Mount Olympus—
The highest mountain in Greece, located on the northern shore of the Gulf of Thermaikos in the Aegean.
The original meaning of Olympus comes from "the place of light."
In Greek mythology, its place is equivalent to heaven in the Bible—gods, demigods, and their attendants dwell here.
The ancient Greeks believed Mount Olympus lay at the center of Greece, and since Greece itself was the center of the world, Olympus, too, was the center of the world.
Thus, the gods who ruled over the world and mankind resided upon this towering peak.
Yet what appeared before the Avenger's eyes was not the Olympus of the present day, but the true mountain of the gods, as it had stood in the Age of Gods.
Perhaps the heavens no longer let fall their light—but that is only because it cannot be seen. Light itself cannot vanish. Likewise, the gods do not vanish.
"Hercules, I have decided to give my daughter, the goddess of youth Hebe, to you in marriage."
The Avenger knew this was truly the Mountain of the Gods.
For a fleeting moment, he even felt that he ought to burn within this world of the past, to carry forward the glory and radiance of "Heracles."
And yet—even so—beneath the sunlight, he quietly shut his eyes, and against his will recalled his rage.
"I am no longer your hound..."
From his nose and mouth, silent streams of red-black prana welled forth, spreading from his feet and staining the mountain of Olympus.
Yes. Glory and radiance were long gone.
The only purpose left to this body was vengeance.
The goddess-queen who had once entangled the hero in calamity dwelled at the mountain's summit. She had stolen away his age of happiness, then sorrowfully departed into the boundless sea.
Whether he wished it or not, what came after slowly reshaped him into another being. Another wave from a far-off shore bore him onward into a new ocean.
"Hera!"
Smiling, overflowing with ecstasy and killing intent, he roared with exaltation.
At that moment, from the lowest depths of Olympus, the Avenger clutched that red-and-black "mud," and like a blazing star shot upward.
"Cousin—no, I should call you Alcides now. Mm, I remember when I used to call you that, Grandfather scolded me for being too familiar."
When Alcides regained awareness after only a few steps, he saw before him the gaunt figure from his memories.
He froze where he stood.
Just moments before, his killing intent—sharp as iron—had been pressed against every vital point of the intruder: throat, chest, back, limbs, his entire body. Malice and curse enough to slay everything.
But once he recognized the newcomer, that killing intent ebbed, replaced by indescribable confusion.
"Theseus."
One of the great heroes of Greece, King of Athens. Cousin to Hercules. His wife had been of the Amazons, the very tribe slain by Heracles, and he himself was once a crewman of the Argo.
When Hercules slew his own wife and children and sought to end his life in despair, it had been Theseus who arrived at his home, persuaded him to live, and carried him to Athens to shelter him.
"You too… have come to stop me?"
The Avenger could not understand why Theseus stood here on Olympus, but to him it mattered little. No one—no matter who—could stop him. Not even a former friend.
Most who had witnessed Hercules' glory would surely have scolded Alcides for what he had become.
Yes, the man had fought mercilessly, pillaged enemy cities, and used any means necessary to achieve his ends.
But if those acts were in pursuit of great deeds, they did not shake the name of "hero." Even if faced with a cursed child destined to bring calamity upon the world—if it was still a child, that man would never have raised his bow against them.
Theseus, however, had been different. Upon hearing of Hercules' fate, it was the one and only time in his life he had hurled curses at the gods themselves.
"Heroes cannot act only in noble ways. They will have base deeds, ugly emotions. They may abandon glory, lose all they once had, and vent their bitterness upon the world. Others may call such a man a monster—but—"
Theseus shook his head, and instead smiled.
"To me, that is not a monster. That is simply a man. In this, I have always trusted you. So—proof of sin, descent into ruin, all of it—it doesn't matter."
With that, the King of Athens' figure slowly dissolved into the mountain, fading until he was gone.
The Avenger's hand still lingered in the air.
Blankly, he stared toward the direction his cousin had vanished.
Instinctively, he reached out, wanting to grasp him, but could find no trace.
Only a fine thread of yarn, drifting from the air, merged into his body.
It was the glory of Poseidon's blessing upon Theseus, reborn through that yarn: a conceptual defense, absolute and deathless in nature.
