Chapter 144
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 144
Chapter Title: Mausoleum of Self-Loathing
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Asclepius's treatment center was already overflowing with patients, packed tighter than sardines.
Yet, amid the usual throng of the sick and wounded, the inside of the center was deathly quiet—unlike any other day.
"Ugh..."
"Urgh..."
"Agh!!"
Broken bones, severe abrasions, heads streaming with blood.
Everyone lay on beds or sprawled on the floor, groaning in agony, but not a soul among them opened their mouth to discuss today's crushing defeat.
The gap in power had been too overwhelming—far too vast.
They had felt it in their bones: from birth, he was different, his talent on another level entirely. A thick shroud of despair now hung over the heads of these heroes.
"Heh heh heh..."
Someone let out a chuckle.
A heavy, gray laugh laced with deep regret, fear, and despair.
Like the sky before a storm, that dull, leaden mirth spread through the entire treatment center in an instant.
"Kekekeke!"
"Pfft! Puahaha!"
"Heh heh heh heh!"
Bodily pain? They could overcome that easily with the elixirs and medicines wielded by Chiron himself—a healer who had already acknowledged surpassing him—and the gods' own brews.
Heracles?
They might fear his overwhelming might and presence, but if they all banded together, they could one day withstand that monstrous strength and prevail. They could steel themselves with that thought.
But the overwhelming despair they faced today? No amount of heroic spirit could conquer that.
Stamping the ground lightly to summon Gaia's wrath?
Possible.
Tanking Atalanta's valor head-on, the kind that made even them shudder?
Admittable.
The martial arts that rendered all their blood, sweat, and tears from the past month's training worthless?
Even that, they could accept.
Hell, getting swept up in unheard-of overwhelming magic and collapsing pathetically?
They could chalk that up to the price of defeat and swallow it.
But there was one thing they absolutely could not accept.
Themselves.
They couldn't forgive their own spirits for breaking when they should have been the ones defeated and fallen.
A hero is one who overcomes, who suffers, who triumphs.
Their master Chiron and the goddess of war Athena had taught them: defeat is not an end, but another chance.
Fall a hundred times, reflect, temper yourself with it as opportunity, and in the end, you will be etched into history as a hero.
Yes, fall endlessly, but rise again, and it was no end—but a chance.
Yet the ones filling this treatment center had squandered even that opportunity. They were nothing but fools.
"Jason... Jason's one hell of a guy..."
"Yeah, and he took that hit straight on and still got back up..."
While everyone else staggered between Hypnos's illusions and physical torment.
A desperate scream like Ares's own roar had pierced the ears of those who had collapsed.
Jason's pathetic, wretched, foolish outburst had awakened every warrior present.
But those who rose in response? Only Jason and his Argonauts—who weren't even here now.
The remaining 550 warriors pretended not to notice, closing their eyes and bowing their heads.
They were afraid.
Cyclopean-forged shields rendered useless by their own hands, made to feel like roadside pebbles amid massive landslides.
Black shadows dancing leisurely through spears stabbing from all sides, piercing illusions like phantoms.
And when that bizarre, formless tsunami—making the first landslide look like child's play—battered their bodies.
Everyone there had sensed the end of their lives, steeling themselves for a reunion on the banks of the Styx.
Yet Jason rose again.
And seeing his back, no small number had tried to stand once more.
He was the head of the Golden Generation, but not some standout prodigy like Heracles or Theseus, nor even of divine blood.
If Jason could rise, then they—children of gods, heirs to royal lines—could not fail to, or it would be an eternal shame passed down generations.
But those pathetic prides twitching? Dianes crushed them coldly, with cruel laughter once more.
Gaia's wrath. Poseidon's tsunami.
Another outrage engulfing them, who had personally endured mythic calamities known only from tales.
What could they call that horrific thing, unseen in any myth?
"Tartarus."
"Yeah, Tartarus."
"The screams of the abyss—what else would you call it?"
Tartarus, the pit of all sinners and wicked gods no god or hero had ever heard.
The screams of that Tartarus had shattered and scattered their minds to pieces.
And now, face that overwhelming, terrifying monster again?
Whether gods looked down or kings watched—it meant nothing anymore.
Would that black beast peering at them really let them trouble it a third time unscathed?
