Meanwhile, in Mycenae, dinner was served. Under the soft lamplight, Athena toyed with a crimson berry between her fingers, her gaze sharp and contemplative.
"So, you, Chiron, and Eagle were all in on this from the start?"
"Chiron and I discussed it, yes—but that damned bird really flew off on its own. I just asked it to lend a hand, maybe look after Prometheus while it was at it."
At hearing that absurd nickname, Samael bit into a piece of coarse wheat bread, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Who else but that serpent could have come up with such a wickedly fitting name for the Caucasian Eagle?
Of course, the ancient serpent didn't mention that the eagle's decision to aid Prometheus was also a means of protecting itself. Choosing the right side proved that its loyalties still lay here—and ensured it might keep its life in the future.
Athena rolled the special medicinal berry between her fingers. After listening to Samael's explanation, she frowned slightly.
"Tell me, isn't it a bit inefficient for him to eat the whole berry each time just for anesthesia? It's cumbersome and could draw attention. Why not have Eagle soak its talons and beak in the juice? The paralytic effect would carry over when it cuts the skin and pecks at the liver—it would work the same for pain relief."
Right. Full-body anesthesia not only wastes time and materials, it's risky. Local anesthesia is far simpler—and discreet.
Samael blinked, then clapped his hands in sudden realization, looking at the Goddess of Wisdom with open approval.
"You didn't just think of that now, did you?"
"Uh... well..."
"How long has he been bound to Mount Caucasus again?"
"About... two or three months."
Remembering that nauseating taste and the miserable side effects, the ancient serpent averted his eyes under Athena's pointed stare, turning his head awkwardly.
All that fruit—completely wasted effort.
The goddess's lips twitched faintly as she looked out the window toward Mount Caucasus, silently mourning the poor prophet who'd been tricked.
"Alright, back to business."
Samael cleared his throat to change the subject, his tone turning serious.
"As long as Prometheus keeps that secret sealed tight, refuses to talk, and that foolish bird keeps doing its job, things should hold for now."
Wisdom and reason can sometimes become chains of their own.
Athena and Medusa—one sharp-minded, the other carrying memories of the future—understood perfectly well that the prophet, though seemingly in peril, was ironically the safest of them all.
The ancient serpent's gaze drifted toward the city streets beyond the window, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"But the same can't be said for us.
The King of the Gods won't yield so easily. I'd wager Olympus's 'gift' will be arriving soon enough."
Athena nodded slowly.
Zeus was proud—he would never bow to beings weaker than himself.
Prometheus might have leverage over him for now, but once that patience ran out, the God King of Olympus would strike back. And humanity—humanity was Prometheus's greatest weakness.
Using them as hostages could well be enough to make him break.
Both sides knew that much.
"So, Prometheus's last request before he left... was for this very moment?"
Athena's gaze lingered on Samael as he peeled an egg for Tina, a flicker of admiration in her eyes.
This guy was hopeless at chess—who'd have guessed he could think several moves ahead, seeing the whole board so clearly?
The ancient serpent tossed the peeled egg upward like feeding a pet. Tina opened her mouth, stretched her small head forward, and caught it neatly, her face glowing with smug pride as if saying, "Well? Praise me."
Only when a hand gently landed on her head, stroking her hair, did the goddess's larval form swallow her prize contentedly.
As Samael peeled the next egg, he replied in a lazy, offhand tone.
Zeus's plan to use humanity to force Prometheus into submission was nothing but a delusion.
The moment Prometheus revealed the secret, that so-called wise God King would take the chance to destroy both sides. No one was foolish enough to think that whoever gave in first would escape eternal ruin.
After briefly explaining Prometheus's resolve, the ancient serpent lifted his eyes toward the window and gave a casual shrug.
"But some things can't always fall on one person's shoulders, can they? Prometheus merely took the first step. The rest—be it humanity, his son, or his brothers—falls to me."
Sensing four gazes—some resentful, some worried—fixed on him, Samael quickly waved his hands in protest.
"What's with the rush? If you want your turn in the spotlight, line up. Once I'm done, it'll be yours."
Honestly, was there even a need to stop Prometheus in the first place? The guy was living quite comfortably up on Mount Caucasus.
Next time, when Pandora's Box or some world-ending flood comes knocking, it'll be real trouble. And did any of them ever once comfort his poor, wounded heart?
The ancient serpent let out an irritated snort, laying out his plans while muttering inwardly.
Bang!
As Samael grumbled to himself, a figure in the corner slammed a fist onto the table, sending plates and cutlery clattering.
"I'm done eating."
Athena's face was dark and cold as she pushed back her chair and headed for the door.
Tsk. Since when did she become this rebellious? What happened to the Goddess of Wisdom? Where's the grace and intellect? Did I really mess up her upbringing that badly?
Samael's mouth twitched. He sighed helplessly.
"I'll go after her. You handle things here."
Medusa glanced at the slumped Samael and the bewildered Tina in the corner. With quiet understanding, she stood and followed.
But after circling Mycenae several times, she turned a corner—and there was Athena, perched on the roof of their own attic, chin resting in her hand, staring down at something below.
Medusa leapt up to join her, following the goddess's line of sight. Below, Samael was calmly tidying up the tableware.
"You're not angry at him anymore?"
"Angry? He's taken all the trouble we caused onto himself. What right do I have to be angry?"
Athena turned her head, a cold smile tugging at her lips, her voice laced with resentment.
"It's just a matter of order. I trust Samael has his reasons."
Medusa sat down beside her, speaking patiently. Her time in Mesopotamia had taught her one thing—complete, unquestioning faith in Samael.
Athena glanced back at her, giving her a long, strange look.
The intensity of that gaze made the purple-haired goddess shiver. Only then did Athena pull back slightly, letting out a cold, dry laugh.
"Just a matter of order, you say? He didn't move us back in line—he never intended for us to be involved at all."
"Huh?"
Medusa blinked, genuinely puzzled.
The Goddess of Wisdom looked at her blank expression and sighed, her tone softening as she explained.
"Zeus plans to use humanity to force Prometheus into submission. It's a righteous excuse. If it happens once or twice, the gods who benefit will turn a blind eye. But some things can happen once, twice... never thrice.
The gods who've tasted the sweetness of faith won't sit quietly once their share of the pie is threatened. And besides—our Mother Goddess Gaia isn't dead yet."
A thunderclap seemed to explode in Medusa's mind, sweeping away the fog.
No wonder that when Pandora's Box was opened—though the gods deemed humanity beyond redemption—it was Poseidon, the Sea God, who took it upon himself to wash the earth clean.
Afterward, the furious Earth Mother Gaia confronted them, demanding accountability. And that scapegoat of a sea god was stripped of his divinity by Zeus. Together with Apollo—the god of light who had protected Deucalion and his wife—he was banished to the mortal realm to labor for the new race of humans, forging the legendary city of Troy.
From that day on, humanity's growth stabilized. Zeus had no choice but to grit his teeth and accept it, shifting from extermination to control, and never again daring to go too far.
Which meant the second confrontation would be the final act in this long tug-of-war between the two sides.
That slick-tongued Samael talked like he had everything under control, but the truth was clear—he never intended to let the two so-called "culprits" take on any real risk at all.