The Ancient Serpent raised his cup with a polite smile, but to Atalanta and Circe, Jason's misplaced charm was as unwelcome as ever.
He sensibly touched his nose and withdrew, but before leaving, the guy actually gave Samael a discreet thumbs-up behind his back. His eyes flashed with a hint of admiration and envy, and his lips moved silently.
Nice one, bro.
Damn it, I really want to beat the crap out of this guy...
Samael felt the sudden, piercing glare from behind and couldn't help the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"I don't like him. Smooth-talking."
Atalanta frowned and gave a soft snort, having naturally noticed Jason's little stunt just moments earlier.
The hall, meanwhile, seemed to come alive as the blond youth moved through it, as if his presence alone had injected vitality into the entire space.
"True. He does seem more appealing to men."
Samael glanced around the lively gathering with a quiet, mocking chuckle. His gaze lingered briefly on the mighty demigod, his eyes flickering with interest.
It seemed that his own appearance here had subtly altered not just Theseus's presence, but even the sequence and content of Heracles's The Twelve Labors.
No doubt the mighty hero would now think twice before provoking the offspring of Typhon, who had begun to band together under Athena's protection.
Feeling somewhat vindicated, the ancient serpent relaxed. He sipped his wine slowly, observing the assembled Greek heroes with a trace of amusement curling at his lips.
This journey had not been in vain. The cold, lifeless names once confined to ancient texts now stood before him, crossing the barriers of time and space to gain warmth, color, and life.
At the feast, he saw the broad-minded Prince Calydon, the hot-tempered little sister Caenis, the calm and steady Peleus, the seemingly foolish yet profoundly wise Telamon...
And, of course, Jason—with his silver tongue and uncanny ability to keep any gathering lively.
Today, as the master of atmosphere, Jason had done well, easing the gloom and tension that Heracles's presence had brought.
Ah, yes—his greatest gain from this journey sat right beside him.
Samael came back to himself, glancing toward Jason, who was now surrounded by burly men urging him to drink, and smiled wryly.
With two beauties—one tall, one petite—accompanying him, he was easily the most eye-catching man in the hall.
Atalanta, however, merely sipped at her wine, ever cautious, refusing every attempt at conversation or flirtation from the male heroes with cold precision.
Circe, on the other hand, was completely absorbed in eating and drinking, her mouth smeared with sauce.
This contrast only made Samael's unique position—caught between the two—stand out all the more. Dozens of eyes, some jealous, some admiring, fell upon the ancient serpent.
But before long, the special attention he enjoyed began to stir resentment.
"Hey, kid, what have you ever accomplished that gives you the right to sit here?"
A middle-aged man, belching drunkenly, staggered forward, slapped his palm against Samael's table, and sneered down at him with scornful eyes.
"That's right, tell us. Let everyone hear it."
Another man trailing behind spread his arms, egging the crowd on.
The hall fell silent. The gathered heroes turned to Samael—some frowning in concern, but most with cold, mocking eyes.
Heh. Heroes—still human at their core.
For all their pride and power, they carried the same flaws and desires that stained every mortal. In this world, only strength earned respect.
Samael smiled faintly, his gaze darkening.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
Before the ancient serpent could move—before he could even decide whether to teach the two fools a lesson—a sharp sound cut through the air beside them.
The men turned just in time to see two arrows pierce clean through the stone pillar, the shafts still humming from the force.
Instinctively, they raised their hands to their cheeks, only to feel warm liquid trickle into their palms.
Blood.
The burning pain spreading from the cuts instantly sobered them, their drunken haze replaced by cold sweat.
"Do we have the right to sit here now?"
Atalanta stood with her bow drawn, eyes cold and sharp.
"I was talking about him, you—"
"He's with me. You want a fight? Come at me instead."
The huntress's gaze swept toward them like the eyes of a predator. The two men froze, pale and trembling, like rabbits caught under a lioness's stare. Their necks stiffened, and they stumbled backward without another word.
"Pathetic."
Atalanta let out a contemptuous snort.
Realizing how utterly humiliated they were, the men's faces flushed crimson, their shame only amplified by the smothered laughter and sidelong glances of the other heroes.
Just as they clenched their fists in anger, Prince Calydon—who had stepped out earlier—heard the commotion and rushed back from the courtyard. Seeing the scene before him, his brow furrowed and his voice thundered through the hall.
"What are you doing!"
"Meleager! She insulted us! Insulted your uncles! Punish them! Show them what happens when they mock your kin!"
"Silence! She's my guest—a guest of honor of Calydon! Get out!"
"Will you just sit there and watch your own blood be humiliated? How can you side with outsiders?"
The two men's voices were shrill with self-righteous indignation.
Prince Calydon descended the steps, eyes cold. He seized one of the men by the collar and leaned close, his voice low and sharp.
"Enough. I know exactly what kind of men you are. If not for my mother's sake, you wouldn't even have qualified to join the hunt. And you dare to stir up trouble here?
What's next, should I have the guards drag you out? Get out of my palace before you shame Calydon any further!"
The two men turned pale, shooting venomous looks at their nephew and Atalanta before storming off, humiliated, into the night.
Once their figures had vanished from sight, Prince Calydon raised his cup and approached Atalanta's group with a deeply apologetic expression.
Out of respect for him, Samael and the others didn't dwell on the slight and brushed it aside easily.
Relieved, the prince lifted his cup again and returned to the crowd, laughing and drinking with the other heroes until the tension in the air slowly dissolved.
"You really didn't have to stand up for me," Samael murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"I brought you here to hunt Magical Beasts, not to be insulted by them," Atalanta replied, blinking with a small smile. "If I don't stand up for you, what right do I have to call myself your big sister?"
Her voice was firm, her tone protective.
Alright then... I guess she really does see me as the goddess's weak little bastard son, huh?
So in her eyes, all this divine equipment is just for me to survive with?
Samael sighed and scratched his head with a helpless smile.
After calming himself, he glanced toward Prince Calydon, now laughing and drinking with the others, his eyes glinting with quiet amusement.
A clever man. He knew Atalanta was the key to slaying the Demon Boar—the bridge between Calydon and the goddess of the hunt. No wonder he treated their group with such care. He wouldn't dare risk offending her.
Too bad his uncles weren't nearly as wise.
Samael vaguely recalled the events of the Calydon Hunt: how the prince had gifted the boar's hide to his elder sister, Atalanta, honoring her as the first to strike the beast, to seal the peace between mortals and the goddess.
But those two uncles—now driven out in disgrace—had been jealous. They had tried to seize the hide for themselves, craving the glory and the people's cheers.
In the end, the prince had steeled his heart, killed his two foolish uncles, and offered their blood as proof of his sincerity to Artemis.
Later, when the queen saw that her son had slain her brothers, grief and fury consumed her. She cast into the fire the wooden effigy that bound her son's life to her own—betraying him in her despair before taking her own life.
And the old king... his fate hadn't been much better.
So in the end, the whole family went down together.
Tch. A father who doomed his son, two uncles as dead weight, a mother who turned on him—the prince of Calydon really drew the short straw.
One god and four disasters. No winning that game.
Samael couldn't help but sigh, once again feeling grateful that his team had been made up of Gilgamesh, Merlin, Ana, and Quetzalcoatl.
As for Ishtar? Sorry. He didn't know her.