It had been three days since Big Z decided he was his son.
Why three days, you ask? Well, after his *Battle of the Heavens—*yes, he was absolutely calling it that—Aetherion had passed out from mana exhaustion. He woke just in time to be attacked by a wandering monster, made quick work of it, and then promptly had to address the elephant in the sky: Zeus claiming him as a son.
How that worked, Aetherion had no idea—but he was rolling with it. That firmly fell into the category of not his problem.
The real problem was Zeus's wife.
Queen of the gods. Hera.
From what Aetherion remembered of the Olympians, she was… not forgiving. Vengeful, even—especially when it came to Zeus's children born outside her blessing.
He grimaced.
Not sure she'd see him as illegitimate, exactly—but considering he definitely hadn't come from her, that didn't bode well.
Probably very not good for him.
"Hm," Aetherion murmured.
He shook his head. No. Not now.
That was a future problem—future Aetherion's problem. And future Aetherion could complain about it when the time came.
Right now, he had more immediate concerns.
He needed somewhere to stay.
And if he was going to be stuck in the Age of Gods, he might as well do it properly.
A place to settle.
A workshop or temple to build.
Somewhere quiet—preferably far away from Olympus and any gods with opinions.
Aetherion exhaled, adjusting the chiton still warm with faint traces of lightning.
"All right," he said to the empty land. "Let's get established."
And with that, he turned toward the horizon, already planning his next move.
He needed a map.
And for that, he needed height.
Aetherion bent his knees—and launched.
Stone shattered beneath his feet as he rocketed skyward, the ground collapsing into fragments that tumbled uselessly below. Wind tore past him as he pierced the cloud layer, momentum carrying him higher and higher until the world curved outward beneath his gaze.
Then he slowed.
Hovered.
Greece spread below him as a single living landmass.
From this height, the air was cool and clean, the breeze gentle rather than biting. Sunlight warmed his skin, steady and reassuring, a far cry from the violence it had recently witnessed. For the first time since arriving, the world felt… quiet.
He took it in.
Greece was a land shaped by stone. Mountain ranges dominated the terrain, jagged peaks folding into one another like the spine of some ancient beast. From here, even the highest of them—Mount Olympus—refused to fully reveal itself. He could only see its middle reaches, the summit hidden by divine haze and cloud.
Of course it was.
To the east and northeast, fertile plains spread outward—broad, open, alive with promise. Farmland, eventually. Settlements, inevitably. To the west and north, dense forests clung to the mountains, darker and wilder, less touched.
Aetherion exhaled slowly.
"Olympus is south," he muttered.
Which meant distance was possible.
Good distance.
If he stayed north preferably northeast or northwest he'd have fertile land without proximity. Space to work. Space to build. Space to exist without Olympus breathing down his neck every other day.
Far enough to avoid attention.
Close enough to matter, if it came to that.
Decision made, Aetherion adjusted his posture in the air, turning his body slightly toward the northwestern horizon.
"Alright," he said quietly. "North it is."
With that, Aetherion angled himself forward and let the wind take him. There was no rush no destination demanding immediacy. If he wanted to head east someday, he could. Eternity, after all, was suddenly very much on the table.
For now, he drifted northward, carried effortlessly across the sky.
Greece was beautiful from up here.
Mountain ridges rolled like frozen waves beneath him, valleys cutting deep lines through the land. Forests stretched endlessly, broken only by rivers that caught the sunlight as they wound toward the sea. The world felt open. Untouched. Alive in a way few places ever were.
Aetherion slowed slightly, taking it all in as the wind hummed around him.
For the first time since arriving, he wasn't running or fighting.
He was choosing.
It seemed he had chosen well.
Aetherion descended upon an elevated plain, broad and flat, nestled within a surrounding mountain range. Below, a vast lake shimmered in the sunlight, its surface broken by scattered islands that lent the basin a quiet, almost sacred charm. The air here felt still—protected. Watched, but not claimed.
Perfect.
He landed softly, boots sinking slightly into the grass, and let the sensation ground him as he surveyed the land. The basin was wide, defensible, rich with potential.
A place to build.
Aetherion raised his right hand.
Lightning answered.
It raced through his body, not violently, but eagerly—recognition rather than strain. Beneath his feet, the ground lit up in a luminous blue hue as sigils spread outward like veins of living law. The air thickened. Reality trembled.
This was not a spell.
This was a declaration.
He invoked his magic and deployed his Reality Marble—his sovereign domain, his inner world imposed upon the outer.
"The Firmament of the Boundless Sky."
The horizon curved upward, enclosing the land beneath an infinite dome. Clouds assembled themselves into sigils of law, vast and deliberate. Wind no longer moved at random—it flowed with intent. Lightning traced causal paths through the air, marking inevitabilities before they occurred.
Cloud-steps formed before him, solidifying one by one, leading upward into a perfect blue sky.
Aetherion stepped forward.
