Chapter 150
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 150
Chapter Title: Amor Fati
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The five hundred and fifty defeated soldiers, sunk in despair and even dreaming of death, felt utterly out of place at first, not knowing what to do.
The king and princes, who had retreated to the back, whispered while eyeing them, and the gods and spirits gathered around seemed to glare at them with curses.
Beautiful and mighty Atalanta and her warriors were revered like Aphrodite's grand procession.
The entrance of steadfast Jason and his companions was as bold and composed as ever.
Compared to them—who had been ignominiously dragged out by Heracles's hand, tossed aside like seed scattered for sowing, and jeered—they wanted nothing more than to burrow into the earth.
Unable to endure the humiliation, they downed their cups in silence even before the god of festivals arrived, and wine jars were already piled high around them.
To such men, the beautiful god of wine shone too brilliantly, and the black demigod boldly protesting his frenzy seemed too magnificent.
Fearful that the gods hiding nearby might compare their pathetic selves to those luminaries and sneer, they couldn't lift their heads.
A god responding to a proud hero's challenge with a beautiful miracle.
Fragrant wine bubbling up from the ground and sweet honey seeping from the leaves instantly set the air ablaze with heat.
Yet for these men, numbed by despair or steeped in wine, it was a warmth tantalizingly close but impossibly distant.
They yearned only to slip away into the forest shadows, but grinning Heracles—flexing his muscles with delight at some private joy—watched over them.
By the time the five hundred and fifty charred remnants were idly fiddling with the wreckage of shattered tables, clinging to their seats...
"...?"
"Wh-what?"
Through the uproar of the banquet hall buzzing with the god's miracle, a song pierced like a flying arrow, clear and precise.
Not the elegant lay of Orpheus, nor the antique flair of Marsyas—just a light, humming melody. Heads that had hung limp began to lift one by one.
A bizarre, jubilant tune unlike any they'd heard in their lives, backed by an irreverently playful performance they'd never encountered before. Curious, they began to listen intently.
It rang true.
They were minor heroes—demigods who had yet to claim true heroism.
Belonging neither to the realm of gods nor fully to human society, they longed to star as protagonists in some grand tale.
Like Cadmus, who saved Zeus from Typhon, slew the primordial dragon Ismenios, and founded Thebes.
Like Perseus, bolstered by the love and cheers of countless gods, who vanquished Medusa and etched his name as a proud hero.
Like Bellerophon, who gripped the reins of Athena-guided Pegasus and felled Chimera, Typhon’s spawn.
Outsiders everywhere, they dreamed of becoming heroes so unforgettable that everyone—regardless of allegiance—would revere their names, the heart of the sagas they themselves had yearned for and sung.
Or could it even be called a dream?
The gnawing anxiety that no one would remember them. The dread that no one would acknowledge them. The terror that no one would love them.
It was a horror like the dread Fates themselves pursuing with sharpened blades—a shared wound among most minor heroes sheltered in this forest.
Doubts that eroded their very existence were more tenacious and cruel than any beast. This forest of heroes was little more than purgatory for scarred sinners cloaked in masks of bold, exemplary valor.
A glance aside revealed Heracles, swaying shoulders with the Cyclopes, lost in the melody.
Sharing bread and wine from the same jars, yet born on a divergent path—a great hero predestined as the centerpiece of epic history, undeniable to all.
A man beyond doubt to stand among Greece's finest alongside Cadmus, Perseus, and Bellerophon.
Gazing at him, it was impossible to envision standing shoulder-to-shoulder as equals.
The fiery ambition throbbing in their hearts had cooled to ice, hardening their cores solid.
Averting eyes from the fervent crowd, they scanned the faces around them—frozen stiff like mirrors, staring into one another's swamp-deep gazes.
More grotesque and terrifying than any monster.
What am I doing here?
What do I hope to achieve here?
Five hundred and fifty wretched stragglers who couldn't conquer their own fears, who crumpled in an instant of cowardice—daring to gaze at the heavens, then squeezing their eyes shut before the celestial gods.
