The meteor fist struck the Eclipse itself.

His fist drew back. The cosmos inside him—that fragile, burning thread—ignited not as a flame, but as a supernova compressed into the size of a child’s heart. The atoms of his broken bones screamed. The shattered Cloth reassembled not around his body, but through it, metal and flesh becoming one absurd, beautiful contradiction.

The Sanctuary bells began to ring. Not in alarm. In defiance.

The punch did not fly upward.

“Get up, Seiya.”

“PEGASUS...”