The early morning in Alexander's camp began with a sense of oppression.
The first to notice the anomaly was Heracles.
The demigod hero possessed the vigilance of a wild beast. When the first light of dawn pierced through the valley mist, he awoke—not from a sound, but from an instinctive perception.
He sat up and surveyed the camp.
Last night, Jason had slept on the cot beside him. Now it was empty, the bedclothes rumpled, the warmth of a body still lingering.
Heracles frowned.
Lately, Jason had been restless, often tossing and turning at night, but he had never disappeared without a word like this.
He rose, donned his leather armor, and stepped out of the tent.
The camp was beginning to stir.
Soldiers silently prepared breakfast, the air filled with the smell of flatbread and salted meat.
Odysseus was studying a map. Thalia crouched by the campfire, trying to light damp wood with her divine power—a trivial task seemingly beneath the notice of the new goddess of emotions.
Cratos sat on a rock in the distance, staring vacantly as he wiped his blade.
"Has anyone seen Jason?" Heracles called out loudly.
Everyone shook their heads. Odysseus looked up. "He didn't return to camp last night?"
"He came back, but he was gone this morning." Heracles walked over to Cratos's tent.
Jason sometimes consulted with Cratos to discuss tactics, though the Avenger rarely responded.
The tent flap was lifted. Empty.
But Heracles keenly noticed that where Cratos usually placed his weapon, the massive 'Wrath of Earth' was missing.
A chill ran down his spine. Heracles spun around and stared at Cratos. "Where is your blade?"
Cratos looked up, his crimson eyes utterly devoid of emotion. "It was stolen."
Three simple words plunged the entire camp into silence.
Odysseus dropped his map and rushed over. "When? By whom?!"
"Midnight." Cratos's voice was calm, as if he were discussing the loss of an ordinary short sword, not a god-slaying weapon.
"Someone came in, took the blade, and left. I did not stop them."
"Why didn't you stop them?! That's our primary weapon against Zeus!" someone demanded.
Cratos looked at them. His gaze stopped the question cold.
"Because," Cratos said slowly, "the one who took it bore the scent of Gaia upon them. And Gaia... is my ally."
Another dead silence. This time, even Odysseus was speechless.
Heracles closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, only cold resolution remained. "It was Jason."
Jason's recent behavior had been too unusual: his complex attitude towards Alexander, his anxiety over his own status, and that sense of urgency, as if he were being pursued by something intangible.
"I'll find him." Heracles turned to leave.
"Wait." Odysseus stopped him, the wise general's face extremely grave.
"If Jason truly betrays us, if he takes the Wrath of Earth, then he has only one purpose..."
They both looked simultaneously towards the main tent at the center of the camp.
It was still quiet. Alexander did not seem to have awakened yet.
"I will check on His Majesty," Odysseus said.
"I'll go after Jason." Heracles clenched his fists. "He can't have gone far. The weight of the Wrath of Earth will slow him down."
"No." The voice came from the direction of the main tent.
Alexander emerged.
He was dressed in a simple linen robe, barefoot, his hair disheveled, but his eyes were clear and sharp—as if he had been awake for a long time, or perhaps had never slept at all.
"Your Majesty," Odysseus stepped forward, "Jason may be—"
"I know." Alexander cut him off. His voice was calm. Terrifyingly calm.
"I knew he would make his move three days ago."
Heracles was stunned. "You... knew?"
Alexander did not answer. He walked to the edge of the camp and gazed into the depths of the valley.
The morning mist shrouded the mountains and forests like pale rivers.
"Don't you think so?" Alexander suddenly asked a seemingly unrelated question.
"That our journey has been too smooth?"
Odysseus frowned. "Smooth? We lost the Spear of Divine Retribution. Our army was nearly annihilated in the Caucasus Mountains. And now even the Wrath of Earth is stolen..."
"No, I don't mean these setbacks." Alexander turned, his eyes profound.
"I mean the 'essence' of it. I, a bastard son of Zeus, appeared from nowhere, unified Greece in just a few years, formed an army capable of challenging the gods, received guidance from Prometheus, secret aid from Athena, and even managed to forge forbidden weapons like the Spear of Divine Retribution..."
He paused, lowering his voice. "All of this has unfolded as smoothly as a well-rehearsed play. And I was merely the actor who happened to be standing at center stage."
Heracles and Odysseus exchanged glances, both seeing the alarm in each other's eyes.
"You mean..." Odysseus ventured, "someone... behind the scenes?"
"Not just pushing from behind." Alexander laughed. "They are 'cultivating'. Like a farmer raising crops, like a craftsman working a piece of material. And I am the chosen ear of wheat, the meticulously forged sword."
He raised his hand, palm up.
A faint, but genuine, golden spark of lightning danced on his fingertips.
Heracles's pupils contracted sharply. "That is... the power of Zeus? But you said your mother was merely a mortal..."
Alexander closed his fist, extinguishing the spark.
"Yes, how is it possible? Yet it happened. I possess his power."
He looked at Odysseus. "Do you remember how the Spear of Retribution was forged? Who told us the method?"
Odysseus's face paled. "It was... an old priest we encountered on the road. He said he had received an oracle in a dream and knew the method for forging this god-slaying weapon. But later we investigated, and that temple had long been abandoned. There was no old priest at all."
"That was an incarnation of Gaia," Alexander said calmly.
"She gave us the means to slay a god. She guided us to gather the resentment of war, taught us to forge despair into a weapon. Why? Because she needed a knife. And I am the hand that holds the knife."
Heracles felt a wave of dizziness. "So, from the very beginning, we were being used? By Gaia, and perhaps even... Prometheus? Athena?"
"All of them." Alexander nodded.
"Everyone is using this drama of 'mortals rising against the gods' to achieve their own ends. Gaia, Prometheus, Athena... I don't know what they ultimately want, but it is certainly far more than they have shown."
He walked over to Cratos. "And you—you are the knife 'Gaia' chose. More direct, more brutal, more uncontrollable. So she gave you the Wrath of Earth, made you the embodiment of pure destruction."
Cratos looked at him, saying nothing.
Alexander then turned to Hermes, the messenger god who had at some point materialized in the shadow of a tent, arms crossed, his usual elusive smile upon his face.
"As for you, Hermes, you are the most interesting variable in this play," Alexander said.
"You pretend to help us, but in reality, you use us for your own purposes. The destruction of the Spear of Retribution, the birth of Alaya Noah, and perhaps even Jason's betrayal... all within your calculations, isn't that right?"
Hermes touched the brim of his hat, his radiant light still dazzling. "Your Majesty overestimates me. I am merely a messenger, running errands."