Spring withered into autumn, and the seasons spun in their eternal dance. To the undying gods, a single year was often no more than a brief slumber.
On this day, the gods of Olympus reached a rare and unspoken consensus. Setting aside their labors and their revelries, they gathered upon the peak of the radiant mountain. Today was the day the mortals would demonstrate their piety to Zeus, the King of Gods, by offering a sacrifice of one thousand bulls to their great sovereign.
A sacrifice of such magnitude was unprecedented. Regardless of their personal feelings toward the burgeoning human race, the deities were loath to miss such a grand spectacle.
Zeus was arrayed in his most opulent vestments, his brilliant golden hair crowned with a wreath of olive branches. In his left hand, he gripped the Thunderbolt—the very emblem of his supreme power. He led the procession of gods to the designated site of the covenant: Mekone.
There, Prometheus, the creator and protector of mankind, stood waiting before the altars of Mekone. Beside him stood the new humans, bearing the carcasses of the bulls, which had already been divided and prepared.
As the towering figure of Zeus appeared in the skies above Mekone, clutching his lightning, the mortals stepped forward to lay the offerings before the divine assembly.
The thousand bulls had been divided into two distinct piles. The pile on the left appeared smaller and uninviting, covered in unappealing rumen, tough hides, and various offal. It was an unsightly heap, seemingly of poor quality.
Zeus frowned as he surveyed the left-hand pile, his dissatisfaction evident.
He then turned his gaze to the pile on the right. This one was far more pleasing to the eye. Thick layers of fat glistened with an enticing sheen, looking succulent, rich, and heavy with juice.
Zeus was undeniably pleased. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Son of Iapetus, most renowned of gods and my dear friend—surely your division is a bit lopsided? The humans could have kept more of these choice, delicious cuts for themselves."
Despite his words, Zeus had already made his choice. Choose the pile on the left? Impossible. He was the supreme ruler, the King of Gods; how could the quality of his sacrifice be inferior to that which the mortals kept for their own sustenance?
"Great King Zeus," Prometheus spoke, his voice calm. "Pray, choose one portion as your sacrifice. The remaining portion shall be left to the humans of the earth as a token of your merciful bounty."
Hebe stood at Zeus's side among the ranks of the Primary Deities, watching the scene with a peculiar expression. A god's eyes could pierce many veils, yet no matter how she looked at it, the left pile truly seemed to consist of wretched scraps, while the right pile—with its marbled beef and nutrient-rich organs—appeared perfect.
"Lord Apollo, which portion do you believe should be chosen?" To verify her own perception, Hebe even turned to her old rival, Apollo.
The sudden question caught Apollo off guard. The handsome Sun God arched an eyebrow; he vaguely recalled that his relationship with this goddess was far from cordial.
...No matter. Since she had asked so earnestly, he would deign to answer.
"Were it I, I would naturally choose the pile on the right," the radiant Sun God replied, his tone steeped in arrogance and certainty. "Only such succulent beef and rich entrails are worthy of a noble deity."
Hebe nodded and fell silent. If even Apollo's All-Seeing Eye could detect no flaw, it seemed Prometheus had taken her advice to heart, offering Zeus genuine tribute to avoid his ire. At the very least, this might prevent the Forethinker from being chained to a mountain, suffering the eternal torment of the divine eagle.
"In that case, my friend, I shall choose the portion on the right as my sacrifice. Humans, I have felt the depth of your devotion. In return, I shall grant you the spark taken from the sun itself, that you may warm yourselves, cook your food, and guard your homes."
Zeus chose his portion and let out a booming laugh. He took a flicker of flame from Apollo's solar chariot, placed it within an ash branch, and bestowed it upon mankind.
"..."
Prometheus wore a faint smile. Even though Zeus had unilaterally altered the terms of their original agreement, the Forethinker remained unruffled. He turned and instructed the humans to carry the right-hand pile onto the altar. Then, with his own hand, he used the ash branch carrying the eternal spark to ignite the offering for the King of Gods.
