"I understand, Mother."
Sui Meng answered in a deep, steady voice. In the psy-flames' glow, his mountain-like figure looked all the more imposing, as if he had long been ready for anything.
Just then, a gentle yet commanding female voice came from beyond the hall, borne with innate nobility and solemnity:
"Child—"
?
The form of address made Sui Meng pause.
He turned toward the sound.
A magnificent red robe entered his sight, embroidered with intricate golden patterns—an eternal sigil woven of flame and authority.
The newcomer was tall and slender, over two meters in height. Her every gesture carried regal grace.
Her steps were measured and unhurried, each paced with the gravity and dignity of a goddess.
Without seeing her face, Sui Meng already knew who she was—the last of Olympus's chief deities, the former Queen of Heaven, Hera.
Her attire was lavish without being gaudy.
Her hair fell in a cascade of midnight silk to her waist, adorned with gold hairpieces and a coronet of gems that cast a soft yet undeniable radiance.
Her features were youthful and beautiful, her brows set with the queen's nobility and command, yet softened by a maternal gentleness and glow.
If she did not stand beside Athena, few could readily tell their temperaments apart.
Both were peerlessly beautiful, each with her own divine resonance—Athena calm as a clear mirror; Hera resplendent as a living flame.
When Hera came to stand before Sui Meng, the hall's atmosphere tightened.
The Queen's gaze was complex, many threads of feeling interlaced within.
It was so deep that even a blood-and-iron Primarch like Sui Meng could sense it.
As she looked upon this young Primarch who stood like a mountain, Hera could not help but see, overlaid upon him, the figure of her own son—
Ares, the God of War.
That proud son had long since fallen under the shadow of Chaos and the depraved gods.
Hera had lost Ares, and with him her anchor and hope.
Now, before her stood a youth who, under Athena's care, had grown into such towering might and unmatched edge.
A wave of inexpressible feeling rose in her heart.
There was a thread of jealousy she could not hide—she had always been famed for it. Athena held so excellent a child, while she herself faced only loss and emptiness.
Yet more than that, Hera felt relief and complicated solace.
For Sui Meng was not Athena's alone. He was the Emperor's son, a Primarch, a pillar of the Empire to come.
Moreover, Sui Meng had never treated Olympus's surviving gods as useless relics; he had always kept respect and closeness.
Hera knew that a child like this carried the hope of the Human Empire—and, in a sense, offered these ancient deities a new reliance.
"You—" Hera began softly, her tone tinged with long memory, her eyes still tender.
She reached out and lightly touched Sui Meng's forearm, as if to confirm he was no mirage.
Sui Meng lowered his head with respectful calm.
He could feel the weight in Hera's gaze—not mere scrutiny, but a mix of grief, envy, and solace.
"Hera."
Athena's voice sounded beside them—steady, cool, and touched with a near-sisterly concern.
The war goddess neither intervened nor stayed the moment; she simply watched in quiet.
In the torchlight, the three figures cast long shadows, as if fixed within the sands of time.
Hera and Athena stood shoulder to shoulder—one in white, one in red—like two fixed stars, each brilliant, together illuminating Sui Meng.
"…"
Hera drew back her hand at last and sighed deeply.
Her eyes moved from Sui Meng to Athena, then steadied on Sui Meng's face. "Child, you are unlike the rest. May you bring glory on the road ahead—and avoid old mistakes."
Sui Meng nodded gravely, saying nothing more.
He knew that behind her charge lay the projection of a mother's loss, and the heartfelt hope laid upon his shoulders.
In this moment, the last two goddesses of Olympus stood with the Emperor's youngest son beneath a hall bright with golden psy-light.
Then Hera slowly raised her left hand.
Her long fingers opened, and a soft, solemn radiance blossomed in her palm.
Gold intertwined with deep red—a glow like flame and dawn entwined, like sun and blood condensed into a flowing light in the void.
With a gentle turn of her hand, the light surged across the temple like a tide, running along carved beams, ancient pillars, and gilded niches, bathing the hall in a sacred, austere air.
As the lingering shine faded, all eyes rose to see three "artifacts" suffused with the same holy glow, floating high in the hall's center.
Held aloft by unseen force, they hung in the air and exuded a heavy, ancient pressure.
The war-maidens, who had been standing in formation with power-lances in hand, trembled in their gaze at once. For once their faces lost their frost.
Their eyes widened, as if they stood not before mere weapons, but a legacy deep enough to upend myth and rewrite history.
Low breaths rose and fell in the ranks, but none dared raise a voice.
The first artifact was a scepter shaped like a "Z"—or a shard of lightning.
Long and sharp, the shaft was wrapped in coursing arcs that never stilled, as if the sky's unending thunder had been trapped within.
Each crackle made the air quiver with a deep rumble—the herald of oncoming storm.
This was once Zeus's emblem—the incarnation of thunder and sky-sovereignty.
The second was a trident, black with a blue sheen.
Its surface looked like sea-waves frozen into crystal, casting a deep, cold luster.
Its three tines were keen enough to split the ocean's breast and make the abyss submit.
Around the scepter there seemed to be whispers of water and surf—the far sea murmuring within. This had been Poseidon's supreme weapon, symbol of ocean and earthquake's boundless might.
The third seemed the plainest—
An ancient helmet.
Its form was simple, without intricate patterns or inlays. By appearances alone, it was less impressive than common armor.
But the aura it gave off made the maidens' hearts shake.
It was a pressure as fathomless as death's own shadow. Through it, the war-maidens seemed to hear the whispering of countless dead, and the sleeping murmur of the endless underworld.
This was Hades's helm of the underworld—symbol of concealment, death, and dominion.
