At the heart of Olympus, Hercules walked through the marble corridors of the castle of the Twelve. The walls bore reliefs of ancient triumphs and tragedies, and above the star-painted ceiling, the constellations themselves seemed to drift in quiet motion.
He had never truly questioned the Olympians—except when Hera’s name was mentioned. Zeus had protected him since childhood, even trying to make him a god at birth, but his wife could not stand the existence of a bastard. The twins had aided him more than once, Athena often counseled him, and all revered him as the hero who accomplished the impossible.
Yet the doubt had always lingered. He had not been born a god but as a pawn in Zeus’s deceit and an ancient prophecy. Though he had loved and hated as a mortal, his ascension had changed little—he was still the servant of the gods:
“Guard the gates of Olympus.” “Slay this beast.” “Bring down that god.”
It hadn’t bothered him much. He was worshiped, he had Hebe’s hand, and his name was sung by men. But everything changed when he heard the Olympians’ new plan. Those he had admired were now willing to commit an act of unimaginable cowardice.
Rage blinded him, and when he came to, the gates of Olympus bore new cracks—and a fist-shaped mark on one of the pillars.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Hebe asked, descending gracefully down the marble steps of Olympus as she walked beside him toward the Hall of the Gods. “You know that even for you, it’s dangerous to try to manipulate the Olympians.”
Hercules kept walking without hesitation. He didn’t reply; he already knew what continuing meant. Hebe clenched her teeth, irritated by her husband’s obstinacy.
“My father is brutal in every sense,” she continued. “Just because you’re his favorite doesn’t mean you can stroll in there like nothing will happen. Especially if—”
Hercules still didn’t look at her. Frustrated, Hebe vanished. A burst of water erupted from the floor like a geyser in front of the hero, and from it emerged her figure—imposing, furious, and flawless, not a single wrinkle betraying her anger. Her classical beauty, framed by a furrowed brow, stood firm before him.
Hercules finally stopped. He met her gaze, defiant. The nearby divine attendants stepped back, unwilling to witness a clash between gods. The hero sighed.
“I’m listening, Hebe. No one’s more aware than I am of what could happen. I’ve been to more political meetings than I can count.”
“And how many of those didn’t end with you being hunted or imprisoned?” she shot back, her form solidifying again as the water faded away.
“Well… I can’t count those on my fingers either,” Hercules admitted, glancing aside with a mix of shame and arrogance.
“And what about the time you became the
sex slave
of that deranged regent?”
“That was
once!
” he barked.
Hebe folded her arms, unimpressed.
“I’ve known my father at least a thousand years longer than you,” she said, her voice caught between warning and tenderness. “I grew up on the summit of the gods. I care for humanity too, but I know how extreme the Olympians can be. I know what could happen to you. How many guests have left this hall as fish—or as ashes? And still, you insist on bringing up the one thing that could…” she swallowed hard. “I’m scared for you, idiot.”
Hebe struck his chest—a futile act, even for a goddess, as it was like striking stone. Hercules sighed, took her hand gently, and brushed her cheek.
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure I don’t end up pulverized. I’ll come back to you—and to Alexiares and Anicetus.”
He kissed her forehead, released her hand, and continued walking. Hebe watched him go, muttering curses under her breath.
“Besides,” Hercules said, stopping before the great doors of the castle, “they owe me one—for saving them during the Gigantomachy.”
That was how the trouble began… and how it would all end.
With his broad figure and reddish hair cascading down his back, Hercules breathed in the divine air, thick with power. He strode forward, head held high, toward the throne hall.
Two winged sentinels crossed his path, reminding him that only invited guests could enter. Hercules ignored them. When one tried to stop him, a single blow sent the guard crashing into a column. The other stepped aside, trembling. Hercules pushed through the doors.
A fragrant breeze swept through the corridor, heavy with power. The throne hall rose like a vast dome, twelve thrones encircling a blazing fire that burned like the sun. Beside the flame, Hestia greeted him with a kind smile.
Hercules stopped before the empty thrones.
“Gods! I demand an audience!” his voice thundered. “I, Hercules, son of Zeus, ask that you hear me!”
The floor rumbled. A surge of energy rippled through him. One by one, the gods materialized upon their thrones: Dionysus among vines, Hephaestus beside Aphrodite, Hermes at the front, Apollo and Artemis across from each other, Ares and Athena facing off. At the center sat Poseidon and Demeter, and above them, Zeus and Hera, wreathed in light.
The Twelve Olympians were assembled. Hercules knelt. Some looked upon him with curiosity, others with disdain.
“Well, what audacity,” said Apollo, spinning an arrow between his fingers. “A lesser god calling the council of Olympus.”
