CHAPTER 122: CHAPTER 21:

The sky above Olympus blazed with chaos. Divine light clashed with titanic shadows, splitting the clouds, lighting the heavens like a storm of apocalyptic proportions.

Above it all, Artemis and Apollo, twin gods of moon and sun, hovered side by side, their radiant auras shielding them from the assault of two monstrous figures—identical in size and shape.

Ephialtes and Otis.

The Giant Twins.

Born specifically to counter the twin Olympians. The moment the battle began, these two giants immediately found them and started to attack them.

Now, they roared as they summoned a storm of weapons—gigantic spears and curved blades of compressed air and hardened stone, conjured from the elements themselves.

Each weapon hurled toward the twins of Olympus like a never-ending barrage.

Apollo and Artemis fired back with divine precision—bowstrings humming like a symphony of cosmic warfare.

Arrows of sunlight and moonlight streaked across the sky like golden comets and silver stars, intercepting the oncoming barrage.

The air thundered with every impact, each strike colliding like galaxies crashing into one another.

But as minutes passed, it became clear—the gods were being overwhelmed.

"Hahaha!" Otis laughed, "What’s wrong!? Getting tired!? So much for being the best archers!"

"We can do this all day!" Ephialtes laughed.

The twin Giants were tireless, their summoned weapons seemingly endless.

While Artemis and Apollo could conjure and fire thousands of arrows per breath, they were still limited by divine will and essence.

A blade of wind tore through the sky and grazed Apollo’s side.

The god of the sun clicked his tongue in annoyance, quickly using his divinity to heal his injuries. He is the god of healing after all.

Another spear struck Artemis’ shoulder, flinging her into the clouds.

But she quickly stabilized herself, and fired back with barrage of arrows.

The sky above Olympus crackled with heavenly fire, streaked red and silver.

The twin gods quickly regrouped in midair, hovering side by side, breath heaving.

"We can’t keep up like this," Apollo muttered, quickly fixing part of his robe that has been ripped through by the blade of wind that injured him.

"They just keep coming," Artemis said, voice tense. "Our arrows can’t shoot down all their weapons."

Apollo readied another bolt of burning sunlight. "Any ideas?"

Her eyes narrowed. "One."

And with that, Artemis soared upward.

Higher and higher, until even the storm couldn’t touch her. Her eyes burned with lunar clarity, and her silver bow shimmered with an ancient, conceptual power.

Behind her, space itself warped—folding open like a great veil drawn aside.

From the tear emerged a vision of glory—the Moon.

Not merely a celestial object, but the concept of the Moon itself. Its cold, serene beauty. Its mysterious gravity. Its embodiment of calm and madness. Its glow, the sentinel of night, gazed silently across all of creation.

Artemis raised her bow and touched the Moon with her authority.

She didn’t just draw power—she took possession of its concept.

Silver fire coalesced along her bowstring as the full conceptual weight of the Moon compressed into a single arrow—a point of divine apocalypse shaped by belief, time, and myth.

"Giants, know that this attack will bring you judgment..." she whispered, "You will pay for all your sins!"

The twin giants immediately felt threatened and wanted to dodge, but Apollo rapidly fired arrows of sun, preventing them from leaving.

"My bow is the mirror that reflects the light of the heavens," Artemes declared, "...and my arrow is the divine judgement from the sky."

She loosed the arrow. "Vanish with the moon, Orion!"

The world shuddered.

The sky split open.

The trajectory of the arrow was not a path, but a gravitational wound in the cosmos.

Oceans below roared into waves, coastal cities trembled, animals shrieked as the natural rhythm of the world fell into disarray.

Clouds exploded.

Time stuttered.

For a moment, night and day overlapped.

The arrow struck the twin giants.

There was no explosion.

There was only a light that devoured everything.

In the aftermath, the battlefield was dead silent.

Apollo stared from below, shielding his eyes from the afterglow. His golden armor gleamed with the lingering fire of the blast.

The Giant Twins were gone.

There was no ash.

No flesh.

No blood.

Just... absence.

"Did it work?" he asked.