In the end, Theseus had only mourned his cousin's choice, while still understanding it.
It had no meaning. And since it had no meaning, there was no need for regret.
Even so—even so—Theseus, suppressing the sorrow that nearly overcame him, spoke with a lonely smile:
"Go then, and do what you must."
This time, the Avenger's body bore neither the raging sludge nor the violence of old—only the deep, distant sound of the sea echoed in his ears.
So distant.
His expression wavered, then grew cold again. He turned away, no longer looking back.
Soon, footsteps approached and halted at his side. It was the crew of the Argo.
"That fellow Theseus lingered too long. But since he's passed Poseidon's blessing to you, I, as the guardian of sailors, cannot withhold mine."
"He says so, but really, Brother likes you best as you are now, Heracles."
"Pollux!"
"Lord Hercules, you've shrunk, but you're still frightening..."
"You scared little Medea. Still, seeing you like this is a first. Even the moon goddess would be moved."
"Hah! That one who always shouted 'Heracles, Hercules'—and now, seeing you like this, she was too scared to come until the very last."
"...When did you arrive?"
Asclepius, the god of medicine, thought for a moment, then spoke seriously:
"Just now. Summoned by a familiar power. Likely the same power given nearly two thousand years ago. Though Zeus and the other gods could descend as well, it seemed unnecessary to trouble them. So, only Hera and the crew of the Argo came."
"...I see."
The Avenger reflexively raised his bow, showing his unwavering resolve for vengeance.
Novea—who knew what price he had paid to accomplish this?
But the Avenger no longer cared to ponder. He only blurted out:
"I don't want to kill you."
"Hahaha! Still so confident, Hercules. But mankind's world is meant to perish—"
"No. It cannot be allowed to perish. Novia has already stopped it once."
"Mm... true enough. But for mere humans to call him a saint..."
"You complain, but you actually admire him, don't you?"
"Pollux!"
Asclepius glanced at the Gemini twins, then sighed at the Avenger.
"Your body has lost its allure. If I asked you to endure still harsher trials, to suffer wounds beyond imagining, so I could diagnose you, you'd refuse. So, there's no need for me to treat you."
Passing by him, the god of medicine continued:
"Had I not devoted myself wholly to medicine, I too might have become like you. And besides... my shadow walks this Holy Grail War as well."
"It is not all beauty, but as long as you do not hate the moon goddess or raise your hand against children, I will not stop you."
Atalanta answered bluntly, and her expression made her conviction clear.
"I... I think the tall Hercules was scary, but reliable. Even now, I think you're still reliable."
The little witch steadied herself, then cheered.
"Doesn't matter. Honestly, I prefer you this way. I never liked that three-hundred-kilo slab of muscle looming near me. Even now, I'd rather you keep your distance."
The witch of betrayal gave a careless smile.
Slowly, the sky over Olympus, dyed blood-red, came into view before the Avenger's eyes.
Twilight. Dusk. The boundary between day and night.
Shadows stretched long across the road, casting a distorted atmosphere. This in-between moment, belonging neither to day nor night, always seemed to awaken unease within human hearts.
Normally, at such an hour, people hurried homeward, driven by the red light of the setting sun.
In silence, the Avenger reached out toward the fading figures of the Argonauts, and gently closed his hand around empty air.
Then, he withdrew the muddy red-and-black prana he had been scattering.
Lowering his gaze, he saw the one who arrived last—the captain.
"Hercules! This is Hercules himself! Hahaha! Even if you've become like this, you're still the same dour-faced fellow. But somehow, that's reassuring! All right, you've carried so much for me before—now leave it to me! Hahaha! I'll settle this quickly, just as you would."
A blond man with an arrogant air—the captain of the Argo, Jason.
He had once said to the newcomer aboard his ship:
"Marvelous, truly marvelous! I envy you! Just as the rumors say—you are a monster! But don't worry. While I use you, I'll see you well treated."
"For when you're with me... you're no monster. You are—"
The clouds above vanished. The moonlight dyed the land a dreamlike silver.
At that instant, the blond man laughed, and like reaching for a shining star, he clasped the hero's hand.