“I agree,” rumbled Poseidon, his throne of shells trembling. “We should tear out his tongue.”
“Or his liver, like Prometheus,” added Artemis with a cruel smile. “Or chain him to a rock and let him drink hydra venom.”
“Didn’t the Norse do that to Loki?” Athena replied dryly, without looking at her.
Hercules drew a deep breath. The pressure in the hall was unbearable; his fists trembled, but he held his ground.
“Silence!” Zeus’s voice thundered, shaking the marble beneath them. His throne of lightning blazed with fury. “You speak of my son. There will be no punishment today. We have greater matters to face than your sadism.”
Ares let out a dry laugh.
“A war approaches in the mortal world,” he growled. “Fresh blood. New heroes to crush. And we’re answering to a
demigod
?”
Hera raised her hand. The air froze.
“Hercules is no longer a demigod,” she said, her voice cold as ice. “He was elevated—like Dionysus.”
Dionysus raised two fingers in a peace sign.
“Therefore,” Hera continued, “he will be heard.”
Hermes smirked.
“And this comes from the one who tried to kill him six times…” he muttered.
Hera didn’t answer. She simply looked at him—a glance sharp enough to silence any god—and gestured for Hercules to speak.
Hercules inhaled slowly. The weight of every gaze pressed on him like stone. He stood tall and spoke, voice cutting through the divine air.
“I ask you—for everything you claim to stand for—reverse this decision. Don’t take the mortal realm through genocide. Find another path. Convince the other pantheons. There’s still time.”
Silence fell. The gods exchanged glances.
“You arrive uninvited,” Poseidon growled, “and now you
command
us?”
Hercules lifted his hands, his tone steady but edged with desperation.
“I command nothing. I beg you. We can’t destroy everything—there’s still something worth saving in humanity.”
Ares slammed his fist against his throne. “Miss the war? The slaughter we’ve waited centuries for?” he roared. “Where’s the glory in sitting back and watching?”
Athena regarded him coolly. “He seeks to stop the world from burning,” she said. “He was mortal once—he understands.”
Ares sneered. “And how do you propose we stop it? Beg each pantheon on our knees? Asgard marches. The Jade Palace raises armies. And Oxoluntiku—”
“
Oxlahuntikú,
” corrected Aphrodite sharply. “Don’t utter names you can’t pronounce.”
The ceremonial flames flickered higher, casting long shadows—like fingers ready to close around the world.
Hercules swallowed his anger. Against the Olympians, power wasn’t enough; he had to play the game. He knew which ones would never listen. He needed the rest.
“And you, Ares?” he said with disdain. “Why do you crave this war when you lose every one you start?”
Ares clenched his fist. Zeus’s glare froze him in place, though his eyes still burned with fury.
“This is no place for foolishness,” Zeus cut in sharply. Then his tone softened as he turned to his son. “Hercules,” he said evenly, “more than anyone, you know how useful humans are. But within months, even their world will be beyond saving.”
Athena leaned forward, hands clasped, her voice calm and deliberate.
“We should at least consider his proposal,” she said. “Claiming the Earth may serve a purpose, but a war of this scale will awaken ancient enemies. Not every pantheon will tolerate an invasion. We’ve endured for centuries
without
destroying mortals.”
She turned her gaze toward Demeter, silent and pale.
“Think of the soil you guard—in Gea’s name,” she whispered. Then to Aphrodite: “And you, goddess of love… even you should despise this war.”
Hermes conjured a golden apple between his fingers and grinned. “Unless she’s trying to prove a point…” he teased.
Four cold glares silenced him instantly. The apple vanished.
“Fine. I’ll shut up,” he said.
Hercules seized the moment.
“Apollo,” he said, “you live for the beauty of the human spirit. If we raze their world, what will remain of your art?” Apollo looked down and nodded faintly, troubled. Then Hercules turned to Artemis.
“I know you don’t favor men, but you respect me as a hunter. Millions of women will die in this war—the same ones you claim to protect.”
Artemis exhaled softly. “I’ll listen, brother. Speak.”
“That’s what I’m telling you,” Hercules pressed. “Will you let them die as well?”
Artemis narrowed her eyes. “They’ll be welcomed among my huntresses.”
“That only includes a
few!
” Hercules exploded.
“Son,” Zeus intervened, and Hercules bowed his head instantly.
“Of course,” Ares muttered under his breath. “He doesn’t call
him
stupid.”
Artemis smiled coldly. “The rest are not my concern. Their loss is a necessary sacrifice.”
Hercules bit back a growl and turned to Hestia. She sat quietly beside the sacred fire, her eyes gentle but sad.
“So many deaths would bring more than pain,” she said softly. “Such an act would befit the Titans… not the gods.”