Daring to sip wine at this feast? To let the songs fill their ears?
A sin they couldn't forgive themselves, a profound disappointment—five hundred and fifty pairs of feet edging backward one by one.
Then the song burrowed into their ears once more.
What?
Impossible.
Really?
Is that truly enough?
Like a drowning traveler flailing for a blade of grass, heads that had begun to droop rose once more.
They had wanted to live, deep down—but finding no reason, had resigned to death. Someone had witnessed their voiceless cries.
Arm-in-arm with the beautiful god, gazing right at them, extending a cup: the pitch-black blue demigod, Dianes.
Those feared black eyes silently urged them on; that wary hand reached out first, offering the cup.
And lips that held wisdom profound enough to astonish even Chiron delivered a single, magical answer.
That day, the five hundred and fifty cheers that erupted like cannon fire echoed praises throughout Dionysus's ongoing revelry.
The festival was, in a word, a smashing success.
Asclepius hadn't brandished that knife for show—seeing those five hundred and fifty husks nearly choked me too.
'Honestly, those guys aren't lacking or weak in any way.'
If the demonic qi of the Heavenly Demon Divine Art bolsters the morale of fiends while suppressing the divine auras of the righteous—it's the aura of the Transformation to Benefit Others Heaven, commanding myriad demons.
The demonic qi of the Asura Heaven-Reversing Art lives up to its name: the Asura's slaughterous intent that crushes and shatters every energy under the heavens.
Even fellow demonic qi or the practitioner's own core essence are no exceptions.
Unless fully fused into one's true essence, shed the shell with a body honed to the ultimate demonic extreme—it's impossible to cultivate.
No wonder the Asura Demon Lord made not just righteous fools but fellow fiends shrink back on the battlefield.
Jason and his fifty swordsmen, taking that heaven-defying slaughter head-on—even diluted? Incredible.
Hell, the fact no one dropped dead from heart failure facing that pressure was a miracle to me.
'It's infamous as an AoE slaughter technique back in the martial world.'
As expected of the mythic age—a realm of innate martial prodigies, heirs to divine blood.
Yet watching such men crumple to my single strike, the Heavenly Demon mentor in my chest clicked his tongue.
Anyway, today's song choice to rally them? A resounding triumph.
-Wooooaaah!
"Whoa! What a shock!"
The roar was so massive it startled even the wine god sidling up arm-in-arm. Refusing to be outdone, orchestra members scattered throughout the hall cranked up the music.
Marsyas and Orpheus joined choir members, throats straining in song.
Era-spanning, insanely addictive EDM. Lyrics philosophical and heart-tugging, impossible not to feel and connect.
Layered with the Captivating Fragrance Art's soul-seizing tones and my qi-infused, resonant voice—they formed a trinity, dousing the banquet flames in oil. The vibe ignited hotter than Hephaestus's forge.
"Aigoo, wiped out~"
I'd poured real effort into something I rarely did anymore—inexplicably exhausting.
Still, watching the young bloods dance and belt out my tune with wild glee? Damn satisfying sight.
"Hmph~"
"What's with that creepy smug hum?"
The Cheshire cat grin twisting his handsome—no, divine—features soured my mood on reflex.
"Nah~, if you became my junior god, you'd make a fine one."
"What outta nowhere...?"
True to the god of intoxication—chops context, drops divine nonsense cold.
"Hey, old man. Didn't catch what that headbanging Cyclops uncle said? Gods could be lurking anywhere. Blurt that out, and sure, you might be fine, but I'll get the headache later."
This Greece—blasphemy summons lightning on the regular.
Already neck-deep in enemies and epic side gigs.
No desire to cram more into my overflowing quest log.
"I've long outgrown fearing lightning or sunlight."
"I've long outgrown fearing lightning or sunlight."
.....?
"What the hell...?"
"What're you playing at?"
Dionysus smirked, preempting my line.
That ruddy, flawless face clashed with his murky purple gaze, stirring an inexplicable unease.