The solar fire roared to life. Snakes of flame quickly swarmed over the offering, licking at the thick fat. A rich, intoxicating aroma began to waft through the air.
"Ah!!!"
Suddenly, a cry of shock erupted from one of the gods. As the thick fat on the altar burned away, it revealed nothing but bleached, white bull bones—completely devoid of meat!
What was happening?
A wave of shock crashed over Hebe. She exchanged a glance with Apollo, finding the same disbelief mirrored in his eyes. They had both inspected the piles; how could the succulent beef and organs have turned into skeletal remains?
The gods then looked toward the left pile—the scraps they had previously despised. Beneath the rumen and the hide lay the finest cuts of beef and the most nutritious organs.
"How can this be? Why is it different from what we perceived?" a god questioned aloud, bewildered.
"...That cunning Forethinker."
Athena, the bright-eyed goddess, watched the scene as the radiance of wisdom enveloped her. She quickly deduced the truth of the matter.
"It is Epimetheus. The dull power of the Afterthinker clouded the clarity of our minds and eyes."
Only then did the gods notice the male deity standing unobtrusively among the crowd, wearing a simple, honest, and somewhat vacant grin.
Epimetheus, the Afterthinker—the most foolish god on the mountain, the very personification of ignorance.
Could the power of the "Afterthinker" truly be used in such a way?
Athena's gaze toward Prometheus became complex. The sheer depth of this god's intellect was terrifying. He had brought Epimetheus to this sacrifice purposefully. The God of Ignorance, due to his muddled mind, had never been able to control his Godhead or his power properly since birth. His ability not only affected himself but radiated outward, subtly influencing the perceptions of those around him.
Previously, Prometheus had kept his brother confined within his temple for protection. Now, he had brought him out into the open for all to see. In a way, this lone fool among the gods was uniquely gifted; he held almost the entire Essence of Ignorance, and he never had to worry about rivals. After all, who would fight to become stupid?
This concentrated essence made his power formidable. It was strong enough to affect even the King of Gods—who possessed the wisdom of Metis—causing him to fall into a state of unconscious muddle, unable to see the truth before him, and leading him to make a foolish choice.
But could one accuse Prometheus of a deliberate plot? Not easily. He could simply claim he felt sorry for his brother being bored in the temple and wanted to bring him to see the grand festivities. Faced with such touching brotherly love, could Zeus really stoop to conspiracy theories?
Brilliant. Utterly brilliant.
Athena felt she still had much to learn.
"..."
Dark clouds began to congest the sky, and the roar of thunder grew incessant. Zeus stood atop the clouds, his face terrifyingly grim. The howling winds manifested the fury in his heart. Prometheus's mockery had struck a nerve that could not be ignored.
In his towering rage, the Cloud-Gatherer raised his Thunderbolt high, casting a frigid gaze upon Prometheus. "Son of Iapetus, Titan of peerless wit—it seems you can never refrain from your petty tricks!"
"In the name of the King! Because of your deception, I hereby revoke the blessings bestowed upon you by the gods. You shall no longer enjoy eternal youth; you shall no longer be free from disease and calamity. Even the spark I granted you shall be taken back!"
As the King spoke, an unseen power descended, stripping away the blessing Hebe had placed upon the new humans.
Hebe's expression soured. Are you serious? You're having a spat with Prometheus, so you strip away my blessing?
The fires roaring upon the earth detached themselves from their fuel and spiraled into the sky. They converged into a single spark in the palm of the King of Gods, who crushed it into nothingness.
Having finished his decree, Zeus gave Prometheus one last, deep look. If I cannot move against you directly, I shall start with the humans you love so dearly. Let us see if you can remain so composed when your 'perfect creations' are plunged into misery.
The Master of Thunder turned and departed, ignoring the terrified humans below. Hera, the Queen of Heaven, followed in his wake. Yet, as she turned, her magnificent purple eyes seemed to catch those deep green eyes for a fleeting second, a complex thought flashing in their depths.
