"This is impossible!"
Antiope erupted like a leaping panther, her body taut with fury. Muscles swelled beneath her skin, fists clenched, eyes wide with rage as she roared.
They believed in the Olympian gods. They were warriors forged by the gods. From birth, they had been shaped to serve, to battle. Fighting was in their bones. To submit, to serve Bardi, to become his subordinates—it was unthinkable.
The Amazon warriors would never bow to the power of a foreign being. No matter how strong Bardi was, Amazons did not fear power.
They had never feared battle, nor death. To fall in combat was an honor, the most fitting end.
To demand their surrender was as impossible as asking them to touch the sky.
"Barmulodi, are you declaring war on us?"
"The Amazons do not fear war!"
Antiope's voice was cold, her expression seething with fury. Bardi's demand had ignited her ferocity, the instinctive flame of a warrior unshaken by power.
It was clear now. Bardi would not release Diana. And the Amazons, regardless of her capture, would never surrender.
In their hearts, even for Diana, defeat and death in battle were honors. That Amazonian sense of pride and purpose ran deep in their blood.
Bardi sipped his wine slowly. The Amazons' obstinance suggested there was no hope of bending this race to his will.
If so, then they would disappear.
Bardi gently swirled the wine in his glass as he considered.
Just then, Artemis, waiting outside the door, heard Antiope's furious voice. She understood at once—negotiations had failed.
Bang!
The heavy, luxurious wooden door slammed open, the panels rebounding off the wall with a thunderous sound.
Artemis and Phillipus marched inside behind Antiope, their movements crisp, their gazes burning with rage. Their muscles were tense, their posture hostile.
Tension filled the air. In the spacious office, the sunlight fell on the three Amazon warriors. Their strong, sculpted forms radiated beauty and power. Their presence was sharp and unyielding.
They stood tall, displaying their fearlessness. No matter how powerful Bardi was, they would not cower or yield.
Even if they were to die here and now, crushed beneath Bardi's might, they would face death with pride. With every drop of Amazonian blood, they would resist, never surrendering.
"Very good! I admire those unafraid of death!"
Bardi emptied the goblet in one smooth motion, laughing quietly, his voice full of mockery and praise.
But death was too simple.
In this world, some things were far more hopeless than death.
He lifted his hand.
Snap.
With a crisp snap of his fingers, the cold and elegant Hera entered. Her waist swayed with feline grace, glasses perched on her sharp, delicate face. She walked silently to Bardi's side, awaiting his command.
"Activate the projection. Go to Pamela's and pick some watermelons and fruit for our guests."
Hera obeyed and exited, closing the door behind her.
Antiope did not understand what Bardi was doing. They were one step away from war, and yet he was... serving fruit?
What was the point?
Suddenly, the floor-to-ceiling windows began to darken from the edges. Layers of black tinted the composite glass like a curtain being drawn. The sunlight was completely blocked out, plunging the room into shadow.
"Barmulodi, what are you doing?"
Antiope's voice was tight with suspicion.
She truly could not predict what Bardi intended. His personality shifted so often that reading him, guessing his intentions, was impossible.
Bardi set down his goblet and gestured politely toward the sofa, inviting them to sit.
The three Amazons ignored him. Their expressions were stormy. Their bodies were tense, ready to strike at any moment. Artemis gripped the hilt at her waist, prepared to launch an attack that could flip the room. Phillipus turned sideways, fists clenched and prepared.
The atmosphere teetered on the edge of detonation.
Bardi's smile did not change. His narrowed eyes glinted with cold amusement.
Just then, Hera returned with a large tray of freshly prepared fruit.
Grapes, apples, pears, cantaloupe, watermelon, strawberries—every kind of fruit gleamed with fresh, vibrant color. The arrangement was artistic and pleasant to the eye.
Bardi instructed Hera to remain and serve.
Without a word, Hera peeled grapes with her fair fingers, removing the seeds. Then she took a knife, halved the watermelon, and sliced one half into neat, bite-sized pieces.
The other half, she scooped with a silver spoon—carefully wiped with a white handkerchief—to serve directly to Bardi. Each bite was perfectly portioned to avoid splatter, easy to eat, and neatly shaped.
The three Amazons watched with angry, unreadable expressions. They still refused to sit, unsure of what Bardi was playing at.
But Bardi remained calm. With a smile, he walked to the blackened window.
He raised both hands and snapped his fingers again.
In the darkened room, his skin glowed pale like jade, luminous against the shadows. His smile shone in the dimness, bright as sunlight.
"Everyone... I invite you to a live broadcast."
"The fall of Paradise Island. The epic disaster film of the century. A tale of meaningless sacrifice."
"Can modern human technology penetrate the magical barrier of divine power left by Zeus?"
"A confrontation between man and god. The brilliance of human creativity, or the invincibility of divine power?"
Bardi announced like an emcee opening a theatrical premiere, gleefully presenting the film's opening act.
His mood was disturbingly bright. To people like Diana and the Amazons—those who refused to recognize him—he had always been cruel. Cruelty was how he inspired fear. Tyranny was how he instilled reverence.
But few appreciated this performance.
Only Hera applauded, the crisp sound echoing. She looked at Bardi with admiration and devotion.
Bardi smiled at her in return. Then he stepped away from the glass, walked to the sofa, and flicked his windbreaker behind him as he sat beside Hera. He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her close.
Hera shifted her posture accordingly. Her black skirt tightened around her hips, her legs wrapped in sheer black stockings pressed against his. Her shirt stretched over her chest, pressed snug against Bardi's side. Her scent drifted faintly into his nose.
And as she fed him grapes with her pale fingers, her body leaned warmly against his. The scene was indulgent, almost obscene in its comfort.
"Barmulodi! What are you trying to do?!"
Antiope shouted, eyes blazing with fury. Bardi's mockery of Paradise Island, his insult to the Amazons, his performance—it was unbearable.
But just as she was about to erupt.
The film began.
Antiope forced herself to suppress her rage and turned toward the projection on the glass.
The camera began from space, showing Earth as a glowing blue sphere. It slowly zoomed in, passing through the atmosphere and clouds, descending over glimmering oceans. Dolphins leapt through the waves.
And through the haze, amidst white clouds, it appeared—a verdant, isolated island.
Paradise Island.
Antiope's heart sank.
Then, a deep male voice echoed throughout the space, low and gravelly, narrating solemnly:
"Paradise Island, a secluded paradise."
"This ancient island, also known as Themyscira, was created by Zeus, king of the Olympian gods."
"The island was built for his beloved, to shield Queen Hippolyta and her daughter, Diana Prince, from the wrath of the goddess."
"There was a tragic entanglement, a heartbreak that led Hippolyta and Diana to retreat to Paradise Island to avoid divine punishment."
"Unfortunately, the proud and unyielding Amazons have provoked the wrath of His Majesty Barmulodi."
"And today, Paradise Island will face the might of human technology."
"How many nuclear bombs can the Amazon warriors withstand beneath the divine magic shield of Themyscira? When that moment comes, what fate awaits them?"
"Will they fall? Will they vanish? Or will they become nothing more than a name in history?"
"Let us watch."
"One day... as Paradise Island becomes the greatest disaster film of the century—leveled to nothing."
(To be continued.)