It was too warm, too thick, too final as it ran down the cracked marble of the Sanctuary steps. Pegasus Seiya lay on his back, the shattered remains of his Gold Cloth glinting like dying stars around him. The sky above was a bruise of violet and black—the Solar Eclipse, unnatural and absolute, devouring Helios himself.
The punch did not fly upward.
He rolled onto one knee. The Eclipse pressed down, a metaphysical weight meant to crush hope itself. But hope, Seiya had learned, was a meteor. Small. Fast. Fatal to those who ignored it. Saint Seiya
“Strike.”
“PEGASUS...”
Cosmo.
“We don’t do impossible,” he said. “We do next .” It was too warm, too thick, too final
The Sanctuary bells began to ring. Not in alarm. In defiance.