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Ades had known Hercules for a long time. This name is known to almost everyone on the land of Greece. The son of the god king Zeus, the queen of Thebes Alcmene - the rumors about his birth, the stories about his divine power as an infant, have long spread throughout every city-state. The first time Ades heard the name, he was sitting in a tavern in Corinth drinking. The merchant at the next table was talking about the prodigy of Thebes, saying that the child could strangle a viper when he was bom, and that the child tore up a
mad horse with his bare hands when he was six years old.
"That child may become a big hero." The businessman sighed, his eyes full of
Ades held the wine glass, and a sneer appeared on the cor of his mouth. Son of God.
Another Son of God. 115Rp
He had seen too many of them. Zeus showed mercy everywhere, and the land of Greece was full of his blood. Those demigods, some became heroes, some became jokes, and some died in obscurity in some unknown corner, like a meteor across the night sky, and then forgotten by everyone.
But this Hercules seems to be different.
Those rumors are becoming more and more bizarre and exaggerated. Some say he was able to fight lions with his bare hands at the age of ten, others say his eyes turn golden when angry, and some say he is destined to accomplish feats that mortals cannot accomplish. Ades listened to these ru and an indescribable complex emotion welled up in his heart. 115Rp
That child has countless times more noble blood than him. Son of the god king Zeus. The oldest power of Olympus flows through him. He could have looked down on all living beings and looked down on the world like a real god.
But what is the child doing according to rumors?
Learn to write. Learn to draw. Learn music.
Like a mortal, learn things that are useless to you.
Ades thought it was ridiculous.
It's ridiculous. So he came. He offered to be Hercules' music teacher. He had enough fame, his ability was enough, and those Thebeans had no reason to refuse. He wanted to with his eyes the of the god king.
He wanted to tell him personally what the path of the Son of God should take
That day, Ades stood before Hercules for the first time.
The boy was taller than he had imagined. He looked to be sixteen or seventeen, but he was already as robust as an adult man.
His skin was bronze, his muscles firm and flowing, every line as if sculpted by a knife. His eyes appeared somewhat pale, but Ades knew that beneath them lay a golden glint.
He bowed slightly, though the angle was so small as to be almost negligible, as a gesture toward the bloodline within Hercules. "Your Highness Hercules. From this day forward, I will teach you music."
of respect.
Hercules looked at him and nodded.
"Thank you."
Ades stared at that calm face, a strange anger rising within him.
This boy, this boy with the blood of a god-king, was so docile. He stood there, like any other...
An ordinary student, waiting for the teacher's guidance.
There was no arrogance, no disdain, not even the aloofness one would expect from a demigod in his eyes. He simply looked calmly at Ades, waiting for him to speak. Ades gripped the pointer in his hand tightly.
In the days that followed, that anger grew stronger and stronger.
Hercules sat before him, and with hands capable of tearing apart beasts, carefully plucked the strings. He learned...
He was very serious; if he made a mistake, he would start over; if he was scolded, he would bow his head and never argue back or get angry.
Ades looked at him as if he were an utterly foolish wastrel.
Those hands, which should have held weapons, should have torn apart enemies, should have created legends on the battlefield. But now, they were clumsily pressing the strings, trying to play the simplest melody. That heart, which should have been filled with the desire for battle, should have burned with the ambition to conquer, should have pursued the divine...
Its glory. And at this moment, it is filled with those pointless human emotions—the attachment to that mortal mother, the...
The respect he showed to his mortal father, and his indulgence towards his foolish mortal older brother.
Ades had seen him playing with Iphicles in the courtyard. The silly boy clung to his arm, practically hanging on him, calling out, "Little brother, play with me!" And Heracles, the son of the god-king, just let him hang on like that, even reaching out to ruffle his hair.
Ades stood in the shadow of the colonnade, watching this scene unfold.
mortal.
Iphicles was mortal, Amphitryon was mortal, and Alcmene—the one who gave birth to him—was mortal.
Women are only human, too.
Hercules, however, was bound by the emotions of these mortals, willingly mingling with them and being...
They drag.
He is going astray.
Ardes knew this.
The Son of God should not be like this,
Ades was the son of Apollo, the sun god, and the god of music—the one who shone brightly on Mount Olympus.
The existence is his father.
But so what?
His mother was an ordinary person.
The woman he had loathed since he was old enough to understand, she gave him life, and also this body that would age.
With her mortal blood, she dragged him into this damned fate.
Demigod.
He is a demigod.
