Since I was a child, I have been practicing.
Writing. Draw. Music.
Now, he is quite confident in his ability in these aspects.
The handwriting is neat and beautiful, although it is not as good as those masters
of temple inscriptions, but it can be regarded as a good hand. The painting can be painted decently, at least it will not make people unrecognizable what the painting is.
Music - music is what he is most proud of. He has never forgotten what the blind old man taught him back then. After learning to control the force, the strings will never break again. The song that pops up, although not very subtle, can at least
be heard.
These are the results of his efforts.
Fighting is innate.
Blood is innate.
Strength is innate.
But those words, those paintings, those tunes - they were practiced by him stroke by stroke, popping out over and over again. It was he who used his hands that could tear apart beasts, carefully holding a small charcoal pen, and grinding it out little by little.
Thinking of this, Hercules felt a little proud in his heart.
On this day, he walked alone into the forest behind the palace. Sunlight shines through the gaps in the leaves, casting mottled light and shadow
on the ground. Birds chirp on the branches, insects chirp in the grass, and occasionally a few small beasts poke their heads out of the bushes and then retract again.
Hercules stood in the glade and took a deep breath.
He wanted to try his hand at another artistic accomplishment - vocal music. The blind old man once said that music is not only the sound on the strings, but
also the sound in the throat. The human voice is the oldest musical instrument and is a gift bestowed upon everyone by the gods. Learn to use it and you will be
able to make the whole forest accompany you.
Hercules always wanted to try.
The weather is good today, the sun is shining, and the birds are singing and the flowers are fragrant. There are no people in the forest, and it doesn't scare anyone.
Just right.
He cleared his throat. Recalling the techniques taught by the blind old man - the breath should start from the dantian, the voice should resonate in the chest, the head should be
slightly raised, and the throat should be relaxed.
Then he opened his mouth.
"roar!!!"
The moment that sound burst from his throat, Hercules knew—
It's broken.
Forgot to control the volume.
The treetops shook violently. Leaves fell in a rustling sound.
The birds that were singing in the branches stopped abruptly, and their bodies fell straight down from the trees. One of them...
Two, three.
It fell to the ground with a crackling sound, like rain.
The little animal in the grass rolled its eyes and collapsed to the ground.
Wild beasts howled and scattered in the distance, their footsteps fading into the distance.
Hercules' voice abruptly stopped.
He stood there, staring at the bird carcasses scattered on the ground, his lips twitching.
There was silence for a long time.
He crouched down, picked up a bird, and examined it closely.
It's still hot.
"Never mind," he muttered to himself, putting the bird into the cloth bag he carried with him. "Roasting birds tonight." He picked them up one by one, and the bag was soon full.
The birds shook quite evenly; some died instantly, some were still convulsing, and some were just unconscious. Hera
Kles picked up the unconscious bird too. Since it would have been snatched away by something else anyway, he might as well roast it. After collecting the bird, he stood up, looked at the bare treetops and the empty forest, and guiltily touched his nose.
child.
next time.
I'll definitely control the volume next time.
Art teachers have come and gone.
The old teacher who taught Hercules to write passed away peacefully when Hercules was eleven years old. Before he died, he held Hercules' hand...
Hercules' hand gesture said, "Your handwriting is legible now." Hercules didn't know if this was a compliment or something else, but he thanked him sincerely nonetheless.
The Athenian art teacher left when he was twelve. He had saved enough money to travel to the East, to see the legendary lands and what their art was like. Before leaving, he gave Heracles a gift.
Hercules painted a picture—a picture of Hercules as a child, looking troubled at a clay pot. Hercules looked at the painting and remained silent for a long time.
"Am I that stupid?"
The young man from Athens smiled, said nothing, shouldered his bag, and left. The blind old music teacher died when he was fourteen. He died peacefully in his bed. Death...
Before that, he left his lyre to Heracles.
"This violin has been with me for many years," he said. "Now I'm giving it to you."
Hercules took the lyre without saying a word.
"Remember," the blind old man's voice was weak, "place your strength where it should be." Hercules nodded.
The old man couldn't see, but he smiled and then closed his eyes.
Hercules kept that lyre.
He would occasionally take it out and play the tunes that the old man had taught him.
A new music teacher has arrived.
He was a middle-aged man, around forty years old, with a thin face and a lingering melancholy in his eyes. He introduced himself as Ades, saying he came from Corinth, was a master of music, proficient in several instruments, and quite famous among his peers.
Hercules found him rather strange when they first met.
When that person's gaze fell upon him, it carried something indescribable. It wasn't respect, nor fear, nor the look a teacher should give a student; that gaze seemed piercing.
It's like I've known him for a long time.
Hercules didn't care, after all, he was quite a celebrity in Thebes, and it was rare for anyone not to recognize him.
number.
"Your Highness Hercules." Ades gave a slight bow, the angle of which was so small as to be almost negligible.
"From today onwards, I will teach you music."
Hercules looked at him and nodded.
"Good work."
In the days that followed, Hercules quickly learned his new teacher's style. Ades was indeed capable.
His understanding of music was profound; the moment his fingers touched the strings, the entire room would fall silent.
He could play melodies that brought tears to people's eyes, and he could also play battle anthems that ignited people's passion. He knew the temperament of every instrument, how every note should rise and fall, and how every melody should be played out. But at the same time, his temper was also astonishingly bad.
"Wrong!
The pointer lashed out sharply across Hercules' fingers, producing a crisp snap.
Hercules paused, looking at the note he had just pressed.
