The death of a demigod was irreversible. In the divine realm, Zeus must have already sensed the loss of his child. Yet it was only a demigod. Such a death was hardly enough to stir Zeus' anger. Cold by nature, Zeus—whose mind seemed fractured in its own way—treated the event with indifference.
At most, Perseus' demise forced Zeus to acknowledge that events were shifting in ways neither he nor the other gods could fully control. Without a word, Zeus rose and returned to his temple. If things continued to spiral beyond divine control, then it would be necessary to change how they dealt with humanity.
At worst, they could simply erase humanity altogether.
Meanwhile, Aslan had asked Estee Lauder to spread word of the demigod's death. Fear would certainly take root in many hearts, but others would seize the moment as a chance to resist. When that time came, Estee Lauder would coordinate those forces. While Aslan clashed directly with the gods, others would work to dismantle the divine realm itself.
To be honest, Aslan could not clearly define how this realm of the gods differed from the interstellar city of his memories—the one buried in the Pacific Lostbelt. But one thing was certain: the place where these gods resided held no laughter, no reverence. At least in the Pacific Lostbelt, there had been mortals who still believed in and respected their gods.
Here, only resentment remained—resentment, and the resistance buried deep in every human heart.
Had Aslan not learned that the Mecha-God bodies in this world were in critical disrepair, he would never have dared confront a god so brazenly. In the interstellar city, even Chaldea and the heroes who sought to save the world had required enormous preparation and sacrifice before toppling a god.
He alone could not hope to defeat them all.
Even if his strength allowed him to compete for the title of Crown Rider…
Aslan slapped his own cheeks, shaking off the thought. No, it was only idle fantasy. When he had forged an inherent barrier of his own, then he would compete seriously. Simply riding a dragon or piloting a mecha was not enough to qualify. At least, Aslan himself refused to believe so.
After all, Martha had ridden an EX-ranked dragon. Odysseus had piloted machines that rivaled mecha. Europa—mother of Europe—commanded a massive bronze giant. Compared to them, he had merely combined the two. Better to bide his time, develop his barrier, and apply for the role properly. Then, perhaps, he would have a real chance.
Several days after Aslan and Estee Lauder left the site of Perseus' death, a new pressure descended from the heavens. Helen had already sent Hermes their coordinates, and for a god, sweeping such a range was trivial.
That day, while Aslan teased Melusine and instructed Estee Lauder in deeper uses of the fairy tongue, a figure descended from the sky and blocked their path. He was resplendent in fine clothes, golden hair shining, a monocle gleaming at one eye, and a dagger at his waist.
Hermes.
He studied the two figures before him—so bold, walking openly beneath daylight, a man and woman whose resemblance could not be denied. A thin smile curved his lips, but a cold light flickered in his eyes as he bowed.
"Forgive me for intruding upon you both. I have only a question. The hero Perseus—was it you who ended his life?"
At once, Aslan felt the being's immense aura, the divine energy radiating from him. It was the same familiar current he had long pursued. In his world, he had once sought fragments of the Mecha-Gods and had found pieces of Hermes in particular. Recognition came instantly.
Without hesitation, he shoved Estee Lauder back. The Sword of Glorious Victory materialized in his grip.
Magic surged from him as he closed the distance, bringing the holy sword down in a golden crescent slash.
Hermes' response was effortless. He drew his dagger, intercepting the blade with ease. Even in this simulated form, he still bore the instincts and traits of his divine body.
As the messenger of the gods, Hermes was unmatched in speed and flight. To compare him with the so-called "messengers of God" humans whispered of was laughable. Those crude machines—mere constructs, apostles fabricated by the gods—were nothing.
Hermes was the true thing.
-End Chapter-
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