Alexander did not press further.
He looked back towards the depths of the valley. "Jason did not take the Wrath of Earth out of betrayal, but because he was 'chosen'—by another will."
"What will happen?" Heracles asked urgently.
"Alaya Noah." Alexander spat out the name.
"The collective will of humanity, the embodiment of civilisation and hope. It needed a knife capable of cutting the 'bonds of the gods', and Jason... a hero full of contradictions, yearning for glory yet cowardly, marginalised—is the perfect puppet."
He looked at Heracles with a rare flicker of guilt in his eyes. "If you go after him, you will only see a stranger wearing Jason's face. Or, more accurately, you will see an empty shell inhabited by the collective will of humanity."
Heracles clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened. "Then we just watch him—"
"No." Alexander shook his head.
"We go, but not to chase him. Instead, we head towards... the destination."
He turned towards the main tent and began to don his armour. "Assemble the team. Travel light. Jason will be heading to the one place where he can utilise the Wrath of Earth's power to its fullest—Mount Olympus."
Odysseus gasped. "He intends to attack the sacred mountain directly? Alone?"
"Not alone." Hermes suddenly spoke, stepping out from the shadows, that familiar smile on his face.
"Alaya Noah will mobilise as much power as it can. Including those mortals, including the remnants of the Titans lurking in the shadows, and perhaps even... some existences we cannot yet imagine."
He looked at Alexander. "Your Majesty, are you certain you wish to go to Olympus now? Zeus has just been through a battle; it is indeed a good time to strike. But it could also be a trap—a trap set by Gaia, by Alaya Noah."
Alexander fastened his helmet and clasped his cloak.
When he looked up again, only a soldier's resolve remained in his eyes.
"Then let it become a trap for everyone," he said.
"In the end, we shall see who has caught whom in their net."
The team was assembled within half an hour.
Aside from essential supplies, they travelled light.
Before leaving, Heracles cast one last look in the direction Jason had taken.
In the morning light, the outlines of the distant mountains were blurred, like a sleeping monster.
"Jason..." he whispered, "what in the world... what did you see?"
---
Twelve hours earlier, late at night.
Jason awoke from a nightmare, drenched in cold sweat.
In the dream, he had returned to the Argo.
But it was not the glorious expedition of his memory. It was a dead sea. The sails were torn, the masts shattered, and strewn across the deck lay the bodies of his comrades—Heracles, Orpheus, Castor, Polydeuces... all dead, their eyes staring vacantly at the grey sky.
And he himself stood at the prow, holding a long sword drenched in blood.
Reflected in the blade was not his own face, but a churning mass of countless human faces, constantly shifting.
"You are the bridge." The voice was a harmony of hundreds of millions.
"The bridge connecting the old era and the new. The gods are dying. Mortals must rise. And you, Jason, will strike the death knell yourself."
He tried to drop the sword, but his hand would not obey.
The tip of the blade rose, pointing towards Mount Olympus in the distance.
The gods on the mountain were feasting, oblivious to the approaching doom.
"Raise this blade." The voice of the cloud-mass pierced to his very marrow.
"The blade forged from the earth's resentment. Use it to sever the final chains. Then, at the dawn of the new age, you will be the hero—the true hero, not a name fabricated to please the gods, but a hero of humanity itself."
The dream ended there.
Jason sat up, gasping.
The sounds of the night watch came from outside the camp. The campfire crackled. Everything was so real, so normal.
But the feeling from the dream lingered—the sensation of expansion, of being filled by countless wills, of a purpose both noble and terrifying, nearly bursting his very shell.
He rose silently, careful not to disturb the sleeping Heracles.
As he stepped out of the tent, the cold night wind made him shiver.
Under the moonlight, the camp resembled a sleeping tomb.
He walked towards Cratos's tent.
It went smoothly. Cratos seemed to be in a deep sleep—or rather, he simply did not care that someone was approaching.
The Wrath of Earth leaned against the tent entrance, its dark crimson blade gleaming like blood in the moonlight.
Jason reached out. The moment his fingers touched the hilt, a surge of fierce resentment shot through his arm.
Countless images exploded in his mind: all the injustice and pain the earth had endured for millennia, turning into hot magma and flooding his veins.
He nearly screamed, but gritted his teeth and held it in.
In his head, the cloud-mass surfaced again.
"Endure." Alaya Noah's voice sounded directly in his consciousness.
"This is humanity's suffering, and humanity's strength. Turn this resentment into a blade, and strike down those who inflict the suffering."
Jason gripped the hilt.
The blade was heavy—so heavy it seemed difficult to even lift.
But he did not put it down. He strained, pulling the blade free from the earth, and carried it on his shoulder.
Leaving the camp, he cast one last glance back.
Heracles's tent stood silent. The best friend who had always trusted him, who had always protected him unconditionally, was now asleep.
Forgive me, Heracles. Jason murmured in his heart.
But some roads must be walked alone.
He turned and stepped into the depths of the mountains and forests.
His steps were heavy, each one leaving a deep impression in the earth.
As he walked, Jason felt his consciousness being diluted.
Personal memories, emotions, desires—they were washed away by the tide, like a sandcastle.
In their place, he saw the entire history of human civilisation: from obscurity to enlightenment, from tribes to city-states, from being shepherds of the gods to attempting to break free from their chains.
"Very good." Alaya Noah's voice sounded again, this time with approval.
Jason looked up.
Ahead, silhouetted against the night, rose Mount Olympus. The temples on the peak were brightly lit, faint music drifting down.
The gods were still feasting, knowing nothing of the coming judgement.
He gripped the Wrath of Earth. The resentment on the blade resonated with the human will within his body, emitting a low hum.
The hum spread through the mountains and forests, startling the night birds, unsettling the sleeping beasts.
---
Far away, in the camp, Alexander suddenly opened his eyes.
"It begins." Alexander whispered, lightning flickering in his gaze.
---
On the peak of Mount Olympus, 'Zeus', who had just returned to his palace, suddenly looked up.
He rose and walked to the palace terrace.
The night wind whipped through his torn robes, revealing the unhealed wounds beneath.
At the base of the mountain, a dark crimson light was slowly rising.
Like a retrograde meteor, like a drop of blood seeping from the earth's wound, it climbed up the mountain ridge.
"Come." He muttered under his breath, the lightning in his eyes flaring again, this time with pure killing intent.
"Whether it is Gaia or some new trinket, I will grind you... to dust."
---
The night was deep. Olympus waited in silence.
The dark crimson point of light at the mountain's base drew closer and closer. The lightning at the mountain's peak blazed brighter and brighter.
In some dimension between them, countless eyes watched this impending collision: Gaia smiled in her temple at Delphi; Hades observed from his throne in the Underworld; Hermes calculated in the shadows of the camp; Alexander pondered in the marching column.
And Jason, step by step, began his path of god-slaying.
His personal consciousness had faded, leaving only one clear instruction:
Sever the chains.
Or die with them.