Far from the chaos consuming Orario, in a humble dwelling that seemed untouched by the world's darkness, Zeus sat with his four-year-old grandson, weaving tales of legendary heroes and their grand adventures. The old god's eyes sparkled with mischief as he regaled young Bell with stories of courage, valor, and—much to the child's embarrassed delight—the harems that awaited true heroes in their futures. Bell's cheeks flushed crimson at the mention of beautiful maidens, his innocent mind barely grasping such concepts, yet hanging on every word his grandfather spoke.
Then Zeus felt it—that unmistakable surge of divinity rippling across the sky like a stone cast into still water. But unlike the gods gathered in Orario who floundered in confusion and uncertainty, Zeus's weathered face broke into a smile of pure amusement. He could see what they could not—the threads of fate themselves shifting, twisting, weaving a new tapestry entirely. The future he had glimpsed was changing before his very eyes, and most importantly, he saw those golden threads of destiny wrapping themselves around the small child before him, engulfing Bell in their radiant embrace.
His grandson. The last surviving member of his destroyed Familia. The final ember of a once-roaring flame.
Zeus's smile transformed then, shifting from mere amusement to something far deeper—serenity mixed with profound happiness, the kind of joy that only comes when impossible hopes suddenly bloom into possibility. 'It looks like my wish for Bell to become a hero can actually happen,' he thought, his heart swelling with emotion. 'And better yet... the world can have hope again.'
Bell, who had been absorbing every heroic tale with wide, wonder-filled eyes and still blushing furiously at the harem talk, noticed the sudden change in his grandfather's demeanor. The child's innocent voice cut through Zeus's reverie with a simple question that carried the purity only a four-year-old could possess. "Did something happen, Grandpa? You look very happy!"
Zeus gazed down at his grandson with eyes that held centuries of wisdom, love, and now—genuine hope. "Oh, well," he said softly, reaching down to ruffle Bell's white hair with a tenderness that belied his divine nature, "I just felt like your future will be very bright, so I couldn't be more happy. Some of the worries in my heart have vanished, little one."
Bell, too young to comprehend the weight of those words or the cosmic significance of this moment, simply beamed up at his grandfather with unbridled happiness. That smile—so pure, so full of trust—made Zeus's heart ache with bittersweet emotion. The old god turned his gaze toward the distant horizon, where storm clouds gathered like an army preparing for war, and wondered what kind of future would unfold from this moment forward.
Meanwhile, in a place far removed from Orario's walls, deep in the untamed wilderness where civilization feared to tread, two women stood against the backdrop of an unforgiving landscape. The contrast between them was striking, yet both carried an aura of undeniable power.
The first was Hera, her aged face bearing the marks of time yet radiating an elegance and pride that transcended physical appearance. She carried herself like the queen she was—the deity who had once commanded the strongest Familia in all the world, now reduced to a goddess in exile. Beside her stood the last remnant of that legendary Familia, and what a remnant she was.
Alfia—the Silence. The Level 7 adventurer whose very name had once made enemies tremble. Her appearance was as striking as her reputation: silver hair that seemed to catch and hold moonlight, heterochromatic eyes that had witnessed horrors beyond counting, and a face so pale and cold it might have been carved from marble. She carried herself with the air of silent danger, like a blade resting in its sheath—beautiful, still, but promising swift death to any foolish enough to draw it forth.
Yet beneath that icy exterior, hidden where none could see, churned a maelstrom of sorrow. She was searching—desperately, endlessly searching—for her nephew, the son of her late sister. The child who represented the last thread connecting her to a family long lost to tragedy and violence. And she was also pursuing that coward, that running husband who had abandoned his responsibilities. But she would never show this pain, never let it crack her frozen facade. Only those cold, mismatched eyes hinted at the emotional wasteland within.
But Alfia's instincts—honed sharp through countless life-and-death battles, refined by her status as a high-class adventurer who had danced with death more times than she could count—suddenly screamed a warning. A weird chill ran down her spine, the kind of sensation that others might dismiss but she knew better than to ignore. Something had changed. Something fundamental had shifted in the world itself.
Her suspicions were confirmed when Hera spoke, her divine authority as the goddess of marriage—which granted her a portion of Zeus's dominion over the sky—allowing her to perceive what mortal senses could not. "Hmm," Hera mused, her voice carrying the weight of cosmic understanding, "the wheel of fate has changed. The course of the future will differ from this moment forward."
Alfia didn't fully understand her goddess's cryptic pronouncement, but it validated every screaming instinct in her battle-scarred soul. Something was about to happen—something significant. She didn't dwell long on Hera's characteristically riddled way of speaking, but the goddess's next words hit her like a physical blow, making her question whether her illness had finally driven her to hallucinations.
"I have changed my plans," Hera declared with the calm certainty of one who has glimpsed destiny itself. "Get me first to Olympia, then I will release you so you can join this goddess who will descend."
For a moment, Alfia could only stare at her goddess in absolute shock. This was Hera—famously zealous, notoriously petty, possessively protective of her children to the point of obsession. The idea of her willingly releasing a Familia member to join another deity, especially a completely unknown new goddess, was so absurd that Alfia couldn't process it.
"Did you go senile," Alfia said flatly, her cold voice carrying a rare note of incredulity, "or are you sniffing some drugs behind my back?"
She genuinely couldn't think of any other reasonable explanation for this insanity. And another thought struck her—"And how are you even sure that the one descending is a goddess?" she challenged, her heterochromatic eyes narrowing with suspicion.
Hera's expression shifted dramatically, her aged face contorting with exaggerated displeasure and theatrical anger that barely masked her genuine annoyance. "You ungrateful brat!" she snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at her last remaining child. "Are you placing me in the same category as those trash deities who would do such things and then shamelessly deny it even if caught red-handed?" Her voice dripped with indignation at the very suggestion.
Then her tone shifted, becoming more measured but no less firm. "And as for your question about how I know the one descending is a goddess—well, it's just my intuition." She paused, letting that sink in before adding with grave seriousness, "But I have very good reasons for doing what I'm doing, Alfia."
The joking pretense of anger vanished completely as Hera's face settled into an expression of absolute seriousness, her divine authority seeming to radiate from her very being. The air around them grew heavy with unspoken meaning, with implications that stretched far beyond this single moment.
Alfia, seeing that expression—one she had learned to recognize over their long years together—felt her skepticism waver. When Hera wore that face, when she spoke with that particular gravity, it meant the situation was far more serious than it initially appeared. Whatever was happening, whatever had caused this cosmic shift in fate, it was more important than Alfia had dared to imagine.
The Silence stood there in the wilderness, silver hair stirring in a wind that seemed to carry whispers of change, and wondered what kind of future was being born in this very moment.