The Olympians exchanged uneasy glances. Hercules allowed himself a faint smile—Hestia rarely spoke, and when she did, her words carried weight.
Ares snorted. “Since when do we listen to an old woman who doesn’t even sit among the great?”
Hercules kept his composure. Hestia had already scored him a point.
Dionysus stretched lazily on his throne of vines. “And what about me?” he asked with languid curiosity. “Aren’t I another
peaceful
god? Don’t you want to hear my thoughts?”
Hercules cursed inwardly. Dionysus had caught on to his strategy.
“We’ll invite you to the peace party,” he replied with a forced smile. “But without humans, who will you celebrate with? Ares?”
“Perfect,” Dionysus said, smiling coolly, without a hint of warmth. “You have my vote, big guy.”
“See?” Hercules turned to the others. “Many will lose more than they gain.”
“And many will benefit,” Poseidon countered, his tone measured. “We would finally resolve the issue of the Chaos Veil once and for all.”
Hercules felt a chill of foreboding but didn’t show it. “Hephaestus will forge weapons like never before. Artemis will recruit any women she wants and hunt whatever beasts please her.”
“At last, some sense in this conversation,” said Artemis coldly.
“The gods of war will prove their worth. Athena, imagine applying your strategies to conquer new lands. You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?” Poseidon smiled, gauging reactions.
Athena sighed, nodding reluctantly. Her disdain for Poseidon didn’t erase the logic in his words.
“The seas will rise in all their glory,” Poseidon continued, “and sweep away the human filth.” His eyes locked on Zeus and Hera. “Your votes are the ones that matter.”
Zeus met his gaze. Poseidon delivered his final move.
“Brothers, think how the other pantheons will see it. They won’t call it mercy. As Ares said, even the Hindus will march.”
“Cowardice,” Zeus said sharply.
Poseidon bowed slightly, his smile like a blade. “Then tell me, brother—will you surrender what belongs to us because of your spineless son’s plea?”
Silence closed over the hall like a bronze door. Every gaze turned toward Zeus. The chamber held its breath; the decision hung by a heartbeat.
Hercules clenched his teeth, realizing he had lost control of the debate. In an instant, Poseidon had turned the tide, and even Athena now seemed inclined toward war.
Zeus looked to his son, expecting him to speak—but Hercules said nothing. Frustration burned through him.
What else can I say? I’ve appealed to every ounce of divine mercy left in them.
At last, Zeus sighed and leaned back on his throne, weary from the tension. He looked up at the skies, where a dark fissure streaked the horizon, red lightning flickering within—Chaos. Even if another way existed, time was running out.
“If there is nothing more to say,” Zeus declared, “we vote.”
Hera, trying to smooth the rising tension, spoke firmly:
“Given the gravity of this decision, we shall count the votes of Hestia and Hercules as well. Any objections?”
Poseidon’s fists tightened, but he said nothing, feeling Zeus’s gaze like a spear at his back.
“Who stands
against
the war?” Zeus asked at last, his voice heavy as lead.
Hercules raised his hand, resignation etched into his face.
Hestia, silent beside the fire, lifted her hand without a word. There was a moment’s hesitation in the air—then Dionysus raised his hand with a theatrical sigh.
“I promised to vote with you, big guy,” he muttered.
Apollo glanced briefly at his sister, then lifted his hand as well. Artemis let out a dry laugh, not bothering to hide her mockery.
Finally, Aphrodite, ever the charmer, smiled faintly and raised hers too, winking at Ares, who glared back with open fury.
“And in favor?” Zeus continued, without much hope.
Ares was the first to raise his hand, swift and firm. Poseidon followed, his expression hard as stone. Artemis lifted hers without hesitation, her gaze locked on Apollo with disdain.
Hephaestus hesitated but eventually sided with them, lowering his eyes in discomfort.
Hermes shrugged and abstained, as did Demeter and Athena—the latter keeping her hands folded over her lap, frowning, lost in thought.
“I’m sorry, Alcides,” Hera said, deliberately using Hercules’s mortal name, a subtle reminder of his defiance’s roots. “But this is not a matter to take lightly.”
She raised her hand. The hall fell into a thick, suffocating silence. Five against five. The final word rested with Zeus.
All eyes turned toward him. The king of the gods, for the first time in ages, seemed small upon his throne. He looked at his son, and something like pity crossed his gaze.
“I’m sorry too, but—”
“Wait!” Hercules cut him off, his voice strong yet laced with urgency.
The air froze. Every god turned toward him.
“Saying this is suicide… but hell with it,”
he thought, drawing a deep breath as memories of his wife crossed his mind—hoping he’d see her again.
“I have no choice but to go all the way. If Poseidon appealed to my father’s pride, then I’ll strike at something stronger in him—fear.”
