The Alcmenes apparently also noticed their son's artistic attainments.
In other words, there is a serious lack of attainments.
That night, Alcmene pulled Amphitreon aside and lowered his voice. But Hercules'
ears were so good that he could hear clearly through the three walls.
"Look at the good things you taught."
"What's wrong with me?"
"That painting." Alcmene's voice was angry, "That little man, is that called
painting?"
"I think it's okay..."
"Is it okay?" Alcmene's voice rose, "What did your own ability, half a bottle of
water still sway, destroy my son's artistic cells?" "
Amphitreon was silent for a moment.
"Does he have such a thing as an art cell?"
"Of course there is!" Alcmene said, "Every child has it!" It's just that it wasn't
discovered! "
"Then how do you know he has?"
"Because he is my son."
Amphitreon fell silent again.
Hercules lay in his room, listening to this conversation, the corners of his mouth
twitching.
He really doesn't have such a thing as an art cell. He knows better than anyone
else. Those matchstick villains are already the highest level he can come up with.
So, the best teachers of Thebes were invited into the palace.
The person who taught writing was an old man with gray hair and beard, who is said to have carved inscriptions for the temple. His fingers are slender and stable,
and his pen holding posture is very elegant. He looked at Hercules' words, was
silent for a long time, and then said: "There is salvation." "
The one who taught painting was a young man, who is said to have come from Athens and studied under a famous school. He looked at Hercules' painting, was
silent for a long time, and then said, "... I will do my best. "
The music was taught by a blind old man. His eyes were invisible, but the
moment his fingers touched the strings, the whole room fell silent. He asked
Hercules to play a passage, and after listening, he nodded.
"It's very strong."
Hercules waits for the following.
The blind old man paused and added: "Other aspects, let's not mention them for
the time being." "
Hercules:
Professionals are definitely different.
Hercules had to admit this.
The experienced teacher started by teaching him the most basic strokes, practicing each one carefully and repeatedly. His fingers were still strong.
But they learned to control it. The lines on the parchment began to become regular, and those once crooked marks gradually became...
Got the rules.
The young man from Athens taught him to observe. Not to look at the pottery jar, but to observe its shape, the interplay of light and shadow with the surrounding space.
The relationship between them. Hercules realized for the first time that painting was not just about depicting things, but about making what he saw visible to others.
The blind old man taught him to listen. To listen to the sound of the vibrating strings, to listen to his own heartbeat. His fingers were still strong, but he had learned how much force to use.
"Your strength is innate," said the blind old man, "but strength isn't everything. Like this harp, you use only a fraction of it."
"Force, it gives you three notes. If you use ten points of force, it gives you ten notes. But if you use twelve points of force—" He reached out and gently pressed his hand on the strings.
"It just broke."
Hercules remained silent, gazing at the lyre string.
"Learn to control it," the blind old man said. "It's not about taking your power back, but about putting it where it should be."
direction.
Those teachers are indeed very capable.
Hercules could feel his own progress. His handwriting became neater, his drawings were more recognizable, and his piano playing improved.
The strings wouldn't break so easily anymore. More importantly, he felt his mindset had become much more peaceful.
The anger will still linger. That force will still surge within me, like an eternally flowing river. But now...
He learned to think of something else when anger surged within him.
I remembered my father's words. I remembered my mother's smile. I remembered the unbridled joy Iphicles showed each time he embraced him.
The reliance that remains. It reminds me of what the blind old man said—"Place your strength where it should be placed."
Theoretically speaking, he shouldn't get angry so easily anymore.
Approximately
Days passed by like this.
When Hercules was ten years old, he stood on the roof of the palace.
This is the tallest building in Thebes. Standing here, you can overlook the entire city and see into the distance.
The mountains offer a view of the distant horizon.
The setting sun was turning the entire sky red.
Hercules' appearance was now indistinguishable from that of an ordinary sixteen or seventeen-year-old boy. His hair was thicker than when he was a child.
The sun had set a little late, and the skin swayed gently in the evening breeze. Its bronze skin shimmered faintly in the sunset, as if coated with a silvery glow.
A layer of pale gold.
Tight muscles covered his increasingly robust body; they were smooth, taut lines that contained astonishing power.
He wore a simple, belted short robe, revealing his arms and calves, where every muscle undulated perfectly.
Those eyes were golden, a mark left from the day he awakened. Normally, he would conceal them, making them a slightly lighter color. But when he was alone, when he was off guard, that gold would quietly emerge, shining brightly deep within his pupils.
At this moment, those golden eyes are gazing at the sky.
At the edge of the sky, there is the silhouette of a mountain.
It hangs in the sky, above the clouds, sometimes visible, sometimes hidden. Sometimes you can see it, sometimes you can't. But now...
The sky was exceptionally clear. Those majestic temples, those towering peaks, those places only gods could tread, hung right above his head.
Olympus.
Hercules stared at it, bewildered.
As a child, he had wondered which part of Greece he was in. Was it the orthodox mythological world, or...?
That reinterpreted world he had seen on screen?
Now he knows.
This appearance, this face, this increasingly robust body—he had seen it before. In that anime, in those games. He knew what he would become.
Shaped moon Greece.
He blinked and looked at the mountain that seemed to hang in the sky.
The Greek gods in Type-Moon are all alien beings. They are not born deities, but rather machines that descended from distant stars.
Mechanical creations. They took human form and ruled the earth in the appearance of gods, but their true nature was those enormous, cold machines from the depths of the starry sea.
Hercules suddenly became curious.
I wonder if I'll ever have the chance to see those main gods in their mecha forms?
"I wonder if we'll ever see each other again," he muttered to himself.
As for the Throne of Heroes ———
He gazed at the illusory silhouette of the mountain, contemplating that distant existence.
Will I be able to ascend to the Throne of Heroes someday?
In the Type-Moon universe, heroes ascend to the Throne of Heroes after death, becoming summonable Servants. They will dedicate their most...
Its magnificent form was recorded and became an eternal legend.
In what form will it be recorded?
Berserker?
still----
He shook his head, trying to banish these chaotic thoughts.
Why do you think so much?
Those things happen after death.
He's still alive, only ten years old, and has plenty of time to squander.
Hercules lay on the rooftop as the sunset faded and night slowly fell. The stars began to shine in the sky.
Arise, one, two, countless.
He gazed at the stars and recalled the Milky Way that Hera had raised.
That woman...
She was really gentle when she hugged him that day.
He remembers that embrace.
Warm, soft, like any mother holding her child.
But she also sent those two poisonous snakes. 1r5Rp
She hated his existence, and hated him for representing her husband's betrayal.
But when she hugged him, fed him, and gave him stars, those tenderness were
also true.
Hercules closed his eyes and let the evening breeze blow through his face.
Ten years old.
There is still a long way to go.
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