The night after the battle was silent. Too silent.
Dion sat by the ashes of what used to be the market square, his sword buried in the earth beside him. The fires had long died out, leaving only the faint smell of smoke and iron. The villagers had returned to their homes, whispering prayers of thanks — and fear.
He should have felt proud. But all he felt was… wrong.
Every swing, every movement during that fight — it hadn't been his.
It was like someone else had moved his hands for him.
"Who am I really?" he whispered to himself.
He looked at the sword. The runes on its blade were dim now, but every so often they pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
He sighed. "If I really am Hercules, then why do I feel like an impostor?"
He picked up the sword, sheathed it, and started walking. His feet carried him beyond the edge of the village, past the farms, up toward the hill path where the stars were brighter and the air colder.
He needed answers.
⸻
He found the ruins at dawn.
An ancient temple, half-buried in vines and stone, carved with faded murals of battles — gods and monsters, men and titans. In the center stood a cracked marble statue of Zeus, his thunderbolt raised toward the heavens.
Dion stepped closer, heart pounding. "Zeus," he called softly. "If you can hear me… I need answers."
Silence.
He clenched his fists. "You're the one who made me like this, right? You're the one who gave Hercules his strength — so why did you abandon him?"
Nothing. Not even the whisper of wind.
He fell to his knees, anger rising like fire. "Answer me, damn you!"
His voice echoed through the hollow halls — and then, faintly, a sound responded.
A voice.
Low. Cold. Ancient.
"Zeus does not answer the dead."
Dion froze. The air grew heavy, the shadows deepening around the temple. He turned slowly — but saw no one.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
The voice chuckled — smooth, cruel, echoing from nowhere and everywhere at once.
"Once, I broke the spine of Hercules. I watched the blood of the great son of Zeus spill into the soil of Ephyra. He screamed for his father then too. But Zeus never came."
Dion's breath caught.
"What did you say?"
"Your master is gone, boy. And the gods who remain are… quieter than they used to be."
Something shimmered in the air — not a body, but a face formed of smoke and lightning. Eyes burning gold, lips twisting into a smile that could curdle blood.
"I am Erebus," it said. "The shadow before creation. The god who feasts when the others sleep."
Erebus — god of darkness. One of the oldest, and most malevolent, deities in Greek myth.
"You are not Hercules," Erebus whispered. "You are a mistake. A ghost wearing a god's flesh. When I sent Tharos to scour this land, I did not expect to find him reborn. But no matter — I will correct that error soon."
Before Dion could move, the darkness folded inward and vanished — as if it had never been there at all.
He fell back, trembling. His head spun with disbelief.
He killed Hercules.
Zeus didn't save him.
And now I'm here — wearing his face.
He rose slowly, clutching his sword for balance. His heart pounded like a drum.
"I need to find out what happened to him… to me."
⸻
The journey led him west, to the mountains beyond the old river — to the place villagers said Hercules once lived before his final battle. The air there was colder, lonelier. The path was lined with broken stones and wilted olive trees.
When he reached the ruins, he knew immediately — this was the place.
It was peaceful, almost hauntingly so. But one thing was wrong.
There was no body. No grave. No remains.
Just an empty circle of scorched earth, and strange markings burned into the stones — like someone had been pulled away, not buried.
Dion knelt, running his fingers over the markings. They pulsed faintly under his touch — still warm, somehow, as if the gods had left their fingerprints behind.
He whispered, "So… I really did die."
"You talk to stones often?" came a voice behind him.
He spun around, sword half-drawn — and stopped.
A girl stood there, maybe in her early twenties. Brown hair tied up loosely, eyes bright with curiosity and a grin too brave for a place like this. She carried a basket of herbs and wore a light tunic dusted with travel dirt.
"Easy, hero," she said with a teasing smile. "I didn't mean to startle you."
Dion lowered his sword, still catching his breath. "Who are you?"
"Selene," she said, bowing playfully. "I live down by the old river. I saw smoke in the hills and thought someone might need help. But I didn't expect to find you here."
"Me?"
"The man who fought Tharos," she said. "Half the village can't stop talking about you."
Dion gave a small, tired smile. "Yeah… I noticed."
Selene studied him for a moment, then her smile faded. "You're looking for something, aren't you?"
He nodded. "I'm looking for Zeus."
Her expression changed — not surprised, but sad.
"Then you're wasting your prayers."
He frowned. "What do you mean?"
She looked out toward the horizon, voice soft. "Zeus hasn't answered anyone in years. No thunder, no signs, nothing. Priests stopped offering sacrifices because the altars turned cold. It's like he's… gone."
"Gone?" Dion repeated. "Zeus doesn't just vanish."
"Maybe even gods can get tired," Selene murmured. "Or afraid."
He studied her face, then looked back at the ruins — the empty circle, the scorched earth, the burned symbols.
Gone gods. Empty graves. A beast sent by the darkness.
Everything was starting to connect, but the truth was still out of reach.
Selene turned to him again. "You really don't know what's going on, do you?"
"No," Dion said quietly. "But I intend to find out."
She smiled faintly. "Then you'll need help. Nobody survives the wrath of Erebus alone."
Dion looked at her, and for the first time in days, something stirred inside him — hope.
"Then I guess," he said, "I could use a guide."
Selene nodded, eyes gleaming. "Then it's settled. Let's find out why the gods are silent."
As the wind picked up and thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, Dion felt the first drops of rain touch his face.
But above the clouds, unseen by mortal eyes, something — someone — was watching.
A pair of golden eyes flickered within the storm, and a voice whispered through the heavens:
"Let's see how long this new Hercules survives."
Thunder cracked — and the rain fell harder.