound. Blood gushed from the injury, staining the ground crimson. Paris crumpled to his knees, clutching his leg as pain wracked his body.


    Menus rose, his broken arm hanging limp at his side, his rage burning brighter than his pain. Though his vision was still obscured, he didn''t need his eyes to sense the wounded Paris nearby.


    "I am going to kill you now, PARIS!" Menus bellowed, his voice booming like a war drum.


    Terror seized Paris. His eyes widened as he realized the hopelessness of his situation. He could barely lift his sword, let alone block another strike from the enraged Spartan king. His breath came in ragged gasps as he nced around, searching for any means of escape.


    Without hesitation, he made his decision. Survival over pride.


    With a guttural cry, Paris turned and ran, staggering at first but quickly gaining momentum. Pushing past stunned Trojans in his path, he fled—not toward the safety of Troy''s walls but into the wilderness beyond. His only thought was to escape the wrath of Menus and live another day.


    "Move!" Paris shouted, shoving anyone in his way as he bolted.


    The battlefield fell silent, soldiers on both sides staring in disbelief.


    "Where? Where has he gone?!" Menus demanded, rubbing furiously at his stinging eyes. When he finally opened them, Paris was nowhere to be seen.


    Understanding dawned on Menus like a thunderp. His expression darkened, his lips curling into a snarl.


    "That COWARD!!!!" he roared, his voice so fierce that even his own soldiers recoiled in fear.


    Before Menus could act on his fury, a calm yetmanding voice cut through the tension.


    "Enough," said Odysseus, stepping forward with an air of authority. His calcting gaze shifted to Hector, who stood grim-faced amidst the chaos.


    "Paris''s flight from the battlefield is a clear sign of his defeat," Odysseus dered, his tone measured but firm. "Menus has won. It is now your duty to honor the promises made. Return Helen of Sparta to her rightful husband. And when you find Paris—" his voice hardened, "—you will deliver his head to us. The war is over."


    Odysseus inwardly sighed in relief. Finally, this senseless war over a woman and wealth seemed poised to end. The promise of peace stirred hope within him—a hope to return to Ithaca, to embrace his beloved wife, Penelope, and to see his young son, Telemachus, once more.


    But peace, it seemed, was not to be so easily won.


    Agamemnon stood nearby, his face twisted in barely concealed frustration. The High King of Mycenae burned with ambition, and though he loathed the thought of abandoning his grand campaign, he knew he couldn''t openly defy Odysseus''s logic. So, he gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he swallowed his objections.


    Far above the battlefield, two divine figures watched the unfolding events with different expressions.


    Hera''s gaze was ice, her wrath simmering beneath the surface. This resolution was not what she wanted. Her hatred for Troy and its people demanded utter annihtion, not a truce. With a subtle nce, she conveyed her displeasure to Athena, her silentmand unmistakable.


    Athena, though reluctant, gave a nod of understanding. She disappeared from Hera''s side, stepping unseen into the mortal fray.


    Nathan, standing among the onlookers, felt a shiver run down his spine as he caught sight of Athena materializing, her divine form visible only to a few. His white hair fluttered in the wind as his keen eyes tracked her movements.


    Athena glided silently to a certain Trojan archer, one of the many stationed at the edges of the battlefield. Her presence was overwhelming, and the man froze as her voice, melodic andmanding, whispered in his ear.


    "Now is your moment," she urged, her wordsced with divinepulsion. "Take your bow. Strike down Menus. Avenge Troy''s honor."


    The archer, trembling yet emboldened by the goddess''s influence, obeyed without hesitation. His hands moved swiftly, nocking an arrow to his bowstring. He raised his weapon, his target clear—the Spartan king, Menus.


    Nathan''s eyes widened as he realized what was about to happen. The spark of Athena''s interference ignited his fury.


    "NO!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the tense silence. He surged forward, desperate to stop the archer before chaos could reignite.


    But he was toote.


    The bowstring sang as the arrow was loosed. It soared through the air, glinting in the sunlight before finding its mark.


    "ARGH!"


    Menus let out a guttural cry as the arrow pierced his shoulder with brutal force. Blood spilled from the wound as he fell to his knees, clutching at the shaft embedded in his flesh.


    The Greeks erupted in outrage. Cries of betrayal and fury echoed across the battlefield, drowning out any hope of reason.


    Agamemnon, who had observed the scene unfold, allowed a dark smile to creep across his face. This was the excuse he had been waiting for—a pretext to unleash his full fury upon Troy.


    "KILL THEM ALL!!"