The dark sand shifted gently beneath Achilles' hands, each stroke of the shovel measured and calm, like a man tilling earth for spring rather than preparing a grave for something older than most. The Runescriptures carved into the shovel pulsed with a violet hum, responding to the quiet will of the man who held it.
He said nothing, and his posture was unhurried. His bare hands didn't tremble. His breathing didn't falter. The rhythm of the shovel cutting into the corrupted earth was a soft, haunting beat- steady, inexorable.
Beside him, the Monkey King stood still, his golden staff slightly raised. The staff of fate and war, a weapon that buzzed and thrummed when death loomed near. But now it was quiet. The hum was one of gentle anticipation, not dread. That silence unnerved Sun more than a scream ever could.
"I don't understand," he muttered, voice low and guarded. "My staff's not giving me anything. Nothing. If we were in danger, it should be going wild."
