Kratos braced, the Leviathan Axe held steady. He absorbed the Hulk’s punch—a catastrophic blow that cracked the very foundations of the ruined city beneath them. The Ghost of Sparta held restraint like a shield. He was managing the damage, trying to subdue the beast rather than unleash the full, destructive weight of his own godhood.

A thunderous double-fist strike, not aimed at Kratos, but at the bedrock. The reality shuddered. A rift of pure, unstable energy tore across the horizon. Looking past the green giant, Kratos saw the inescapable truth: his patience was only affording the monster more time to guarantee the world's annihilation.

Enough.

The cold control Kratos had cultivated for decades shattered. He allowed the old fury to return, sharp and pure. It was not the blind rage of his past, but the focused, necessary violence of a guardian. If this monstrous rage could not be calmed, it had to be annihilated.

Kratos roared, a sound that competed with the Hulk’s own thunder, but carried the weight of Olympus. The Leviathan Axe flared, shedding its banked frost in a blinding storm of white light. A primal, instinctual awareness spread through Kratos: he would not swing twice.

As he raised the weapon high—an unstoppable force aligning with an immovable object—a sudden, anomalous sound ripped through the dimensional chaos, a brittle, distant echo:

"CUT MY LIFE INTO PIECES…THIS IS MY LAST RESORT."

The lyric faded instantly, swallowed by the roar of the impending strike. Kratos descended, moving faster than any mortal eye could track. The resulting impact did not create a boom; it created silence.

The immense, green body froze mid-lunge. Then, the head of the unstoppable behemoth detached cleanly, spinning lazily into the ruined landscape. The gigantic form crumpled, inert, its chaotic energy contained, the world saved by a single, focused act of necessary brutality. Kratos stood, the Axe resting heavily, the quiet settling over the devastation.