The sun was dipping low when the village elders gathered in the hall. Dion sat before them, his body large and strong — yet his heart uneasy. They had just finished serving him supper, but the sweetness of the honeyed bread felt bitter on his tongue. The room buzzed with nervous whispers until one of the older men, wrinkled and trembling, stood and cleared his throat.
"Lord Hercules…" he began, bowing low. "There's something you must know. The beast… it has grown stronger."
Dion frowned. "Beast? You mean the one you mentioned before?"
The old man nodded, fear darkening his eyes. "Yes, my lord. We call it Tharos."
Even the mention of that name seemed to drain the warmth from the air. The other villagers looked away, some clutching their hands together as if in prayer. Dion could feel the tension thick in the air.
"Tharos was born from the ashes of a cursed storm," the elder continued, voice shaking. "A shadow too dark to be of mortal flesh. It walks like a man, yet its roar shakes the skies. Four arms—each stronger than the last—capable of tearing through stone. Its skin is darker than night, its eyes red like fire. It comes from the hills every few weeks to feed, to destroy, to remind us we are nothing before it."
He paused, voice breaking. "It burned the wheat fields. Crushed livestock. Killed men who dared to defend their homes. Even my son…" His words faltered. "…even my son was taken."
The room went silent except for the crackle of the torches. Dion felt a heavy weight sink into his chest.
Four arms? Dark as night? A monster that hunts for sport?
The elder bowed his head. "We thought you, Lord Hercules, had gone to slay it… when you disappeared. The gods must have sent you back to finish the task."
The gods… Dion thought bitterly. If only they knew who I really was.
He nodded weakly, trying to look confident. "I'll… see what I can do."
As the villagers began to disperse, whispering prayers of hope, Dion's chest tightened.
He sat there long after everyone left, staring at the flickering light on the table.
Tharos. Four arms. Stronger than men. And they expect me to fight that thing? Me? The same man who once got beaten up for stealing a loaf of bread?
He clenched his fists. His palms still bore faint scars — old wounds from the market chases back home. He remembered their faces, shouting at him, calling him a thief. Throwing stones, spitting on him as he ran.
Now those same faces — different people, same eyes — looked at him like he was their savior.
They need me. But do they deserve me?
If these were the same kind of people who beat me half to death, why should I save them?
He stood and walked to the window. Outside, the villagers lit torches, children ran with laughter, and men repaired fences. Hope glowed in their eyes again.
Maybe… maybe they don't deserve me. But I can't deny it — they don't deserve to die either.
He sighed heavily, lowering his head. The memories came in waves — the cold nights sleeping under bridges, his mother's worn face smiling weakly in candlelight, his father's rough hands holding his when he was just a boy.
"Even if the world treats you like dirt," his mother had once said, "don't let it make your heart just as dirty. The world can take your food, your money, your name — but never let it take your goodness."
He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.
Maybe this is it. Maybe this is my chance to make her proud… wherever she is.
He took a deep breath and turned. "If I'm going to fight, I need to prepare."
⸻
The Sword of Hercules
The mansion was quiet now. Only the sound of the wind moving through the marble halls filled the air. Dion wandered into what looked like a training chamber — racks of weapons, armor glinting faintly in torchlight.
And there, mounted on the wall, was a sword.
It was enormous, almost as tall as he was. Its blade shimmered faintly, carved with ancient runes that pulsed like embers. When he touched it, a spark ran through his hand — not pain, but memory. A thousand instincts waking at once.
He gripped the hilt.
And his body remembered.
Before he even realized it, his feet shifted into fighting stance, his muscles flexed with perfect precision, and his arm swung through the air in a clean arc. The blade cut through the silence with a sharp whish.
What… was that?
I knew what to do before I even thought about it.
He swung again. And again.
Each motion smoother than the last, faster, stronger — like Hercules' strength was not something he needed to learn, but something already etched into his soul.
As he trained, a door creaked open.
"Still practicing, my lord?" came an old, gravelly voice.
Dion turned. At the doorway stood a man — white-haired, scarred, and holding a cane that looked more like a sword hilt than a walking stick.
"Yes," Dion said. "I… wanted to be ready."
The man stepped closer, his sharp gray eyes scanning him carefully. "I am Lycan, once the captain of Hercules' training guard. I've seen you fight before, my lord — or so I thought. But now…" He narrowed his eyes. "…something feels different."
Dion's chest tightened. "Different how?"
Lycan tilted his head. "The Hercules I knew didn't hesitate. His sword sang like thunder. But you—" he paused, "—you move like a man still learning himself."
Dion forced a smile. "Maybe I've changed."
Lycan chuckled softly. "Maybe the gods made you new. Still… your grip is wrong. Hold it higher."
He guided Dion's hand. "There. Better. Again."
Dion obeyed, swinging the sword, this time feeling it slice through the air with raw force. Lycan watched silently, still frowning slightly — suspicion lingering in his eyes.
When Dion finally stopped, chest heaving, Lycan nodded. "Good. You may not be the same Hercules… but perhaps you'll be strong enough to face Tharos."
"Where is it now?" Dion asked.
The old man's face darkened. "The beast came down from the hills this morning. It's near the market square."
Dion froze. "The market square?"
Lycan nodded gravely. "Yes. The people have already fled. It's destroying everything."
For a heartbeat, Dion said nothing. Then he looked down at his sword, his reflection dancing along the blade. He saw both the thief he once was — and the hero they thought he was.
Maybe I can be both.
He lifted the sword, firelight glinting across his face. "Then it's time I met this Tharos."
Lycan bowed slightly, stepping aside. "May the gods guide you, Hercules."
Dion took a deep breath, the weight of the blade steady in his hands. The roar of distant chaos echoed through the night.
And with one last look toward the window — where smoke now curled from the village — he whispered to himself,
"I might've died a thief… but maybe this time, I can live as something better."
Then he stepped out into the firelit dark.