"How many times have I told you? This sound must be soft, gentle, as light as dew falling on a leaf!" Ades
The sound was sharp and piercing. "What are you playing? A stone hitting the ground?"
Hercules took a deep breath.
"I'll try again."
"Try? How many times have you tried?" Ades sneered. "A prince of Thebes, after studying music for so many years, is this all you've got? What were your teachers like? Were they all useless?" Hercules's fingers tightened slightly.
But he didn't move.
He simply lowered his head, placed his fingers back on the strings,
"I keep practicing.
"Practice?" Ades scoffed. "You could practice your whole life and that would be all you'd achieve. Some things are innate, you know? If you don't have that talent, all your practice will be a waste of time."
Hercules did not speak.
He played.
Played the wrong note, got scolded. Played it again, made another mistake, got scolded again.
Sometimes Ades's curses were so harsh that even the servants outside the door frowned, but he didn't care. He just sat there, practicing and playing over and over again, enduring those harsh words.
Sometimes Hercules even began to wonder if this guy was the music teacher whom Hercules killed in the original mythology, but the name was wrong; the guy who was killed was named Rinos.
Regardless, Hercules tried his best to control himself, believing he wouldn't kill him, after all, it was merely...
The teaching is just a bit stricter,
Hercules felt he could endure it.
That night, Iphicles sneaked into his room.
"Little brother, did that teacher scold you?"
Hercules leaned against the window, gazing at the moon outside.
"Um."
"Then why aren't you angry?" Iphicles climbed onto his bed, sat beside him, and looked up at him. "You..."
"He's so strong, why don't you just throw him out?"
Hercules turned his head and looked at his cheap older brother.
Sixteen-year-old Iphicles was already a handsome young man, having grown considerably taller, but standing beside Hera...
He was still shorter than Klesi. His face still bore traces of baby fat, his eyes bright and full of worry.
Worried,
Hercules reached out and rubbed his head.
"He is truly capable."
"But..."
"His skill is real, but his temper is fake," Hercules said. "He scolded me because I didn't play well enough."
That wasn't a personal grudge, it was just one of his flaws.
Iphicles looked at him, seemingly understanding but not quite.
"So you're just going to put up with it like this?"
Hercules paused for a moment.
"It's not about enduring," he said, "it's about training."
He remembered what his father had taught him.
His fists were a last resort, not the first. He remembered the blind old man's words: learn to control yourself.
Put your energy where it's needed.
As the insults surged up, he could feel that familiar anger welling up inside him. It was like a head being...
The awakened beast wanted to rush out and tear the person who had uttered those malicious words to pieces.
But he always manages to suppress it.
Because he felt that it wasn't real anger.
That was just the restlessness of the power within him. Ades's words were harsh, but he was right. Those criticisms, those corrections, those repeated accusations...
—————It did indeed improve his piano skills.
That's enough.
"If he saves the time he would spend swearing on teaching me, I'd actually benefit," Hercules said.
Iphicles paused for a moment, then burst out laughing.
"Little brother, you have a really interesting way of speaking."
Hercules chuckled and continued rubbing his head.
Days passed by like this.
Ades's insults continued, and so did Hercules's patience. He found himself increasingly able to control his anger; when the insults surged forth, he could even listen without expression and then continue practicing.
piano.
This reminded him of the blind old man's words: "Power is not everything. Learning to control is not about taking back your power, but about putting it where it should be."
direction.
Perhaps, this short-tempered teacher is also a gift from fate.
Let him practice how to control himself.
How to remain calm while that beast roars.
How to channel anger where it should be channeled.
Hercules believed he would eventually be able to control his anger, which might allow him to avoid the rages of his original mythology.
crazy.
That evening, Hercules sat again on the roof of the palace. The sun was setting, and in the distant fields, farmers were gathering their tools to go home. Smoke rose from the chimneys of their chimneys.
The rooftops rose and drifted into the twilight. Hercules gazed at all this and suddenly felt a pang of emotion.
Sixteen years.
He had lived in this world for sixteen years. Those once thrilling events—the assassination attempt at his birth, the attack by the venomous snakes, the loss of control of the carriage—were all gone.
That was a long time ago.
Life is peaceful now, with sunrises and sunsets, flowers blooming and fading, each day much the same as the last. He likes this kind of life.
He loved his mother's warm smile every day when he saw her, and he loved his father's rough hands when he patted his shoulder. He loved that silly boy Iphicles, who, even though he was much shorter than him, still liked to run over and hug him.
He reached out his arm and called out, "Little brother, play with me!"
I like these ordinary, trivial, and insignificant daily moments.
But he knew that such days wouldn't last long.
He is Hercules.
That name itself is a declaration of destiny. He will leave this place, he will undergo the twelve trials, he will become a legendary hero. Perhaps he will even become like a god.
As he implied, he did things that he would regret for the rest of his life.
He didn't know if those things would happen, or how much his fate overlapped with the original myth.
All he knew was that a storm was coming.
That vague premonition had been lingering in his heart for a long time.
Like the sweltering heat before a storm, it's hard to describe, but you can definitely feel it. Hercules gazed at the last rays of sunset on the horizon and sighed softly.
"I hope it lasts longer."
He whispered.
Even if it's just a little longer.
Let him see his mother's smile more, feel his father's hand on his shoulder, and
be shouted "brother" by the silly boy Iphicles holding his arm a few times. Just a little more.
The evening breeze blows on his face, carrying the aroma of crops in the fields.
It was dark.
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