The ancient serpent fell silent for a moment before asking,
"When did you realize?"
Prometheus raised a hand slightly, signaling Samael to relax, his smile calm and gentle.
"My suspicions began when you appeared."
"The confirmation of your identity as one who defies fate came when your answers cleared my doubts about humanity, this creation of mine."
"Your existence both disrupts and guides the workings of destiny."
The phrasing was a little convoluted, but Samael and Medusa exchanged glances, both grasping what the prophet meant.
The Tablets of Fate within Samael's body had thrown off the Titans' perception of destiny, keeping them from seeing the full picture.
Likewise, Prometheus—tasked with creating mankind—had found his revelations clouded ever since Samael and his companions appeared on Crete. That was why he had never acted.
Yet it was through their help that the fog lifted, allowing him—half through intuition, half through foresight—to glimpse the outline of this creation.
The seer gave a faint smile, turning his gaze toward Olympus, the mountain that pierced sky and earth, and murmured,
"Crete was a place I chose deliberately."
"It is hidden well. Even Kronos failed to find Zeus when he grew up here in secret."
"And then there's you. Spirits who carry the essence of fate have already confirmed it: if I cannot see through you even up close, then Zeus cannot pierce the truth either."
"Well then, the work of creating mankind is now yours."
Prometheus cast one last, slightly regretful glance at the living clay before stepping aside without hesitation.
"I don't understand. Why are you helping us?"
Though impressed by the prophet's sharp insight, Samael was baffled by his willingness to shoulder the risk of mankind's creation.
The human form was modeled above all on the image of the gods.
Faced with a race so close to their own likeness yet brimming with potential, Zeus in his wisdom would surely be wary.
The gods, staring at humanity, would see their own flaws reflected back at them. To them, it was no different from humiliation.
And when that day came, the one left to take the blame would be Prometheus, at least in name.
The serpent couldn't fathom why he would accept such danger.
"If you want reasons, I have plenty."
Prometheus stepped to the side, dusted his hands, and smiled faintly at Samael and Athena, answering as though it were nothing.
"First—long ago, I owed Metis a great debt. She wished for a companion in her games, but when Zeus moved against her, I couldn't help her as I should have."
"Now that her daughter is here, it's time I repaid what I owe."
Even if you invited me, I'd never dare go.
Samael realized that through Themis's connection, Prometheus had already guessed his true identity. The serpent could only groan inwardly at the prophet's half-joking, half-serious jab.
Athena, her own identity thus exposed, instinctively furrowed her brow and murmured,
"Because of divine power?"
"And because of your appearance and bearing. I've seen your mother before. Unless absolutely necessary, avoid contact with the Olympian gods."
Prometheus spoke with the patience of a kind elder, then continued,
"Second, creating life in defiance of the divine—that sin falls naturally on me. After all, humanity's prototype truly did originate from my hands."
Samael opened his mouth, looking uneasy.
The seer raised a hand to silence him, glancing up toward Mount Olympus with a resigned smile.
"Don't burden yourself with guilt. Zeus has had his eye on me for a long time. Whatever I do, it's wrong. All he's ever lacked is an excuse."
What? Zeus already has his eye on you?
Samael froze in shock at the words.
Prometheus lowered his gaze to the abyss below, then sat upon a rock and began to recount the cause.
In truth, he had sown the seed himself.
During the war between the old gods and the new, he had hoped to reshape the world's order. He sided with Olympus, advised Zeus, and in doing so betrayed his own father.
That father was Iapetus, the Titan of Soul and Speech, one of the Twelve.
Yes—the very same Iapetus who, alongside Hyperion, was among Kronos's two staunchest supporters in the final battle.
Now, that old father served his punishment in Tartarus.
And as the Titan of Speech, when Iapetus was about to be dragged into the abyss, whether by intent or impulse, he echoed the words once spoken by Uranus, cursing Zeus:
"My son will replace you! He will take your throne!"
Originally, those words could have been dismissed—empty or true, Prometheus believed he could smooth them over in time and remain in Olympus.
But someone believed them. Worse, someone acted on them, throwing him into the fire.
"Epimetheus?"
Samael instinctively uttered the name of that brother-betraying fool, the god of belated realization.
"He's just a bit dull—not foolish enough to throw his life away."
The seer sighed and pointed gloomily toward the far western sky.
"I have another brother… Atlas..."
Samael understood instantly, sympathy flickering in his eyes.
Atlas, now condemned to hold up the heavens, forever straining as the Titan who bore the sky and perfected its laws.
He was also the one who had launched the greatest rebellion since the war between the old gods and the new.
To fall for the Titan of Speech's rhetoric was foolish enough—an exemplar of someone doomed to toil for nothing and later be duped by Heracles. Yet his strength was undeniable, and his charisma and talent for incitement were equally unmatched.
Had Zeus not intervened personally to crush the revolt, exiling this scatterbrained elder brother to the far west to "hold up the heavens" and expand the authority of the sky, Olympus—still unsteady at the time—might well have fallen into chaos again.
And so, after that debacle, the innocent Prometheus ended up taking the blame.
Epimetheus, the slow-witted god of hindsight, was never truly seen as a threat by Zeus. But Prometheus's mistake was being too clever.
Cleverness itself wasn't fatal—what doomed him was being saddled with two disastrous brothers, and a father who cursed his own son.
Tsk, tsk. Samael couldn't help but admire the Greek world's uncanny sense of balance: anyone destined to shine always seemed to get matched with a few deadweights, just to even things out.
In the early days, when Olympus was still finding its footing, Zeus could suppress his unease and put on a show of magnanimity toward Prometheus.
But now, with rebellion after rebellion stamped out, a sharp mind like Prometheus's had become inconvenient.
He wasn't stupid—being sent down at this moment to create a new race? That could only mean trouble.
Clearly, Zeus's patience was running out. He was only waiting for Prometheus to stumble.
So even if the sin of defying the gods through creation passed him by, there was a whole line of other charges waiting for him to bear.
Samael felt a pang of sympathy, though his gaze stayed sharp.
"So then—what's the real reason?"
The two explanations Prometheus had given were valid enough.
But they were just that—reasons. Nothing more.