"—the great hero who protected the future king."
Unlike before, this time the man did not take the captain's outstretched hand.
"...Where did I go wrong?"
Though he had made many small mistakes in his life, Jason felt that this time, at least, he had acted properly.
And yet things did not go as he wished. He recalled the way the Avenger had looked earlier—unmoved, almost indifferent—and Jason could not help but clutch his head in frustration.
But even so, the captain's eyes lingered on the Avenger's shadowed face, gazing into that pitch-black void. He found himself drawn to this unknown side of the hero, a side he had never seen.
Suddenly, he wondered: Hercules—the man he relied on most, trusted most—had he been different before boarding the Argo? Did he see the world in a way fundamentally different from the memories Jason carried?
"Hercules… when I first heard the news, I couldn't make sense of it, no matter what I tried…"
Jason, filled with incomprehension, pulled away the "cloth" covering the Avenger's face. Looking upon the familiar features beneath, he murmured to himself,
"But seeing you like this now, I realize—you've always been carrying such unbearable pain, haven't you?"
In that instant, for the two of them, this place became the faraway sea at the edge of the world.
The memory of a ship's timbers underfoot, the salt wind brushing past their ears, the laughter and banter of many friends—it was all gone now. Those distant memories were not stolen, but lived.
"I want to tell you this—though you were forced into this hatred, you still chose to bear it, still chose to fight. That's…"
Jason smiled.
"That's why you've endured until now. Bit by bit, always, you kept moving forward for your own sake. That, without question, is Hercules."
"...Perhaps."
The Avenger shook his head and, with absolute seriousness, replied:
"Farewell, my friend."
He turned his back, walking toward the summit where the Queen of the Gods awaited. He did not look back. His steps faltered, but his back remained unbending and upright.
"You've done nothing wrong."
"So please—do not hate the world."
"Do not hate your bloodline."
"You are strong. So strong that you will surely succeed."
"—But I cannot."
Onward, onward he went, his steps mechanical, as in his mind the words of his lost beloved echoed—the words she spoke when she chose death.
The Avenger looked down at his own hands.
Hands filled with hatred, fear, vilification—an entire body consumed by the desire for vengeance.
"Megara… I love you."
Each time he spoke her name, blood welled in his nose and dripped into his mouth. Even his breath reeked of iron, a stinging reminder of the anguish that had broken him.
In his mind circled memories from long ago—so long ago his twisted body could barely recall them. A time irretrievably lost, when he had lived warmly with wife and children.
Until it was all shattered, played with by that steel corpse—leaving only ruin.
"...So, in the end, the one standing in my way is you."
Before the final gate, a shining figure blocked Alcides' path.
"Yes. Me."
This was a body utterly different from the Avenger's—surpassing the limits of human form, a statue carved by the hands of gods.
Towering over two and a half meters, hair nearly brushing the ceiling, a colossus of corded muscle. Every fiber, every drop of blood in his veins brimmed with divine power—pure, untainted mana.
This was Hercules before he had been twisted into the Avenger. The true Archer-class hero, a paragon of nobility.
"You are the Avenger. Because you are the Avenger, you affirm yourself absolutely, kill without hesitation, pursue your ancient oath without doubt. You acknowledge yourself—and accept it.
But I am different. I cannot believe, as you do, that raising my hand against children could ever be right. I cannot fix my gaze only on revenge. Even when my battles save lives—even when those saved rejoice before me—I cannot look away from the corpses of the sacrificed who fall around me.
And yet I had no choice but to keep moving forward.
Even so, I cannot recognize the road you walk. I do not believe it is the right one."
"Back when we fought the King of Heroes, you saved me. I repaid that debt by sparing that child."
"Yes. I know."
At those words, the two clashed instantly.
Even bound by thousands of writhing mud-born hands, even when all but the Avenger was drowned in black-red curses—Hercules shone like a man-shaped beacon of light.
Each mud-hand that lunged was torn apart by his bare strength alone.
Silent fury filled the space. The vengeful hero reached for the radiant one.
The black-red mire turned into hundreds of piercing spikes, lunging to impale Hercules.
Tearing, ripping, surging—the torrent of cursed mana pressed on with overwhelming force.
