Well, imagine the sky dimming to a twilight stage, the golden lyre of Apollo shimmering in the dim glow. Zeus, ever the showman, would trumpet a thunderous aria, his voice rumbling like a storm. Apollo would follow with a melodic hymn, his notes as pure as a sunrise over Olympus. And Hades, that dark judge with a fondness for irony, would sit in the underworld, a flickering torch in hand, flipping a coin of fate. He'd critique the performances, perhaps laughing at Zeus’s booming ego, or praising Apollo’s celestial grace. In the end, the victor would be the one who could keep the audience in awe without drowning the others—a real test of mythic talent.