Neither a god nor a human,
He possessed a divine gift—an innate musical talent, the ability to know exactly what to do the moment his fingers touched the strings.
How to play is an instinct. No one taught him, and he didn't need to be taught. It's something etched in his blood, something Apo...
The gifts bestowed upon him by the blood of Luo.
But he also possesses everything that is human.
Vulnerable. Aging. Death.
He's getting older every day. Wrinkles are creeping around his eyes, his skin is starting to sag, and his hands are no longer what they used to be.
He grew tall and strong. He looked at himself in the bronze mirror, watching that face, so similar to Apollo's in his youth, grow stronger day by day.
Decline, and the hatred in my heart grew wildly like weeds.
He hates that woman.
He hated her for bringing him into this world and giving him this body destined to decay.
He hates himself too.
I hate myself for not being able to be like a true god, forever young and immortal.
But what he hated even more were those ordinary people.
Those ordinary people who spend their entire lives searching for the meaning of their existence.
Ades had seen far too many people like this. They lived, busy, chasing after those ephemeral, intangible things.
Wealth, fame, love, family—they believed these were the meaning of life, that as long as they obtained these...
These things can prove that you have lived.
But they were wrong.
Those things are all fake.
They were all lying to themselves.
Because mortal life is inherently meaningless; they are born, grow up, grow old, and die—like the animals in the field.
Grass sprouts in spring, withers in autumn, and is then forgotten. What they searched for their entire lives simply does not exist.
They simply refuse to acknowledge their insignificance and meaninglessness, so they desperately try to find reasons to keep living.
But Ades is different,
He doesn't need to search for meaning.
Because his significance was etched into his blood from the moment he was born.
music.
He was born with a musical talent; it wasn't something he learned or practiced, it was innate, like a bird's natural gift.
Just as fish are born to fly and swim, he was born to use the strings of a musical instrument to express everything.
This is God, born with authority.
This is what sets him apart from ordinary people.
Ordinary people spend their entire lives asking themselves, "Who am I?" and "Why am I alive?" But he never needs to ask those questions.
He knows who he is.
He knows why he lives.
So when he saw Hercules, that boy with perfect divine blood who lived like a mortal...
At that moment, the anger almost burned him through.
He is wasting.
He is wasting his noble bloodline, wasting his innate talent, wasting what should have made him a god.
Everything.
He is learning to draw.
He is learning to write.
He was embracing and hugging those ordinary people, just like any other mediocre person, caught up in those unspoken emotions.
Fill up.
Doesn't he know what his significance is?
Could he not feel the power surging within his blood, calling him to embark on his own path?
Just as music meant so to him, battle and glory were the meanings bestowed upon him by the Hercules bloodline.
Can it be so wasteful?
Or should I say————
He doesn't care at all?
That night, Ades sat alone in his room, staring blankly at the bronze mirror.
The bronze mirror reflected the face of a middle-aged man, his features thin, his eyes gloomy, and fine wrinkles beginning to creep around his eyes.
Wrinkles. He raised his hand, touched his cheek, then turned his hand over to look at the back of it.
Those hands.
The once long and strong hands have now begun to sag. The skin is no longer firm, and the joints are faintly visible.
I could see the bulging veins, and the once delicate lines on my fingertips were gradually becoming rough.
He is old again.
Getting older every day.
Adez stared at the hands, then suddenly clenched his fists.
He thought of Hercules.
With his bloodline, that child might one day become a true god.
He can remain forever young, forever immortal, and forever stand at a height that mortals cannot reach.
But what is he doing?
Ades clenched his fists even tighter.
That boy possessed everything he dreamed of, yet he didn't cherish it at all; those things he desperately wanted but could never have were gone forever.
What Heracles could not have, he was born with, yet he threw them to the ground, trampled them into the mud, and shared them with mortals.
Mix it up.
He hates.
He hated that boy.
He, Ades, was also a demigod, but one who could only watch the divine light shine from the shadows, forever powerless to witness it.
The poor wretch whom the law cannot touch.
He hates.
Crazy with hate.
So when he stood before Hercules again the next day, his words became even more cutting.
"You practiced all night, and this is all you've got?"
"Are your hands made of iron? Can you be a little gentler?"
"Forget it, you don't understand music at all. You've been playing for so many years and you're still the same. Your teachers are really..."
It was all for nothing. "
Hercules's fingers paused for a moment.
Ades saw that meal, and a sense of anticipation suddenly welled up in his heart.
bring it on.
Be angry.