This was already a battlefield, and the successive upheavals had burned the reality of death into the minds of heroes drunk on their commander's call.
Battlefield judge Chiron and healer Asclepius were too far away.
Right there in the center, the black war god loomed, as if ready to claim their heads and drink their blood.
It wasn't even a battlefield anymore.
Just a monster feast akin to Hydra, Sphinx, or Chimera.
Amid that hell, they consoled themselves: no one could curse them for closing their eyes and turning from the heavens.
Even if they overcame it that way, pretending the earth looked away and the sky shut its eyes in pity for their disgrace— one fact remained unchanged.
Unlike them, who turned tail pathetically, there were those who faced that hellish aura, rose, and drew their blades.
"How... how the hell did they overcome that?"
"Jason even screamed right in its face."
"Even that coward Actaeon drew his sword and stood."
"Can't call him a coward anymore. If he is, what does that make us?"
Amid the self-mockery and loathing, undisguised admiration and shock poured out toward those absent, in praises from the routed remnants.
That sight of charging the black calamity, ugly yet unbowed before its overwhelming outrage, heedless even of their lives.
It was the very essence of the heroes from legend.
If another's a bit better, envy; much better, hatred; overwhelmingly so, awe.
Charging with armor shed, relying on a single blade—it bordered on the sublime.
No heart to belittle or insult it; the backlash birthed self-loathing so thick the treatment center felt like the Styx's banks.
"Heh heh... I'm a worthless piece of trash. Even crows would swerve from my corpse."
"Pray the heavenly gods are too dazzled by Dianes, Jason, and beautiful Atalanta to see our disgrace."
No god took their blame or sins; like Hyacinthus's discus, it boomeranged back as self-laceration and mockery, deepening the mire around them.
The treatment center, doors sealed against bright sun and blue sky from fear, resembled a tomb prepared just for them.
A cramped mausoleum for the defeated and useless.
"Should we just die?"
"Not a bad idea."
"Faking death from this? Might as well actually go—Hades might even pity us."
But the bottomless pit of self-loathing led to self-harm.
Pushed to extremes, death naturally surfaced in their minds.
The heroic tournament with all Greece's eyes upon it.
In this war watched by wealthy nobles, princes, and revered heavenly gods, their disgrace screamed for atonement—and death seemed sweetly close, a path to peace.
-Bang!
"Well, well, you sorry assholes."
A sharp voice cut through the heroes' gloomy tomb.
Bursting through the sealed door, dragging sunlight like attendants: a white-robed healer.
His sun-embraced snow-white hair and spotless white robes seemed almost divine.
But those blazing eyes of fury promised to sweep away these wretches any moment—a massive shock to those lost in self-pity.
"A-Asclepius?"
"Yeah, since you're still cursing my name, looks like you haven't croaked yet."
Like a white viper rearing its venomous head, the white healer slithered between the corpse-like heroes.
"And what's this? I said never close the windows unless it's winter. You kids of darkness or what?"
-Thud! Thud! Thud!
Asclepius scowled dismissively.
With flicks toward the windows, the wooden shutters blocking them shattered to splinters.
And through the broken frames poured brilliant sunlight, banishing the center's dark mood in one fell swoop.
"Hey! King boar! What're you doing!"
"Got it! I'm going!"
Trailing the white viper came King Boar Heracles, who clicked his tongue at his dead-fish comrades.
"Tsk tsk, faking death once and turning into such corpses..."
"Shut up and toss 'em."
"Gotcha~"
No more nagging; Asclepius waved lazily, and King Boar Heracles unceremoniously hurled heroes outside.
"Aaaagh!"
"Wh-what the hell!?"
"It's for your own good! Move it or you'll miss the encore!"
The center erupted in clamor instantly; Asclepius shook his head.
When would these beasts grow up?
"Sigh..."
But greater trouble awaited beyond the minor commotion.
In one corner of the center—Asclepius's private room and ICU for critical patients—the bed stood empty.
"...Theseus."
Empty bed, swinging window.
And on the desk, a medicine chest hastily rummaged.
Among them, his most cherished poison vial—inspected, its contents subtly diminished.
"In the end, his own choice."
Biting his lip at the sight, Asclepius closed the vial and began tidying the center.
He was a healer only; epics of heroes and villains lay beyond his domain.