It was too warm, too thick, too final as it ran down the cracked marble of the Sanctuary steps. Pegasus Seiya lay on his back, the shattered remains of his Gold Cloth glinting like dying stars around him. The sky above was a bruise of violet and black—the Solar Eclipse, unnatural and absolute, devouring Helios himself.
“Strike.”
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
“Get up, Seiya.”