With each step, the Reality Marble assembled itself around him—layer by layer, law by law—until the world beyond faded entirely.
Inside, everything had changed.
The endless blue-white firmament now stretched far beyond the basin, expanding until it covered all of Greece and its scattered islands, granting him awareness of everything beneath the sky. Not sight alone—but recognition. He could feel the land breathing, the winds shifting, the storms waiting.
Floating storm rings drifted through the air, brimming with divinity. Cloud-continents moved slowly across the firmament, carried by winds heavy with purpose. Stars were visible even in daylight, rotating in slow, deliberate patterns.
Here, wind carried meaning, not merely force.
Lightning moved before sound, obeying fate rather than physics.
Distance was no longer measured—it was symbolic, bending to intent instead of space.
At the center of it all stood a throne.
Forged from the sky itself.
It shifted constantly, formed of wind and cloud, yet held firm against all change. Behind it, constellations orbited slowly like a crown, lightning veins frozen mid-motion, caught at the precise moment before release.
This was not a seat meant to rule others.
It was a seat meant to observe, judge, and endure.
Aetherion stood before it, the sky bending subtly toward him.
His world had taken shape.
Once seated upon the throne, Aetherion turned his gaze downward toward the basin below.
With the workshop established, he could finally turn his attention to what truly mattered.
Understanding the world.
He might bear divinity now, but at his core he was still a magician—and magicians did not stop learning. They did not stop refining. Power meant nothing without comprehension.
"First things first," he murmured. "A proper survey."
He could have done it from here. From within the Reality Marble, the land beneath the sky was already open to him—mapped, quantified, understood at a glance.
But where was the fun in that?
Lightning flashed.
Aetherion vanished.
He reappeared at the far edge of the plain, the lake now stretched between him and the mountains opposite. The air here was crisp, the elevation immediately apparent. He glanced across the basin, estimating without effort.
Roughly five hundred meters above sea level.
High ground. Good visibility. Natural defenses.
The plain overlooked the entire lake, which spread wide and calm beneath the sky. By surface area alone, it had to be around twenty-three square kilometers—large enough to sustain life without being unwieldy.
Promising.
He knelt at the shoreline and dipped his hand into the water.
Cold. Clean.
Closing his eyes, Aetherion let mana flow—not violently, not dominantly, but gently. Ripples spread outward from his palm, invisible waves of magic moving through the lake like sonar.
Information returned almost instantly.
Depth averaged four to five meters across most of the basin. In several places, it dropped sharply—ten, twelve, even thirteen meters deep.
His lips curved faintly.
"Perfect," he said quietly.
Deep enough to support fish. Shallow enough to manage. Stable, balanced, alive.
A good foundation.
He withdrew his hand, water dripping from his fingers as the last echoes of mana faded.
Yes.
This place would do nicely.
Aetherion rose from the shoreline and turned his attention to the land itself.
"Alright," he murmured. "Let's see what I'm working with."
He moved slowly, deliberately, boots brushing through tall grass that whispered against his legs. The plain was alive beneath his senses—not loudly, not aggressively, but with the steady pulse of a land that hadn't yet learned to fear gods.
He knelt and plucked a blade of grass between his fingers.
Thick. Springy. The fibers resisted just enough before snapping cleanly. He rolled it between his fingertips, feeling the moisture content, the density.
"Perennial," he muttered. "Hardy."
He let a thin thread of mana bleed into the severed end. The reaction was immediate—life surged, cells dividing rapidly before settling back into equilibrium.
No corruption. No divine backlash.
Good.
Nearby, clusters of wildflowers dotted the plain—white, pale blue, and soft yellow. He recognized several immediately: early anemones, primitive irises, and a variety of flowering herbs whose scents were sharp and medicinal when crushed.
Aetherion leaned closer, inhaling.
"Useful," he said. "Very useful."
He reached out and brushed his fingers across a low shrub near the lake's edge. Broad leaves. Waxy surface. The kind that thrived near water but didn't drown in it. When he snapped a twig free, milky sap welled up.
He frowned slightly.
Latex-bearing. Possibly toxic in high doses. Possibly invaluable in small ones.
He marked it mentally.
Further inland, the terrain sloped gently upward. Trees began to appear—young but well-rooted. Oaks, mostly. Some ash. A few twisted pines clinging stubbornly to the rockier edges near the mountain rise.
He placed his palm against one trunk and listened.
Not with ears.
With mana.
The tree answered slowly, its response deep and patient. Rings of age, groundwater access, fungal networks threading beneath the soil like veins.
No blight.
No curse.
No divine taint.
This forest had never been claimed.
Aetherion straightened, satisfied.
A sudden movement caught his eye.
He turned just in time to see a deer freeze at the edge of the treeline—slender, brown-coated, ears flicking nervously. Its muscles were taut, ready to bolt.
Aetherion did not move.
He let his presence dim.
