After Aslan's body came to a steady stop, he raised his head and looked straight ahead. A deep scar was carved into the ground—the mark left by his spear sliding across the surface as he forced himself to stop. Without it, he would likely have been hurled back until he slammed into the canyon wall.
Aslan touched the back of his collar, then glanced at his palms. He could feel it. Though Hercules had thrown him with considerable force—raw, instinctive, almost impatient—there had also been restraint. In the end, Hercules had chosen a relatively gentle method.
With the strength of this demigod, it would have been simple to crush his head or shatter his body before tossing him aside.
Did this act of mercy mean Hercules had begun to reclaim some trace of his humanity? After all, a puppet of the gods, their weapon and lackey, would never hold back against someone opposing them.
Even with this thought in mind, Aslan didn't dare to lower his guard. The broken helmet had surely been a shackle on Hercules' will, but that was only his hypothesis. And unless a hypothesis reached certainty, there was always room for error.
Any error, at a critical moment, could prove fatal. Aslan would not gamble his life on such a risk.
The axe handle clattered from Hercules' hand, hitting the ground. Both of his massive hands went to the helmet still clamped around his head. With a guttural roar, he tore at it, steel shrieking and bending under his grip. The helm groaned and cracked, unable to withstand his monstrous strength.
With another bellow, Hercules ripped it into two jagged halves and flung them away. Sparks danced as the last currents sputtered and died.
The current had scorched his body, leaving his hair singed and clumped together in blackened strands. Zeus, master of thunder, was not a god whose power could be trifled with—even his tools carried echoes of divine lightning. The strike had torn through Hercules' defenses, leaving burns and raw wounds across his forehead. Blood trickled down, quickly seared black under the lightning's kiss.
At first glance, he looked less like a hero and more like a charred statue.
Aslan twitched his fingers, frowning. The man before him stood frozen, unmoving. Should he attack again? Or wait?
Moments stretched. Finally, the great figure lowered his head. When his eyes lifted again, they were clear—one red, one gold—and filled not with frenzy, but with awareness. Hercules had awakened.
Aslan raised his hand cautiously and asked, "Should I call you the god Hercules now… or the great hero Hercules?"
The answer would decide his next move.
The giant's voice was low, but steady.
"I am Hercules. A human."
Relief washed over Aslan.
Hercules' awakening was the best news he could have hoped for. The demigod, though freed, still strained to recall everything that had transpired while he had been bound. Control had never erased his consciousness completely; he had been dimly aware, a prisoner in his own body.
He already had suspicions about Helen's choices. And so, as Aslan weighed his next action, Hercules quietly advised him to wait and observe.
Meanwhile, in the divine realm, Helen made her return. She began with a bow of apology to Zeus. Though her loss of two demigods had stirred his anger, Zeus could not punish her outright—not now. She remained a contender in the looming competition among the gods. Whatever his displeasure, he had no choice but to grant her pardon.
Feigning hesitation, Helen then offered him a carefully chosen piece of information: before his death, Hermes had been in contact with the demigods. After all, it was they who had provided him with certain coordinates.
In truth, Helen herself had sent those coordinates, baiting Hermes. But now, with his body unrecovered and his black box—the divine recorder of everything seen and heard—destroyed by Aslan, the truth was beyond Zeus' grasp.
From Helen's account, Zeus salvaged only one useful detail: Hermes had acted on intelligence received from an "unknown god." Which meant his attack could have been instigated by a rival faction, one seeking to weaken Zeus' authority.
For Hermes had always been at Zeus' side, unquestionably loyal.
The gods had long seethed with hidden rivalries, but lacked a spark to ignite them. Now, Hermes' death served as that spark. His missing body only deepened the intrigue.
Humans, after all, could not be responsible. In the lands ruled by the gods, mortals were reshaped by nanomachines, stripped even of their magic. Beyond their rule, scraps of sorcery still lingered—trifles like sparks or conjured lights—but nothing near the technology required to spirit away a god.
Certainly not Hermes.
This was the conclusion Zeus reached after countless divine calculations.
-End Chapter-
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