Not the flashy explosion. The quiet kind. The warmth in the chest of a man who has nothing left but still chooses to stand.
The meteor fist struck the Eclipse itself. Saint Seiya
The voice was a whisper of wind through cyllene trees. Marin. His teacher. Her ghost, or perhaps his own fraying sanity. He coughed, tasted copper. His legs had stopped listening three temples ago. Not the flashy explosion