Let me see what you should look like.
But Hercules simply lowered his head and placed his hands back on the strings.
"I'll practice again."
Ades gripped the coaching pointer tightly. 1r5R
He doesn't understand.
Why?
Why would this young man with such noble blood be willing to do this?
Are those mortal emotions really worth him humiliating himself like this? That foolish Iphicrus...
A mediocre Amphitryon, that ——————
He remembered Alcmene's face.
The woman who gave birth to Heracles. A mortal, a mortal deceived by Zeus.
But Hercules loved her.
Ades could tell.
Every time that woman appeared at the door, every time she called his name, Hercules' eyes would light up.
As if seeing something most precious, those usually calm eyes softened in an instant.
Ardes didn't understand.
That's just a mortal.
A mortal who ages, dies, and turns to dust,
What's there to love?
That evening, Adez stood in the shadow of the colonnade again.
In the courtyard, Hercules and Iphicles sat side by side. The last rays of the setting sun fell upon them, illuminating their figures.
Their shadows stretched very long.
Iphicles was clinging to Heracles' arm, talking to him, his head resting on Heracles's shoulder.
He leaned his entire body against her shoulder, Hercules looking down at her, a faint smile playing on his lips.
smile.
The smile was faint, so faint that it was almost invisible.
But Ades saw it.
He saw the light in those eyes, the gentleness on that face, and the son of the god-king in that moment.
It exuded something completely unlike that of a deity.
That was the look an older brother gave his younger brother.
That was the look in one person's eyes as they looked at another.
Ades stood in the shadows, watching the scene, and suddenly felt something was jarring about him.
It was so glaring that he wanted to rush out and separate the two people embracing; it was so blinding that he wanted to confront Herak.
Les: What are you doing? You are the son of God, how can you do this? How can you mingle with these mortals?
But he didn't move.
He just stood there, watching the brothers, watching the sunset slide inch by inch off them.
In the distance, Iphicles' laughter still echoed, loud and jarring.
Ades turned and left.
He went back to his room, sat in the darkness, and looked at the moon outside the window.
The moonlight fell on his face, illuminating his gloomy eyes.
He is no mortal.
He never was.
He has his own significance, etched into his very being from the moment of his birth. Unlike those pathetic creatures who need...
A lifetime spent searching for a reason to live.
But he is not a god either.
He was merely a demigod, a demigod trapped in a mortal body, a demigod watching himself grow old day by day, yet...
A demigod with the power to do so.
And Hercules —
That boy with perfect bloodline is wasting it all.
Adez closed his eyes and clenched his fists.
On Mount Olympus, Hera sat on her golden throne.
The throne was tall and magnificent, with intricate carvings on the armrests and rows of dazzling jewels inlaid on the backrest.
Stone. Sunlight streamed down from the temple's dome, illuminating the gold and reflecting a dazzling light.
Hera rested her chin on one hand, her pale wrist gleaming faintly in the golden light. Her eyes were half-closed.
Then, his gaze fell into the void, and it was unclear what he was thinking.
This throne was built by her son Hephaestus.
Hephaestus, the child she disliked from birth.
He was so ugly. Newborn babies are all wrinkled, but Hephaestus was especially wrinkled, so ugly that she couldn't bear to look at him.
She endured it, glanced at him, and then threw him off Mount Olympus.
She didn't even glance at it when she threw it down.
Later, the child returned. With her ailing leg, but with a wealth of skills, and with a deep sense of gratitude towards her mother.
He was a man of many emotions. He forged weapons for the gods and built palaces for Olympus, becoming the most outstanding craftsman in the divine realm.
Zeus's thunderbolt scepter, Apollo's golden chariot, and later Achilles' shield...
It has forged countless treasures.
Then he gave her this throne.
The throne was exquisitely crafted from gold.
Hera was delighted. She thought, "This child may be ugly, but his skills are truly excellent," and she happily...
He sat down.
And then got stuck.
Countless chains extended from the throne, binding her firmly to it, rendering her immobile. The gods surrounded her, trying every possible means...
There was a way to get her down, but no one could do it; the chains were unbreakable, and the mechanisms were ingeniously designed. Hephaestus...
No god could break Stos's magic.
Hera sat on that throne for several days, filled with shame and anger, yet powerless to do anything about it.
This is the true Chains of Heaven, Hephaestus's revenge, his response to her throwing him away years ago.
Finally, it was Dionysus, the god of wine, who got Hephaestus drunk and tricked him back to Olympus to relieve his suffering.
