The soldier dashes toward the door to summon the medic, only for the healer to appear at that very moment, flanked by reinforcements. Erastos seizes the chance to reposition Zenobios for easier treatment. Cradling the king's head in his lap, he supports the back of his skull with meticulous care. It is astonishing—any mortal would have perished under such impact. The boulder, larger than many of the hall's inhabitants, should have sunk into the earth. Yet Zenobios, Athanasia, and Areios still draw breath.
The medic reaches the trio. Two soldiers assist with Zenobios, gripping beneath his armpits and supporting his ankles as they drag him carefully a yard from the debris. They lay him down gently. Miraculously, his bones remain intact; only faint traces of dried blood stain his mouth, the bleeding long since stopped. His injuries are limited to immense pain and concussion-induced unconsciousness.
Erastos turns to Athanasia. The thought of lifting her unsettles him, but duty as First Knight compels action.
"Alright…" he murmurs, steeling himself.
Sliding one arm behind her head and the other beneath her knees, he lifts her with careful precision. "Forgive me for touching you so improperly," he whispers. Though unconscious, propriety and accountability guide every movement.
Male servants return with a mattress from a guest chamber, placing it with reverence near Zenobios yet leaving room for the medic. Erastos lowers Athanasia onto it, bows deeply, and withdraws his hands, silent apology radiating in every motion.
Athanasia rests to Zenobios's right; Areios lies to his left, slightly farther. The medic and assistant cycle through examinations with grim efficiency, moving from Zenobios to Athanasia to Areios repeatedly. Three critical patients, identical injuries, and only two pairs of hands. Every moment matters.
Erastos stands motionless, gaze shifting between them. Heart pounding, he feels a strange certainty: they will recover. Servants dart through the hall, ferrying supplies.
Finally, the medic wipes sweat from his brow and rises. Erastos closes the distance.
"What's their condition?" he demands.
"They remain unconscious," the medic replies. "No life-threatening injuries. His Majesty's body has mostly healed itself, but…" He hesitates. "That boulder seems imbued with a curse inhibiting recovery. They may have been forced into unconsciousness by unnatural means."
"Forced unconsciousness?" Erastos' voice tightens. "Does this apply to the Empress and Areios as well?"
"Yes," the medic confirms, brow furrowed. "A potent spell unlike anything I've encountered. Even as a health god, I've never witnessed magic like this. Something is deeply wrong."
Erastos strokes his chin, mind racing. Gods don't wage war this way—not without provocation beyond duels. This was a deliberate strike at Eden's throne.
A mocking laugh slices through the hall. Erastos spins.
Leaning against the gaping wall, a shadowed figure exudes insolence. Arms crossed, one leg bent, back pressed to stone, utterly relaxed amidst the chaos. The light from outside frames him, revealing his form.
"Who… are. You?" Erastos' words snap like whips, centuries of restrained battle-rage barely held.
"Me? Ahahaha!" The figure laughs, stepping fully into the breach. Light illuminates a meticulously styled man in a dark pea coat, gold buttons fastened, collar raised. Black trousers and polished derby shoes complete the ensemble. Only the Nubian ibex horns atop his head betray his demonic nature.
"A demon… in Eden? How…?" Erastos' voice trembles. Paradise should annihilate all evil; yet here one stands.
"Hehehe~" The demon mocks. "You cling to the old notion that demons can't enter heaven? Delightfully naive. Massive castles, lavish designs… who truly wallows in sin, demons or narcissistic deities?"
He laughs, eyeing the three fallen gods. "This is your vaunted 'godhood'? Pitiful. I merely tossed a rock with normal strength, and this fell? The ruler of paradise, undone by a pebble? Ah, now I understand…"
Striding from the breach to survey the devastation, he sneers. "Hunger, death, cruelty, slavery… and now you play at experiencing their emotions? Pathetic. The Póthos, your farce of mortality, grotesque."
Erastos trembles, rage snapping.
"You pest!" he snarls.
"Ooh~ Scary~" The demon taunts, tapping Erastos' forehead, each movement calculated to inflame, each touch a violation of composure. The general teeters on the edge, fury and impotence intertwined, as the demon's cruel amusement radiates through the hall.