But it did little to wound the noble hero.
Then, as the Avenger leapt skyward, a great voice resounded across the heavens, shaking the world:
"I am Hera."
The world froze. Olympus returned to its first state of peace and brilliance.
In that instant, the Avenger's rage burned away all obstacles. His eyes flared crimson, his hands unleashing the fullness of his power.
"My flesh, my soul—reduced to the shadow of a god's folly! O gods who deny, defile, and scorn me—O steel corpse—I return this pitiful life to you!"
With that hateful cry, the Avenger nocked his bow and aimed at the divine domain.
"—Today, I will have my revenge, utterly and completely!"
An unshakable resolve, a soul's conflagration unstoppable even by gods.
In that moment, Alcides smiled truly.
Hercules, standing before him, caught the god-slaying arrow with his bare hand. But how could anyone simply hold such a blow—a strike embodying all of vengeance?
"Even now you struggle in vain…"
The Avenger almost laughed—but then faltered, confused.
Why was "Hera" not defending herself?
Then dazzling lightning tore down from the clouds, thundering as it fell.
And Alcides' smile froze. For descending from the sky was not Hera, but a golden-haired woman.
"...No… you two didn't need to go this far. After all, every child born of Europa's soil is my descendant. All good children—all of them good children…"
"Europa!!!" Alcides roared. "Where is Hera!?"
The woman of golden hair was not Hera, but the Mother of Europe herself.
"Because… I am Hera now. Before coming here, I secretly took her core and placed it within myself. To you, the gods are steel, not truly divine nor human. Then so long as this core is broken—does it matter who bears it?"
She reached out a trembling hand, trying to touch the Avenger's face, and whispered gently:
"I knew it, you know. Hera kept saying, just days ago—'I must apologize to him.' She meant you, Alcides. That's why I could not let dear Alcides and dear Hera destroy each other.
Think of it—children born on the earth that bears my name, and as their 'mother,' I failed to protect them. I bear great guilt.
So let me take Hera's place. Even if gods and the world itself refuse you—endlessly vengeful as you are—I will not. I am sorry you endured so many painful memories…"
Europa's arm burned away under the Avenger's raging strike.
Her body crumbled, yet she pressed on, reaching her "child," though she could no longer touch him.
Unexpectedly, it was the Avenger who took her hand. He pulled away the "cloth" over his face.
He looked dazed, as though he no longer knew what to do.
"You've always been a good child. Come now, good child, good child… A good child deserves a pat on the head, doesn't he? My child…"
She closed her eyes.
"—You've completed your revenge now, haven't you?"
And in that instant, Europa vanished completely.
The Avenger froze, staring at the fading glow in his hand. On his pale, hollow face flickered something between mockery and sorrow—disbelief.
In his haze, Alcides thought he glimpsed Novia once more, if only for a moment.
From the shimmering light, the man appeared again.
"Then, Avenger, as one who once received your power, I am bound to aid you."
His voice was warm with love as stars trailed behind him.
Suddenly, a meteor blazed past, dazzling in the Avenger's eyes. He knew—it was the "falling star" Hercules had once become.
"Your sin is real, but not beyond understanding. There is no egg that refuses to hatch, no flower that refuses to bloom. It is not a matter of will."
It was as if to say: whether in endless curses or in the sacred heavens, "Hercules" is always "Hercules."
The Avenger's heart filled with formless thoughts, scattering like sand, vanishing who knows where.
Everything—
—felt empty.
"Now then, Roman Hercules, you no longer belong to Evil, but to Good. You no longer wish to sink. So go forward."
After a few seconds, Alcides stood and told Hercules:
"...This is the end."
Blood dripped onto his face, sparking dull eyes alight once more.
"To think that one man could split into two concepts—Greek and Roman. What a strange sensation."
Hercules raised his voice in solemn declaration:
"Then come, Roman. For your enemy is Greece."
They collided in an instant. No thunderous clash—only a sound like a bubble popping.
Their powers, their countless concepts, met as equals—like fighting one's own shadow. Inevitably, they locked in stalemate.
And in the end—no one knows how long later—what remained carved into this recreated Olympus was the simultaneous passing of both Face and Reverse.