“You’re all forgetting something important,” he said slowly, each word falling like a slab of stone. “
He
will be there.”
A chill ran through the room. Even Hestia’s sacred fire flickered. The goddess stared at him, trying to decide if he was suicidal—or simply an idiot.
Zeus went pale. Lightning began to coil around his throne.
Ares let out a nervous laugh that sounded hollow.
“What are you… what are you talking about? That bastard killed himself, remember?” he growled, though his hands trembled. “He sealed this realm with his own death.”
“Only his body died,” Hercules replied firmly. “But it wouldn’t be the first time a soul found its way out of the Underworld.”
Athena and Hestia exchanged fearful glances. Even Hermes, ever unshaken, swallowed hard. The mere mention of
Him
was taboo—a shadow that loomed not only over Olympus, but over every pantheon in existence.
“Nonsense!” Poseidon thundered, though there was a hint of doubt in his voice. “Buddha would never allow such a thing!”
Hercules stepped forward, his shadow stretching long across the marble floor.
“I believe you’re all aware of a secret mission my father once gave me.”
Zeus straightened in his seat, his voice now carrying fury—and something darker.
“Boy… watch your tongue.”
But Hercules pressed on.
“I was ordered to destroy that being’s reincarnation and seal his soul for good. But… I failed.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. One by one, the gods who had voted for war lowered their gaze. The hands once raised in pride now fell in shame.
“As far as I know, his last incarnation died about eighteen years ago,” Hercules continued. “Meaning, right now… he’s about that age again.”
“Even so…” Artemis tried to reclaim her composure, though her voice quivered. “He wouldn’t be foolish enough to challenge
every
pantheon at once.”
Hercules looked at her coldly, his tone cutting.
“Why not? He’s done it before. And he won’t stand alone this time. Quetzalcoatl, for instance—do you really think he’ll allow the slaughter of his children? Not to mention Camelot and Merlin—they’ve already taken a stand
against
the gods.”
“Even so, without his original body, he’s nothing but a mortal,” Hermes said, taking a clear stance for the first time.
His words weighed heavy in the air. He pointed directly at Zeus, whose eyes were now glowing with silent lightning.
“When he destroyed the Jade Palace,” Hercules continued, each word like a strike of a hammer, “you went to face him, Father… and you came back wounded. Defeated. Isn’t that true? And now… he has the perfect chance for revenge. To claim the throne that was once denied to him.”
“Enough!” Hera shouted, fear twisting her face as the tension mounted among the gods.
But Hercules no longer feared anything.
“To hell with it. If I’m going to say it, I’ll say it all. The consequences will come either way.”
“Tell me, Father,” he challenged, eyes blazing. “Are you truly ready to risk everything? To face
him
again? The one they call… the Great Sage Equal to Heaven.”
Silence.
Olympus itself seemed to tremble. The columns shuddered, and Hestia’s flame flickered as if it wished to die out.
Then Zeus rose. The ground quaked beneath him. Cracks split the marble, spreading toward Hercules. Power beyond measure poured from the King of the Gods—lightning struck the pillars and statues, shattering them as Zeus advanced.
Hercules trembled. Even he couldn’t hide it. Looking at his father, he felt like a child again, standing before a storm—powerless and terrified.
“You’ve gone too far, boy,” Zeus growled, his voice like thunder chained in his chest. “And listen well: the only reason I don’t strike you down where you stand… is because you carry my blood.”
His eyes cut into his son like blades.
“Get out of this hall. The decision is made. The war will continue.”
“Zeus!” Hephaestus cried, rising with a desperate look. “I… I withdraw my vote. We can’t—”
“This is no longer a matter of votes!” Zeus roared, silencing every other voice. “It is
my will
that decides now!”
He turned back to Hercules.
“Go to Hebe. Make sure neither of you interfere. The gods will claim the Earth. It is our right—and our duty to those who dwell above the skies.”
“But—”
“Silence!” Zeus’s bellow shook the walls, the echo deafening. “I do not fear the gods of other pantheons…” His gaze flicked toward Poseidon, who swallowed hard. “…and
certainly not
a damned stone monkey.”
Hercules clenched his fists but said nothing. He turned, shoulders rigid, and walked away without looking back.
Hera approached Zeus and whispered something no one else could hear. But his expression darkened, and he muttered only to himself:
“We will go to war… for our lands. No matter who—or what—rises against us.”
A thunderous roar split the heavens as a colossal bolt of lightning tore the sky in half.
Hercules walked down from the throne hall, eyes fixed on the path home—where Hebe would wait, perhaps ready to comfort him.
But instead, he turned the other way… and walked toward the edge of Olympus.
End of Chapter.