The preparations were finally concluded. Instead of a single arena, it was decided that each combat of the Heromachy would take place in different settings, worthy of the feats of the heroes who would tread upon them. The spectators, gods and souls who had once shared life with the combatants, would gather in a vast hall resembling an ancient Athenian theater, from where they would watch the battles through divine projections.
But this fight was different. It was the inauguration of the tournament, the first clash of the battle between heroes. Only for this occasion, Hephaestus had forged a coliseum in the heart of Olympus, a work worthy of the immortals.
When the spectators took their seats, when the Olympians settled expectantly on their thrones and Zeus gave the order, the lights went out. A soft and solemn melody began to rise, enveloping the enclosure in an almost sacred anticipation.
Then, the divine coliseum burst into light and music.
From above descended the presenter, spinning upon herself as if she danced to the rhythm of a song only she could hear. The muse of epic poetry, Calliope, raised her arms with a radiant smile, and her voice: clear, vibrant, impossible to ignore, resonated in every corner of the arena.
"Ladies and gentlemen, gods and spirits of Hades!" exclaimed the radiant Calliope, whose voice rose like a chant capable of piercing the marbles of Olympus and descending into the deepest shadows. "Prepare your souls for the impact, for the moment has arrived! In just a heartbeat, the first act will begin… Prepare yourselves to witness the battle of the strongest beneath the heavens!"
The audience responded like an unleashed tide. A colossal roar swept through the stands and shook the very air. Calliope, with a smile laden with absolute command, let that clamor grow, let it reach its peak… and then, with a simple gesture of her hand, she cut it short.
"The Heromachy begins!" she declared with an intensity that seemed to set every syllable ablaze. "And what better way to start? For among all the heroes who marched against Troy… there was never one like him!"
At one end of the arena, the colossal iron gates began to open with a deep creak. The sound reverberated in every corner of the enclosure, and for a moment, even the gods fell silent.
"The embodiment of war itself…"
From the shadows emerged a young man of imposing bearing. His black armor, polished like the darkest night, was traced with delicate golden details that gleamed with every step, as if capturing fragments of divine light. He walked without haste, with a calm that was not carelessness, but absolute certainty.
"The wrath that defied destiny, the swift feet that sowed death among hundreds of men!"
The crowd erupted again, this time in an even wilder uproar.
"The invulnerable… Achilles!"
The name fell like thunder. The stands seemed to explode in a deafening ovation, as some struck the ground, others raised their arms, and many simply shouted, unable to contain their emotion. Achilles did not respond; his gaze remained forward, cold, unbreakable, as if all of it were nothing more than a distant murmur.
Calliope raised a hand once more, and little by little the uproar subsided, transforming into an expectant silence that seemed to hold the breath of the entire world.
"But tell me…" she whispered, and yet everyone heard her, "if there is a pinnacle… must there not be someone capable of reaching it? If there is a champion… should there not be a rival worthy of challenging him?"
Her eyes gleamed intensely, and her smile widened, filled with a dangerous excitement.
"Because today… there is."
Her voice rose again. She extended an arm toward the opposite gate, pointing to the still-closed shadows.
"The only mortal who can boast of something that only even the Titans achieved! The man who wounded the untouchable, who made the eternal bleed, who raised his spear against the very gods… and lived to tell the tale!"
The air seemed to tighten, as if reality itself contracted under the weight of those words. A restless murmur ran through the stands, a mixture of disbelief and fascination.
"With the blessing of wisdom and the courage of a lion… the hero who achieved the impossible."
The opposite gates began to open slowly, releasing a different darkness, denser, heavier with meaning.
"The scourge of immortals… Diomedes!"
The name rang out with force, cutting through the silence like a spear. And then, without giving the audience time to fully process the magnitude of what had been announced, Calliope extended both arms to opposite sides of the arena, her voice reaching a climax of pure euphoria.
"The invincible against the one who defeated the gods! Martial perfection against indomitable will! Let the heavens hold their breath… for the Heromachy begins!"
The battle arena lay in an unnatural silence, as if the world itself held its breath. At the center, Achilles and Diomedes stared at each other without blinking, with that dangerous calm possessed only by those who have survived too many battles.
There was no hatred between them, but recognition: two predators who knew exactly how lethal the other was.
Achilles stepped forward, with the natural ease of one advancing toward something that belongs to him by right.
"We are the first to stain this arena" he said, and his voice rang clear, vibrant. "There could be no better beginning. If I am to inaugurate this war of heroes, I would rather it be against someone whose name does not shame me to speak."
A faint smile curved his lips.
"I will grant you a gift, for old times' sake: you may surrender now. Preserve your honor… and your life. What do you say?"
Diomedes observed him without agitation. In his gaze there was no mockery, but there was an ancient patience, that of one who has seen arrogance bloom and wither more than once.
"Since you were a boy" he replied with steady calm, "you have mistaken greatness for noise. I appreciate the gesture, Achilles. But I do not need your compassion."
He then raised his face toward the sky.
"Besides, you are not the only one who brings a gift."
The firmament cracked.
An incandescent radiance tore through the clouds and, like a rain of stars forged in metal, dozens of weapons began to fall. Swords with multiple edges, spears that flashed like lightning, shields engraved with ancient symbols, maces, bows, axes… All of them embedded themselves into the arena with successive crashes, raising dust and sparks.
The ground transformed into a field of steel.
"You were chosen by your mother, Thetis" Diomedes continued, walking among the weapons as one walks through a familiar hall. "I was chosen by the lord of the forge, Hephaestus. And that… has certain advantages."
He took one of the fallen blades, tested its balance, and let it drop again with disinterest.
"I am not selfish. This blessing will not be mine alone. Choose. Take the weapon that pleases you most."
Achilles surveyed the improvised arsenal with a spark of enthusiasm in his eyes. There was no surprise in his expression, but challenge. He bent down and pulled from the ground a sword whose blade reflected the light as if it were alive. He held it with ease, testing its weight. He smiled, pleased.
"So be it."
Diomedes, for his part, closed his hand around the handle of a single-bladed axe. He lifted it effortlessly; the metal emitted a deep hum, as if recognizing its owner.
For an eternal heartbeat they looked at each other again.
Two veterans. Two unyielding wills. Two different ways of understanding glory.
The wind swept across the arena.
And then, without the need for another word, both advanced at the same time, steel in hand, as if destiny itself had pushed them toward one another.