The Sanctuary bells began to ring. Not in alarm. In defiance.
Not the flashy explosion. The quiet kind. The warmth in the chest of a man who has nothing left but still chooses to stand.
“Get up, Seiya.”
“We don’t do impossible,” he said. “We do next .”
It flew sideways . Through the temporal wall. Through the memory of every defeat, every doubt, every moment he had been told his constellation was the lowest, the weakest, the joke of the Saints. Saint Seiya
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.
He saw Saori’s face. Not Athena, the cold goddess of war, but the girl who had once stood in the rain with a broken umbrella, waiting for a boy who was always late. He saw his orphanage brothers, Shun’s gentle hands, Hyōga’s frozen tears, Shiryū’s bleeding knuckles. He saw the little girl in the village of Rhodes who had offered him water when his own throat was ash. The Sanctuary bells began to ring
“Impossible,” the God of the Underworld whispered.