The Tribunal's hand came down.
He did not rush it.
He did not need to.
That was what made it so terrible.
Every god moving toward Him felt it in their bones before the strike even landed. The kind of certainty that did not ask whether you could survive. It simply arrived already knowing the answer.
Wukong got there first anyway.
Of course he did.
Half his staff was broken. One shoulder was hanging wrong. Blood matted his fur. His grin was thinner now, more vicious than playful, but it was still there. He launched himself straight at the Tribunal's chest, spinning the ruined staff in both hands like he could still bully the universe into making sense.
"Oi!" he shouted. "The big ugly hand stays away from my ride!"
He brought the staff down with everything left in him.
The Tribunal didn't even look at him.
One of the three faces remained on the crater where Zeus lay.
One hand rose.
Not the hand that was coming down to end things.
The other one.