Artemis felt her cheek twitch. Did her brother not read History!? Didn’t he know that saying stuff like that just make it more impossible for their attack to work!?

Just like with Lord Zeus and Lord Poseidon when they fought Cronus!

Right when she was about to berate her brother, the air suddenly twisted.

A low hum, unnatural and cruel, crawled through the heavens like a sickness.

From the empty space, flesh began to reform.

Arms. Legs. Faces.

Ephialtes and Otis returned. Their bodies reconstructed like clay reassembled by unseen hands.

Even Artemis—who floated above with her bow lowered—staggered back in disbelief.

"You’re kidding," Artmeis knew that it might not work, but for it to leave not even any injuries? "...that attack contains the full conceptual weight of the moon..."

The Giant Twins laughed.

Otis grinned. "Nice trick."

Ephialtes added, "We barely felt it."

"But your expressions?" they both said in unison. "Priceless. We’d kill to see it again."

They lunged forward again.

Artemis and Apollo gritted their teeth and prepared for another round.

*

*

*

Meanwhile...

Far below, in the shattered outskirts of Mount Olympus, where the golden bridges had collapsed into ruin and divine fires consumed entire groves of sacred olive trees, a lone figure stumbled through rubble and smoke.

Hephaestus, god of the forge, limped with gritted teeth.

One leg dragged uselessly behind him, it was moments like this he cursed himself for being a cripple.

His left arm, normally reinforced with crafted plates, hung broken.

He looked over his shoulder—no one followed.

And yet, he felt the weight of Olympus bearing down.

Above, silhouettes of battle flashed like stars going nova.

He saw Athena fighting Enceladus.

Ares surrounded by giants.

Apollo and Artemis barely holding off twin monstrosities.

The mountain groaned with each clash.

He should have been up there.

He should have been with them.

He fell to the ground.

His body gave out. His breathing was labored.

"Damn it," he muttered. "If I’d just made it back to my forge..."

The Anti-Zeus Armor—his most potent creation—was locked away in a vault below the smithy, deep in the volcanic veins of Mount Olympus.

Crafted with divine alloys and laced with every countermeasure Hephaestus could invent.

It had no elegance. No grace. But it was unstoppable.

A weapon meant to defeat even the King of Gods.

It was supposed to be a weapon Hephaestus will use if Zeus would one day become an intolerable tyrant and protect Olympus.

But now it lay unused. Worthless.

"I’m useless," he growled, slamming a fist into the ground. "Useless..."

A breeze stirred.

Then, a golden warmth bathed him.

He looked up.

A chariot of flame descended—blazing wheels pulled by four radiant steeds, each snorting solar fire.

At the helm stood a figure clad in robes of living sunlight, his eyes aglow with solar brilliance.

Helios. Titan of the Sun.

Hephaestus blinked through the light.

"You...why are you...?"

Helios descended, stepping off his chariot and extending a hand.

"I was busy doing my duties when Athena called, so I’m late." the Sun-Titan said. "I didn’t expect Olympus to end up like this."

"It was the giants!" Hephaestus gritted his teeth.

Helios nodded, "Hmm. I can see that."

He turned towards Hephaestus and held out his hand, "For now, I’ll take you to safety. You can’t handle a battle of this scale without your armors."

Hephaestus hesitated, then reached out and took the offered hand.

Warmth surged into him—not healing, but comforting. Stabilizing. He couldn’t help but sigh in relief.

"i need to get to my forge," whispered Hephaestus, "I need to help them."

"No. This battle is a lost cause. There is no winning here." Helios replied, lifting him into the chariot. "For now, we need to escape and regroup. We can take Olympus later."

"But..."

"No buts. I am sure that’s what they’re all are thinking as well."

Hephaestus bit his lips, but sighed and leaned back, looking at the Olympus.

The chariot rose, turning eastward, toward the volcanic ranges—towards the temple of Helios.

Hephaestus couldn’t help but close his eyes, hoping that the others can make it out alive.

Helios is right. They can take back Olympus later, but they can’t take back lives.

Hades absolutely forbids resurrection, and even gods are not exempt from his rule.