On the vast plain, three figures moved swiftly, accompanied by gods bearing lightning symbols upon their forms—clear signs that they served under Zeus. These three carried faint traces of humanity, yet their bodies bore far more evidence of mechanical modification than flesh.
More than half of their bodies had been replaced by advanced machinery, far superior to that found on the divine messengers.
Two of the figures would be immediately recognizable to anyone familiar with the Type-Moon world. One stood well over two meters, nearly reaching three, his massive frame corded with muscle. He carried a colossal axe, his wild hair falling untamed behind him, and red markings etched across his skin lent him the air of a feral giant. His eyes glowed crimson, and heat radiated from him in waves, fueled by blood.
Players who remembered the Subspecies Singularity—the Underground Golden Kingdom—would instantly recognize this small giant as Hercules. Or, perhaps more fittingly in this world, Heracles.
Now, however, most of Heracles' body had been replaced by mechanical parts, even his head encased in specialized equipment strapped tightly around his brow—a device clearly meant to control him.
The second figure was of ordinary human size. He had orange hair, dark skin, and limbs encased in mechanical replacements. Wings sprouted from his back, folding into a shield, and in his hand he held a scythe whose edge blazed with high-temperature rays.
One glance at his face left no room for doubt. Shinji.
The same disdain, the same smirk of ridicule—it was unmistakable. Combined with the shield-like wings, the strange device on his abdomen, the modified legs adapted for flight, and the weapon in his hand, there was no mistaking it. He was Perseus.
If Aslan were here, he would no doubt pout in dissatisfaction. For the Perseus he respected was not this one, but the one with lavender hair and a true mask upon his face—the humble hero, radiant as the sun yet as sharp as a scimitar, who fought with unyielding loyalty for a master already lost before battle began. That Perseus deserved respect.
This one, as Medusa herself once said, was nothing more than a lucky scoundrel.
Thus, the simplest way to judge a Perseus was this: if he resembled Shinji, turn around and leave.
With the identities of the first two confirmed, the scope of speculation regarding the veiled woman who followed them narrowed considerably. She too bore mechanical modifications, and if Heracles and Perseus were both demigod sons of Zeus, then it stood to reason that she was his daughter.
Zeus had fathered fewer daughters in the mortal world than sons. Only a handful were remembered. Yet even shrouded in black, her grace and allure could not be concealed. She was breathtaking, her very presence carrying the air of a woman destined to bring ruin to kings and nations alike.
There was only one such daughter of Zeus, famed above all for her beauty and the calamity it wrought: the woman whose face launched a thousand ships, the spark of the Trojan War. Helen.
This world had long suffered its gods' downfall beneath the white giant's crushing blows, which hinted that divine discord had sown division early on. The Trojan War, after all, was a war of factions. The gods split their loyalties, each backing a mortal kingdom. No matter which side won, both sides suffered losses—and who gained the most? Zeus. Weakening both camps only strengthened his dominion.
Perhaps here, too, the golden apple incident was never simply the work of three quarreling goddesses. Perhaps Zeus himself had stoked the fire, hidden in the shadows.
For demigods like these to have survived so long, their bodies must have undergone extensive transformations. Organs discarded, mechanical parts installed—parts that could be replaced at will, granting both longevity and power beyond human limits. Wounds mattered little when replacements were endless. Immortality, it seemed, could be forged in steel.
Of the three, Perseus was the most talkative, his mouth never still. Heracles, his mind suppressed by the controlling device, moved in silence, obedient as a machine. Helen, veiled and aloof, walked without a word.
She had long since completed her mission, though perhaps her heart had once wavered for one of the kings she was meant to deceive. Now she wore solemn black, as if mourning. Yet not even the darkness of her garb could hide her beauty. Her modifications preserved her curves, her veil shielding her face only at her own insistence.
Perseus's chatter washed over her, but she paid it no heed. She had heard enough curses from both mortals and gods alike. His mutterings were far too trivial to disturb her heart.
"I didn't expect anyone could actually defeat one of the God's messengers," Perseus mused, lips curling in a half-smile. "What do you think happened? Did the gods attack one of their pets again? Or maybe a slave carrying divine blood slipped away? Otherwise, how could mortals of this era possibly defeat a messenger?"
He stroked his chin, raised a brow at Helen, and leaned in close with a grin.
"Don't you think it might be another of Father's little bastards?"
For if humanity had been stripped of its connection to magecraft, then only those carrying divine blood—the demigods—could possibly stand against the messengers of the gods.
-End Chapter-
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