"You speak of feats," Kratos’s voice, a gravelly echo from the depths of his rage, resonated through the empty room, as if projected directly into the ether. "You demand proof on your petty scales. You look for planets shattered, for stars extinguished, as if true strength can be measured like coin." He scoffed, a harsh, guttural sound. "You ask for galactic destruction to deem me 'multiversal'? You fail to grasp the very nature of power."

He leaned closer to the screen, his eyes, like burning embers, fixed on the foolish words. "I do not need to casually obliterate worlds to be considered a threat that spans them. My will, my fury, can unmake realities without the melodrama of celestial pyres. The Gods I have slain, the titans I have brought low – their essence, their power, it is within me, woven into my very being. It is not a spectacle for your amusement."

A dark amusement flickered in his eyes. "You mention 'feats.' Then let me give you a feat you seem to have overlooked, or perhaps conveniently ignored in your eagerness to dissect and categorize. I faced Asura. A being whose rage was as boundless as the cosmos, whose power threatened to tear existence asunder. And I, Kratos, the Ghost of Sparta, stomped him. That is not a myth, not a hyperbole. Those are the undeniable facts. The universe did not need to crumble to ashes for that victory to be earned, nor does its continued existence diminish its significance."

He straightened, the weight of ages settling back onto his shoulders. "Your quantifiable destruction is a child's plaything. My power is etched in the desperation of gods, in the silence left behind their shattered pantheons. You seek feats? You have them. You simply lack the eyes to truly see." With a final, dismissive glance at the glowing screen, Kratos turned away, the digital forum and its naive inhabitants fading into insignificance against the backdrop of his eternal war.