The battlefield was a cacophony of chaos—clanging steel, the cries of dying men, and the dull roar of fires consuming the remnants of siege engines. Paris, Prince of Troy, strode through the carnage like a specter of death, his blade slicing through the Myrmidons with frightening precision. His lips curled into a cruel smile as he revelled in the bloodshed, his every movement graceful yet deadly.
"Paris!!"
The sharp, commanding voice cut through the din. Paris paused mid-swing, his sword dripping crimson, and turned toward the source. His golden armor gleamed under the sun as he laid eyes on the man who had called him out.
"Ah," Paris said, his voice laced with mockery. "If it isn't Patroclus. Tell me, where is Achilles? Has he finally realized that his so-called invincibility is no match for me? Or is he cowering somewhere, too frightened to face the inevitable?"