With the King and Queen gone, the gods who had witnessed this century-defining farce looked at one another. One by one, they began to leave. They had no desire to linger. To be honest, they felt Prometheus had gone too far in mocking Zeus just to help the humans.
In the hearts of these gods, humans were merely servants, tools. To compromise the interests of one's own kin for the sake of such creatures was, to them, utterly absurd.
In the end, only Hebe and Athena remained.
The two goddesses exchanged a look, both surprised that the other hadn't left, before a sense of understanding passed between them. In silent agreement, they chose not to question each other and descended from the clouds to stand before Prometheus.
The Forethinker seemed unbothered by the King's wrath. He remained calm and collected, directing the panicked humans to gather the remaining meat. If dried and stored, it could sustain the race for a long time.
"Lord Prometheus."
"Good day, noble and kind goddesses. I apologize that you had to witness such a farce," Prometheus said, a cheerful smile brightening his face as he saw Hebe and Athena. "I believe you have met my brother, Epimetheus the Afterthinker."
The dim-witted god, hearing his brother call him, shuffled over. His muddled eyes drifted over the two goddesses, and he let out a silly, vacant laugh. As if seeing a pair of favorite toys, he tugged at Prometheus's sleeve. "Pretty, Brother! Want!"
"..."
Both goddesses instinctively retreated several paces. Though his mind was simple, Epimetheus had the physique of a powerful, towering male god. To be leered at by such a being was deeply unsettling. Furthermore, they feared his aura of ignorance might rub off on them.
"...Epimetheus, go play over there," Prometheus said, his face flushing with embarrassment as he hurried his brother away.
Once Epimetheus was gone, the goddesses exhaled in relief and gathered around Prometheus once more.
"My Lord, your actions today were hardly wise," Hebe said. "Though you made him look the fool before the assembly, knowing his temperament, today's revocation of fire and blessings is likely only the beginning." Hebe could already see the dark future awaiting the humans; it seemed they were destined to follow the path she remembered from her past life. The establishment of the Cycle of Reincarnation had to happen soon.
"Lady Hebe is correct," Athena added, her bright eyes narrowing. "I was born from his mind; I know his thoughts better than most. The retribution he intends for the humans—and for you—will likely go far beyond this." Due to her claim over the creation of human women, Athena was now effectively in an alliance with Prometheus and did not wish to see her ally or his creations crushed by the King.
"I thank you both for your concern, but I have calculated the path ahead." Prometheus's expression remained serene. "The birth of women is imminent, and the humans will soon begin to procreate freely. Stripping away the blessings will, in fact, help them realize the preciousness of life and the hardship of survival. Adversity is the greatest catalyst for growth."
He then turned to Hebe. "Lady Hebe, thank you for your aid. That item... I have left it within your temple."
Hebe understood what he meant. With a thought, she stirred the divine power within her temple and retrieved the Scepter.
"Lady Athena, our agreement regarding the creation of women remains in effect. This is my insight into the Laws of the Soul; consider it a gift." Prometheus drew a sheet of golden parchment from his robes, inscribed with profound divine runes. "When the time comes, I shall rely on you and Lady Hebe to coordinate the work."
The scene felt strangely like a final parting. Both goddesses felt a growing sense of unease.
"Lord Prometheus... what do you intend to do next?" Hebe asked after a moment of silence.
"Next? Well... most things are of little consequence, but Zeus taking back the fire is indeed a bit of a nuisance." Prometheus looked up at the sky, his deep green eyes flashing with an inexplicable light.
No... surely not...
"My Lord, I think you should—"
Before Hebe could finish, the god placed a finger to his lips, signaling her to say no more. His handsome face was unreadable, but his deep eyes held a glint that seemed to reflect images of a distant future.
Hebe felt a chill of awe. Everything—every single detail—seemed to be moving exactly according to this god's design.