HULK
(screaming with babyish butthurt)
HULK… STRONGEST… THERE IS!

Kratos does not flinch. He does not rise to meet the tantrum. He merely breathes—measured, controlled. His flesh bears no wound. His eyes, steady and regal, watch the green snowflake with something approaching pity.

KRATOS
(quietly)
You scream as a child does. Loud enough to hide your fear.

Hulk charges, each footfall shaking the dirt like drums of war. But Kratos does not move. Instead, he stands, as if in prayer—or judgment.

With deliberate grace, he draws the Sword of Olympus, its glow a soft white—ancient, absolute.

Hulk lunges.

Kratos waits.

And when Hulk is but a breath away—
Kratos plunges the blade downward.

The sword pierces Hulk's chest like parchment, impaling him to the ground. The green yellow belly freezes mid-roar, pain, confusion and terror flashing across his face. His fists, once unstoppable, tremble uselessly in the air. Kratos kneels above, driving the blade deeper through, as Hulk whimpers in pain, begging unintelligently for mercy.

Kratos rises, steady and calm, leaving the blade in place with a slow, merciful strength.

KRATOS
(soft, solemn)
You are a monster no longer.

The glow of the Sword of Olympus pulses once. Then Hulk collapses, silently, eyes wide not in rage—but in awe at the mercy of Kratos.

Kratos withdraws the sword and looks skyward. A cold wind stirs around him, and the battlefield falls quiet.

Only stillness.

A King stands alone—unmoved, unshaken, inspiring a better world of better men.