Chapter 120: Heroes Who Shatter Prophecy
Before this, Achilles had asked himself countless times what he should do.
Born extraordinary, gifted an immortal body through a chain of accidents that bordered on absurd, he once believed his desire was simple. A brilliant life. A momentary splendor that eclipsed all others.
So when the summons came from Agamemnon, commander of the allied Greek host, Achilles took up his spear without hesitation and walked toward the battlefield.
To display his glory.
To prove the honor of his demigod blood.
That had been his first answer.
Yet as the days dragged on, as his spear rose and fell, as enemies fell and comrades fell, that certainty began to fracture. The rhythm of killing did not quiet his thoughts. It sharpened them.
Again and again, he remembered his father's words.
Again and again.
Heroes. Justice. Good and evil.
He had not understood then.
Now, he did.
"So called heroes are those who create miracles."
"And so called miracles are when mortals, even facing gods, still uphold their own will."
"At least in this moment, my will…"
"…is beneath my long spear."
Night deepened. The bright moon hung high.
Achilles faced the gods and made his spear tremble, not from fear, but from resolve so concentrated it turned his body into a blade. In the camp of the Greek allied forces, he became a brilliant shooting star, ripping through the darkness.
The gods before him were Hephaestus, the God of Fire, Queen Hera, and the prophecy that had always waited at the edge of his life.
Forward.
Thrust.
Forward, together with the heroes.
"Hahaha, this feeling. This is the feeling."
In Troy, Prince Hektor was laughing too.
A startling sound split the long night.
The gods froze.
The heroes coughed blood.
In the Greek camp, Queen Hera lowered her eyes to her sleeve.
A corner of it was torn.
Apollo, elsewhere, silently stared at his own boots, splattered red.
The gods were damaged.
The gods were stained.
The gap between them remained immense.
Yet the radiance of the heroes shone brighter than anything in the night, because they had done something the gods had always treated as a private privilege.
They had broken fate.
They had broken the prophecy.
"Gods, the war is over."
Achilles spat blood, then laughed as if the taste of iron was proof of victory.
"And I did not die as prophesied."
The heroes lay scattered across the ground, bodies heavy, limbs refusing to obey, yet they still breathed.
They had lost the ability to fight.
Around them, soldiers of the Greek alliance and soldiers of Troy lay unconscious as well, struck down not by slaughter, but by interruption, by the forced collapse of momentum.
Both sides were no longer capable of war.
And so the war ended.
Hera's expression remained solemn.
On Apollo's face, something like respect surfaced without permission, as if it had risen from a place even he could not command.
Long ago, on that ship, Rowe had planted a seed without intending to.
Now it sprouted.
For heroes, strength was secondary.
What they truly needed was courage.
The courage required for humanity to cross the shadow the gods cast over the world.
Even if the difference remained vast, they had at least gained the right to stare into the abyss.
To look directly at the gods.
To look directly at themselves.
To break their chains.
The heroes retreated together.
They had been repelled by the gods and stripped of combat ability, yet they did not die. They only suffered wounds.
Rowe protected them.
Because the heroes had created a miracle.
And Rowe, who had crossed from human into god and became both at once, was himself a miracle belonging to humanity.
He was the one who spread miracles.
And the point where miracles converged.
The night was deep. Moonlight spilled across the vast land. The Aegean tides rose and fell, and the sea wind carried a heavy salt scent.
Rowe's manifested machina god body slowly shrank, plates and gears folding inward until steel yielded to flesh, returning him to human form.
Apollo and the other gods, understanding what had happened, ceased releasing their wrath.
The tall God of Light looked at the demigod heroes who had dared to point spears at gods. His gaze grew distant, as if he were engraving them into memory.
"Heroes, I remember you."
"Though you are only mortals…" Aphrodite's voice was softer than her pride would have allowed in any other moment, "your courage is… beautiful."
No one could deny the will of the heroes.
Because they were the ones who shattered prophecy.
Because they were the ones who embraced ideals that demanded pain.
"Roar."
Ares roared, fighting spirit surging. That was instinct, the God of War acknowledging those who dared to challenge the divine.
Both sides had fallen.
Then the soldiers of Uruk stepped forward and surrounded them from every direction, shields and spears forming a silent wall.
This was a shared failure for both the Greek allied forces and Troy.
And it was Rowe's victory.
A victory without losing a single soldier.
A victory without killing a single person.
"I admit defeat."
Apollo spoke with a strange, almost theatrical flair, as if conceding could also be a performance of dignity. He lifted his gaze toward Rowe, then offered his stake.
"In the name of Apollo, God of Light, I acknowledge your victory, and hereby make a covenant."
"For the next thousand years, light shall be unobstructed for you."
"Hmph. Fine."
Aphrodite tossed her crimson hair, forcing down her unwillingness and turning it into sulking arrogance.
"Consider this a favor, just for now."
"I, Aphrodite, Goddess of Love, acknowledge your victory, and hereby make a covenant."
"For the next thousand years, beauty and love shall always favor you."
"Ares, God of War, hereby makes a covenant."
For an instant, the shadow's eyes seemed clearer, as if a buried fragment of divinity surfaced.
"You shall be the master of all wars."
Then the clarity collapsed, and chaos reclaimed him.
"Queen Hera, hereby makes a covenant…"
More voices followed outside Troy.
More promises condensed upon Rowe, layering like invisible seals.
To Rowe, covenants with gods did not feel particularly heavy.
They were acknowledgments more than shackles, and the substance within them was thin.
His true gain was elsewhere.
He had successfully, legitimately brought Uruk's soldiers to the surface without drawing open hostility or immediate vigilance from the gods.
Of course, the gods might have known.
Perhaps they deemed it irrelevant.
Perhaps they lacked the dignity to pursue it.
So they remained silent.
And with these covenants, Rowe could now allow Uruk to build a city upon the land in a manner that could not be challenged without breaking divine face.
This meant he and Gilgamesh had advanced their strategy one more step.
And it also meant their death seeking plan, provoking Zeus and forcing a clash to the absolute end, had advanced one more step as well.
In the Underworld, Gilgamesh burst into laughter.
"AHAHAHAHA. That fellow truly did not disappoint this King."
Siduri bowed at his side, clay tablets in hand, recording the event.
"Retreat!"
Agamemnon, unable to see the gods clearly yet able to sense their decision through the flickering of divinity, sighed and looked around at the Greek soldiers who had been knocked down by heroes, stripped of combat ability.
He gave the order.
Achilles and the other severely wounded heroes smiled.
This was the first time heroes had not fought for slaughter, but had fought to prevent war and senseless killing.
So their smiles were real.
They had finally grasped what the heroes of Argo, their fathers, had gained in that trial years ago.
The ideal of a hero.
An ideal that even mortals could uphold.
'The seeds of heroism sown by Argo sprouted in the Trojan War. The heroes, upholding a radiant will, embarked upon a different path, pursuing their own justice.'
'New Edition of the Greek Heroes' Chronicles'
"I pursue the brilliance of life…"
Achilles gazed at the two intertwined divine lights in the high sky, smile returning, calmer now.
"But how can temporary brilliance compare to lasting glory?"
"God of Armies, formed by the Sage, please protect me as I press forward."
Meanwhile, under another corner of the same sky.
In Arcadia, someone slowly opened her eyes.
A soft, unconscious murmur slipped from cherry lips.
"Rowe…"
The girl with long, verdant hair stared into the distance.
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