The deer sniffed the air, confused, then lowered its head slightly. After a moment, it bounded away, disappearing into the trees with a flash of white tail.
"Good," Aetherion said quietly. "Healthy fear. Not terror."
Further along the lake's edge, he spotted birds—small, fast-winged things skimming the surface of the water. Insects danced above the reeds: dragonflies with iridescent wings, their movements precise and predatory.
He crouched again, scooping up a handful of damp soil near the shore.
Rich. Dark. Loamy.
He let it crumble through his fingers.
Plenty of worms. Beetles beneath the surface. Microbial life thriving, complex and balanced.
"This place could sustain itself for centuries," he murmured.
Fish stirred beneath the water where his earlier mana waves had passed—silver flashes darting away from the shoreline. He watched them for a long moment, noting size, speed, schooling behavior.
No signs of overpopulation.
No signs of scarcity.
Aetherion exhaled, slow and pleased.
"Flora's cooperative. Fauna's stable. No hostile magical ecosystems."
He straightened, hands resting briefly on his hips as he took in the basin one last time.
"Yeah," he said softly. "This'll do."
The land did not answer.
It didn't need to.
It was already listening.
Aetherion was still standing near the treeline when the land shifted.
Not magically.
Socially.
It was subtle—so subtle most gods would miss it. The birds quieted first, wingbeats faltering. Insects thinned out along the lake's edge. Somewhere deeper in the forest, something large stopped moving altogether.
Aetherion straightened slowly.
"…Hm."
He didn't reach for power. He didn't look to the sky. Instead, he listened the way he always had—like a magus, not a ruler.
Footsteps.
Careful ones.
They came from the northwestern slope, where the forest thinned into broken rock and scrub. Not heavy. Not armored. Human.
Aetherion exhaled once through his nose and dimmed himself again—not vanishing, just uninteresting. The sort of presence a mind slid past unless it was already looking for gods.
The first of them emerged from the trees moments later.
A man lean, sun-darkened skin, hair bound crudely at the nape of his neck. He wore animal hides stitched together with sinew, a stone-tipped spear clutched tightly in his hands. His eyes scanned constantly, never resting long on any one thing.
Behind him came two more. Then a woman. Then another man carrying a woven pack across his shoulders.
Five.
Hunter-gatherers.
They stopped at the edge of the plain.
All of them did.
Their breathing slowed. Their stances tightened.
The open basin stretched before them—grass unbroken, lake glinting in the sunlight, mountains rising like a cradle around it. No smoke. No settlements. No predators immediately visible.
Too perfect.
The first man muttered something low, sharp. A warning, not a word. The woman touched a charm hanging from her neck—bone and feather bound together.
Aetherion watched from the shade of the trees.
Good instincts, he thought. You're still alive because of them.
One of the younger men stepped forward despite himself, boots brushing the grass. He crouched, scooped a handful of soil, rubbed it between his fingers.
Rich.
He looked back at the others, eyes wide—not with greed, but awe.
The woman shook her head sharply. Said something again—longer this time. A story tone. A don't.
The eldest man—the leader, Aetherion guessed—raised a hand.
Silence fell.
He closed his eyes.
Listened.
Not to sound.
To place.
Aetherion felt it then—a faint brush against the edges of his Reality Marble. Not intrusion. Not threat.
Recognition.
The man's eyes opened.
Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself to one knee at the edge of the grass. He did not bow. He did not prostrate himself.
He pressed his palm to the earth.
The others followed, hesitating, then copying him.
Aetherion tilted his head slightly.
"…Interesting."
The leader spoke again, voice low and steady. The words meant nothing to Aetherion—but the intent did.
Respect.
Caution.
An unspoken request: May we pass?
Aetherion considered them.
Five humans. No weapons raised. No hunger sharp enough to override fear. They weren't claiming. They were asking.
He stepped forward.
Not fully revealed.
Just enough.
Grass bent beneath his feet as he emerged from the trees, chiton stirring in the breeze. The light caught him wrong—not blinding, not divine, but wrong in a way the mind struggled to place.
The youngest hunter gasped.
Another dropped his spear.
The leader did not move.
Good, Aetherion thought again.
He raised one hand—slowly, deliberately—and turned his palm outward. Empty.
A universal gesture.
The wind shifted.
Just a little.
The smell of the lake carried forward—fresh water, fish, life. The grass nearest the mortals stirred, bending away from Aetherion rather than toward him.
A boundary.
Not hostile.
Clear.
The leader swallowed, then nodded once.
He pressed his forehead briefly to the earth, stood, and motioned the others back—away from the basin, toward the forest they had come from.
They retreated without turning their backs.
Only once they were gone did Aetherion let the tension leave his shoulders.
"…Good," he murmured.
He looked out over the plain again, the lake gleaming quietly beneath the sky.
"Word will spread," he said to no one. "Slowly. Carefully."
That was fine.
That was how myths were born.