The night was burning.
By the time Dion reached the edge of the village, the air was thick with smoke. Fire devoured the roofs, turning the sky a deep, violent red. The smell of ash and blood hung heavy, and every step forward crunched over shattered pottery and charred wood.
Screams echoed faintly from the distance — fading, then swallowed by the roar that split the heavens apart.
It wasn't a roar that belonged to anything human.
Dion stopped. The ground trembled beneath his boots, each vibration crawling up his legs like a warning.
Then, from the corner of the street, something emerged.
It stepped into the torchlight — towering, deformed, and yet somehow alive in a way that defied reason. Four arms, each as thick as tree trunks. Skin dark as the storm clouds that crackled behind it. Its face was almost human, except for the eyes — twin furnaces glowing like molten iron.
Tharos.
The stories hadn't done it justice. The creature was bigger, hungrier, more alive than legend. And its gaze locked on him the moment he appeared.
Dion's heart thundered. The sword of Hercules felt heavier now, not because of its weight, but because of what it meant. He wasn't Hercules. He wasn't a demigod. Just a man who'd stolen his second chance.
Tharos took one step forward, the earth splitting beneath its clawed feet.
Its voice was a low rumble, distorted and cruel.
"Back again, false god."
Dion froze. The words struck him like lightning.
"You… can speak?"
The beast's mouth curled into something resembling a grin. "I know the smell of your fear, mortal. The true Hercules struck me once… and ran. Now the gods send me his shadow."
The world went silent for a heartbeat.
Then the beast charged.
Dion barely raised his sword before the first blow came — a sweeping arm that crashed into the ground beside him, throwing debris into the air. The force alone sent him flying backward, crashing into a wall that splintered behind him.
Pain ripped through his ribs. He coughed, tasting blood.
Get up.
If you stay down, they die.
He forced himself to stand, muscles screaming. The sword trembled in his grip, glowing faintly — responding to his heartbeat, his fear.
Tharos roared again and came at him. Dion ducked under the first arm, spun aside, and slashed upward with all his strength. The blade struck the beast's side, sparks flying — but no blood. Just the ringing sound of metal on stone.
Too strong.
Even this blade can't cut through it.
The creature laughed, a deep, hideous sound that echoed off the burning walls.
"You are not him. You are nothing."
It struck again, faster than before. Dion barely blocked, the impact shaking his entire arm. The sword hummed violently, runes flashing like lightning. Something inside it seemed to pulse — almost alive.
And then, for an instant, the world slowed.
He saw everything — the movement of the creature's arms, the tremor in the ground, even the flicker of each flame. His body moved on instinct — not Dion's, but Hercules'. He sidestepped, brought the sword down diagonally, and the blade finally cut deep.
A roar split the air. Black blood hissed against the ground like acid.
Dion stumbled back, gasping. His chest burned, his vision blurred. The sword flickered again — and a voice, faint but unmistakable, echoed in his head.
Remember what you are, even if the world forgets.
For a brief moment, he saw flashes — a man with the same face, roaring in battle, chains snapping around his arms, storms breaking behind him. Then it was gone.
Tharos staggered, glaring at him through the rising smoke. "You're not him… but something of him remains."
Dion gritted his teeth, raising the sword once more. "Maybe I'm not Hercules," he said through clenched teeth, "but I'll be the man who finishes what he started."
The beast growled, lowering its stance.
"Then come, pretender. Let's see if your second life ends like your first."
The air cracked. Thunder rolled in the distance as both of them lunged — man and monster colliding beneath a burning sky.
⸻
The clash shook the heart of the village. Windows shattered. Flames spiraled higher as steel met claw, again and again. Dion's body moved like it remembered a thousand forgotten wars — ducking, countering, striking — but the beast's strength was endless.
He was bleeding, exhausted, half-blind from smoke, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
If I fall, they'll die.
If I run, I'll be the same thief I've always been.
He saw the children's faces again — the same ones who'd looked at him with awe. The same eyes that once looked at him with hate.
And something inside him — pride, rage, love, maybe all of it — burst open.
With one last cry, Dion raised the sword. The runes along its edge blazed white-hot, flooding the square with light. He brought it down with every ounce of strength left in him, striking Tharos square across the chest.
A blinding flash. A roar that cracked the heavens.
The creature staggered back, howling, clutching its wound — smoke rising from the searing cut. It stumbled, then retreated, vanishing into the black hills beyond the burning fields.
Dion collapsed to his knees, gasping. The sword's glow dimmed to a faint shimmer. His hands shook violently, blood dripping from his fingers.
He looked up — and saw the villagers emerging from the shadows, their faces pale, their torches trembling.
"Hercules…" one of them whispered. "He… he drove it away…"
But Dion didn't feel like a hero.
He felt like a man who'd barely survived.
He stared at the horizon where the beast had fled and whispered to himself,
"It's not over… it's coming back."
Then, as the flames died and dawn began to break, Dion rose unsteadily to his feet — battered, bleeding, but still standing.
A thief reborn as a god's shadow.
And for the first time, he truly felt alive.