Athena stood aside, her eyes flickering.
Her reason and cool allowed her to swiftly discern the artifacts' true lineage.
She knew too well what these three represented—
The powers of three former Greek High Gods, now turned unmastered relics, returned to the world.
In the depths of her gaze, complexity stirred—feeling for the past, and acknowledgment of Hera's act.
For Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades were gone.
They had fallen to Chaos's corruption, becoming puppets of delusion and rot, and were destroyed by Atlas before the Empire was even founded.
That battle had paved myth's final chapter with blood and fire; the old divine order fell.
Their divine weapons, tainted by Chaos, nearly sank forever. If Emperor Samuel Young had not purified them with psionics, scouring away the filth, the three would long since be cursed scrap.
Their reappearance meant Hera had not only recovered them, but preserved them with care.
Hera walked closer to Sui Meng.
Her noble bearing was unchanged. Her eyes settled on him with a hard-to-name emotion—
Jealousy, solace, remembrance, and a testing all at once.
Her own son, Ares, had perished under Chaos and debased gods, leaving not a shred of hope.
Now Athena had a Primarch son tall and mighty, rich in potential, clearly born for the field of war.
Even as Queen, Hera could not fully hide the surge in her heart.
"…"
Sui Meng tipped his chin and looked up at the three artifacts hovering above.
His expression was as still as a deep well, without a ripple between his brows.
To him, these relics—nearly supreme in the maidens' eyes—could not unsettle his heart.
He knew that the weapons and gear forged and endowed by his father, Emperor Samuel Young, were the extensions of his father's psionics and will—treasures beyond any external measure.
By comparison, Zeus's thunder, Poseidon's trident, and Hades's helm, for all their splendor, were blooms of yesterday.
Even so, Sui Meng did not slight them.
He understood Hera's intent. The Queen was not simply gifting him; she was conveying the blessing of the remaining Greek gods through this act.
So he spoke, voice low: "Lady Hera, you are…?"
Hera's gaze softened.
Her voice carried maternal warmth while retaining a queen's authority: "Child, take these as the blessing I grant you on behalf of the Greek gods.
"They are symbols of strength, and of trust and charge. May you remember, no matter what darkness you're in—you are not alone."
At her words, the hall fell silent again.
The war-maidens stood holding their breath. Athena's eyes trembled faintly. Sui Meng's heart remained rock-steady.
The three artifacts turned quietly in the air, their light filling the hall like fixed stars, as if witnessing a new inheritance.
"…"
After a moment's silence, Sui Meng inclined his head slightly.
There was no showiness or haste in him—only measured, restrained courtesy.
Then he turned, and the first person he looked to was Athena.
For an instant, the goddess's expression shifted; a gentle light passed through her eyes.
She did not speak at once, but answered his look with a warm smile—heartened that when faced with such a choice, her foster son thought first not of himself, nor of power, but of respect for her counsel.
It was the truest recognition of kinship beyond blood.
Athena nodded slowly, granting consent and encouragement.
With that "leave," Sui Meng lifted his arm, palm up.
Guided by subtle psionics, the three artifacts descended.
The scepter's lightning crawled through the air with a low rumble;
The trident's edge looked sharp enough to part space itself;
And the plain helm drifted soundlessly, exuding a breath of shadow.
They settled into Sui Meng's hands. For a heartbeat, the hall flared bright, and even the air felt stilled by their weight.
But Sui Meng showed neither greed nor glee. Lowering his eyes, he said quietly:
"Mother, please keep them for me. Place these in my quarters for now."
His tone was even, unadorned.
To him, though these relics of myth were weighty in meaning, they were not prizes to be pursued.
He knew well what he truly relied upon—his father Samuel Young's "power," and his own conviction and will.
Athena smiled faintly, her eyes softer and prouder. She said nothing more, only raised a slender hand. Psionics lapped outward like water, wrapping the three artifacts.
Pale gold light shrouded them, and they vanished into the void—set, it seemed, in some safe dimensional space.
Athena understood he had not refused; he had placed his trust in her. That trust was dearer than acceptance.
Only then did she speak: "Rest easy, child. I will keep them well."
Sui Meng's chambers lay deep within the temple.
They were a refuge gifted by Athena herself—quiet and sacred—a sign of both her protection and his station.
The next morning,
in the Imperial core's Relic Zone, a blaze of light erupted.
Space itself seemed scorched by pure white fire. Dazzling radiance flooded every inch, lighting the vast altar, the ranks of massive pillars, and the suspended energy arrays.
The light lasted a few seconds, then faded to reveal a new "wonder."
The twentieth spatial gate had formed—its scale immense as ever, six kilometers to a side. A colossal square frame hung in the void, its edges wound with complex energy chains and rune-engraving.
Energy surged across its face like a giant mirrored lake, as if the reflection of another universe had been inlaid into reality.
Unknown shadows flickered deep within the gate, hinting that to cross was to enter another layer of spacetime.
At the altar's heart, Samuel Young still wore his exclusive black-and-gold power armor. The lines of his plate were heavy and splendid, every segment etched with ancient Han characters.
His eyes burned with eternal golden flame—like a sun of judgment as he regarded the gate before him.
No fatigue could be seen. He was the emblem of highest will.
He did not speak. His mere presence made the air across the Relic Zone heavy as a mountain.
All staff and soldiers around him lowered their heads and held their breaths, afraid their smallness might somehow profane this supreme being—while their eyes burned with fervent faith and reverence.
At the same time, the reconnaissance forces—long at readiness—received their orders at once.
Masses of soldiers in powered rigs moved, handling Hellhounds and recon-type Terminators. With tethered gear in tow, they pierced the mercury mirror of the spatial gate.
______
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