The clash between the Greek army and Troy resumed once more.
In the midst of the battlefield, Hector, the commander of Troy’s forces, sensed that something was amiss.

"That man over there is the commander of Troy! The one with the shining helmet, Hector!"
"Let’s take Troy by the end of today!!!"

First, the morale of the Greek army was unusually high.
Even if they had killed Paris, the brother of Sparta’s King Menelaus, wasn’t Menelaus supposed to have already returned home?

And then…

"Argh! What is that monster?!"
"He caught an arrow with his bare hands… Is he a god…?"
"He doesn’t even have armor, so why can’t we kill him… Urk!"

Achilles, wreaking havoc at the center of the Greek lines, was at least within the realm of understanding.
Hector acknowledged Achilles’ prowess—it was slightly greater than his own—but it was something he could comprehend.

However, the two other commanders, who appeared to be middle-aged, were a different matter.
One of them, unarmored and unarmed, was charging through the Trojan army with nothing but his bare hands.