Luck?
Everyone says he killed the Gorgon with luck and with treasures bestowed by the gods. What a joke! If he had relied on luck alone, how could he have become a famous hero—one who even met a good end? Look at this world: the son of gods, no... even the son of a man from ages past—so what?
Those who become heroes are loved by the gods, but also cursed by them. Or perhaps that very love is the curse. And me? To say I stood out among all people through luck alone—how laughable.
Only by setting foot on that island, only by seeing with your own eyes the countless petrified heroes and the grotesque temple of flesh and blood, can you understand the scene. And what of marrying a princess, or obtaining a throne? It would be far too absurd if all of this could be explained away as mere luck.
No—the key is wisdom. Wisdom.
Perseus rubbed his temple lightly. In addition to wisdom, there was another crucial trait: the ability to judge people and situations. Without that, he would have ended like that unlucky fool. He needed to know who held power now, who would hold it tomorrow, and who might hold it in the future. Only by seeing such things clearly could he secure a future.
Perseus's gaze fixed on the boy before him, holy spear in hand. The boy was young, yet carried himself with unnerving composure. Perseus curled his lips in amusement. He had lived for centuries and had seen many youths with strength beyond their years, but this was the first time he had encountered someone wielding a weapon of such caliber at such an age.
Hadn't all the greater, more famous weapons long since been collected within the domain of the gods? Judging from the aura and craftsmanship of the spear, it was not forged by his brother, the god of smithing.
Was this boy truly so fortunate? Not only powerful enough to slay a divine envoy, but also in possession of a holy weapon undiscovered by gods or their servants?
Perseus raised his lips further and extended his hand toward the youth.
"Good boy. I am a high-ranking messenger of the gods, the son of Zeus himself, the great hero Perseus. Now, I welcome you to the divine realm. If you hand me the weapon you carry, I will gladly put in a good word for you before my father."
That expression, that tone—Aslan felt a sharp irritation rise within him. He recalled the petty boy Shinji from the Fourth Holy Grail War. It had not even been a year since Aslan had arrived in this world, and already he was reminded of that insufferable figure.
How best to describe Kamishiro Shinji? Compared to him, Aslan would much rather take the hammer in his hand and smash it into the head of the man before him. Ideally, fatally.
And as for offering such a treasure as a bribe? A joke. You, half-machine Perseus, probably don't even own a weapon of this caliber! Looking at the arrogant man, Aslan could hardly believe this was the same figure fabled to summon Pegasus.
To promise a few flattering words before Zeus—how utterly shameless.
Aslan no longer bothered with words. Perseus or not, what did it matter? He would fight him here and now.
Aslan snapped the fluttering flag back, silver threads of magic coiling around the shaft, binding flag to spear. He thrust the gleaming tip straight at Perseus's throat.
Perseus reacted instantly, folding his wings before him into a shield. The Holy Lance grazed against them, leaving only the faintest of marks. Invisible to the naked eye, but Perseus felt it—keenly.
"What an excellent spear. For a moment, I don't know if I should be pleased… or enraged."
His eyes widened slightly, tongue running across his lips as his gaze locked on the weapon. To see his shield—bestowed by the gods themselves—scarred so easily enraged him. And yet, the thought of claiming the spear, of earning Zeus's recognition, filled him with greed.
Perseus would have it. He would have both the spear and the boy who wielded it.
As he had always believed: the one who held power now would continue to hold it in the future. And there was only one such being—Zeus. Whatever Zeus desired, Perseus would seize.
"You naughty child," he sneered. "Looks like I'll have to knock you out before bringing you back to the divine realm."
Perseus rose slowly, raising the sickle in his hand. The heat radiating from its blade warped the air itself. A single cut from that weapon would burn flesh into charcoal, leaving wounds nearly impossible to heal.
He flicked the scythe casually.
"You defeated a divine messenger. Let's see if you can withstand this."
Aslan merely curled his lip. Being called a "child" by this man? Ridiculous. By his calculations, Perseus was barely fifteen centuries old—a stripling compared to what Aslan had endured. And had Perseus relied so much on his mechanical body that his sense of bloodline and age had dulled? His judgment felt painfully shallow.
The moment Perseus swung, Aslan surged forward, pouring magic into his body. His spear knocked the scythe aside, and in the instant Perseus faltered—before his wings could fold into a shield again—Aslan closed the gap, seizing him by the throat and slamming him into the ground.
-End Chapter-
Visit the Patreon!!
Read 30 chapters ahead, more on the way!
[email protected]/TrashProspector