Turn on the machine.
Later, Hera's opinion of that son changed; it was no longer just disdain and disgust. The child used his own way...
He told her: You can't just throw me away, you can't pretend I don't exist, you have to face me.
So Hera looked at her directly.
It wasn't because she was afraid of being trapped again, but because she suddenly realized that the ugly child she had thrown down the mountain was already...
She grew into an existence she could not ignore.
This is also God.
This is also her bloodline.
That throne is still here, and Hera can feel the presence of those intricate mechanisms every time she sits on it.
They remain silent, dormant, ready to be reactivated at any moment.
Hephaestus later rearranged the throne so that it could be used as a normal chair, or as a weapon when needed.
It turned into a cage. He said it was a gift for his mother, a lasting protection.
Hera was satisfied.
What's satisfying isn't the protection itself, but the design concept of "being able to trap the enemy at any time."
This child is indeed her offspring.
That was a long time ago.
Hera snapped out of her thoughts, changed her posture, and continued to prop her chin up.
She was thinking about something else.
Thinking of Hercules.
Sixteen years.
That baby, the baby she had personally breastfed and held in her arms, was now sixteen years old.
The two venomous snakes she sent were torn to shreds by that child with his bare hands; those two beams of golden light shot into the sky...
All of Greece saw it. Everyone knew that Hera had sent assassins, and that the baby had survived.
That was the wrath of the goddess.
All of Greece should know about this.
Hera's wrath will not be extinguished by a single defeat.
She wanted everyone to know, to remember—what the consequences of angering the Goddess were, and what those illegitimate children would do.
She will settle accounts with those bastards, those who have tarnished her glory, one by one.
Back in the day, which of Zeus's illegitimate sons hadn't she slept with?
Dionysus, driven mad by her, wandered the world. Apollo—the sun that now shines brightly.
God, Hera did quite a bit of that back then too.
Hera chased him and his mother Leto for nine days and nine nights, until Leto had nowhere to run, and until Apollo caught up with them.
He was cursed before he was even born, and a giant python was sent to hunt him down, forcing him to flee through the wilderness, forcing his mother to carry him and hide from place to place.
She only stopped after Apollo became a god. That sun god now knew his limits, and knew that when he saw her...
Bowing shows one's knowledge of what one should and should not do.
But what about Hercules?
He has not yet become a god.
He was still just a mortal, a mortal with divine blood flowing through his veins.
That's enough.
Hera's hatred is endless.
She has a lot of patience.
As Hera was thinking, she suddenly remembered something.
Apollo.
The sun god, the god of music, her... nominal son, though he wasn't her biological son, but rather born of S and...
Leto's child, but once in Olympus, he became her "child".
Apollo also had many children.
What was that called again?
A demigod, exceptionally talented in music, and somewhat renowned among mortals. Hera vaguely remembered seeing him on some occasion.
I passed by that child once—he looked somewhat like Apollo in his youth, but there was a melancholy in his eyes that made me...
People are uncomfortable.
point.
Even demigods are like that. There's always something off about them, something that reminds one of the mortal parts of them.
Apollo, that fellow, was just like his father—a womanizer who fathered a bunch of demigod children. That kid...
is one of them.
Hera wasn't particularly interested in these demigods. Just a mortal music teacher; not worth her attention.
Eyes. But recently that guy has been working as Hercules' music teacher.
Hera's eyes flickered slightly.
Her gaze returned from the void to her own fingers, long and slender, their tips gently tapping...
The armrests of the throne made a crisp sound, one after another.
Son of Apollo.
Hercules' music teacher.
She didn't know what kind of person Ades was, how well he taught, or about his relationship with Heracles.
How are things going with Les?
But she knew one thing.
Demigods are complicated.
They had the blood of gods flowing in their veins, and the blood of men flowing in their veins. They grew up among mortals, watching them grow old and die.
They go forth, yet they live longer than mortals, but are still not as good as true gods. They are stuck in the middle, unable to rise or fall.
There's always something I can't quite explain churning inside me.
Some demigods became heroes, some became madmen, and some demigods—
He'll hate for his whole life.
Hate your mortal blood, hate the mortal who gave you life, hate those demigods
who are luckier than you.
Hera has seen too many of this.
She didn't know which one that guy was.
But she
suddenly a little curious.
What was the man who was teaching Hercules, the son of Apollo, the demigod,
thinking in his heart?
Hera's fingers tapped lightly on the armrest.
Her eyes fell into the void, not knowing what she was thinking.