"Whoosh!"
In the courtyard, the bowstring thrummed, sending a silver streak cutting through the air. With a sharp crack, the new arrow split the one lodged in the bullseye cleanly from tip to tail.
Hmm, that felt good.
The archer, standing tall and steady, nodded in satisfaction. He drew another arrow from the quiver, nocked it, and readied himself for the next shot.
You're way too strong. Even if you just stood there and let Atalanta shoot with all her might, you'd probably still be fine while the boss lady dropped from exhaustion. Do you really need to learn this?
Sitting on the doorstep, Circe rested her chin in her hands, watching Samael aim with full concentration. Frustration clouded her face as she muttered inwardly.
She really couldn't understand why Samael insisted on wasting time on something this dull.
He'd already mastered most of the techniques, yet his performance in front of the boss lady was always lacking—and somehow, he looked like he was enjoying himself behind the scenes.
Was studying really that fun?
Sensing the strange stare on his back, Samael turned and sneered, his expression twisting into something beastly.
"What are you staring at? Recognized all your letters yet? Finished your homework? Where's your workbook? Bring it here for inspection!"
"I… I'll do it right now."
The mention of homework turned Circe pale. With a squeak, she darted back into the inner room under the serpent's scolding.
Soon after, the future infamous Feast Witch sat obediently by the steps like a chick grabbed by the neck, hunched over a small stool as she bitterly worked on the assignments that would be checked later that night.
As she wrote, Circe kept sneaking glances at Samael standing by the target, grumbling to herself.
You're teaching the boss lady how to read—why drag me into it? I hate studying.
Don't worry, this is for your own good…
At that moment, Samael seemed to pick up her unspoken complaint. He turned his head with a grin, flashing sharp white teeth.
That unsettlingly cheerful smile made the pink-haired novice's hand tremble, smearing her half-written Greek into a mess of black ink.
The ancient serpent chuckled, unable to hide his amusement.
"Whoosh!"
He released another arrow. It shot backward and pierced straight through the one before it—from base to tip.
On the night the sacrifice ended, he had earnestly asked Atalanta to teach him archery.
Of course, an exchange of skills should be fair. Each side gained something.
The ancient serpent had learned that the huntress, having lived long in the wild, was fluent only in the divine runes but weak in ordinary Greek. So he volunteered to tutor her in the evenings.
Circe, the pink-haired novice, had been dragged in as an extra student at that time.
After all, it was her first time on the mainland. She could discuss divine script like a half-expert, but calling her semi-literate in human Greek was generous.
Since Circe was likely to stay in human society for quite a while, early literacy training was for her own good.
Just as the ancient serpent lifted his lips in thought, a lithe figure vaulted over the wall like a hunting cat, landing softly on the range.
Samael glanced at the half-open gate, his eyes narrowing before stepping forward with bow in hand to greet the huntress.
"Boss lady, I've got the accuracy down, but I still can't grasp the flow of power between each shot. Could you let me feel it a few more times?"
Atalanta nodded, stepping behind him. She extended her arms forward, sliding them beneath his to rest on his forearms.
"Tighten your waist. Breathe in.
Still your mind. Keep your hands light. Follow the target with your eyes.
When the ether flows from your arm to your fingers, pay attention to the timing and strength of your divine power."
Leaning forward to better sense the tension in his muscles and the rhythm of his breath, the huntress pressed close, her movements steady and precise as she guided him.
Then, gripping the serpent's hands, Atalanta drew three arrows from the quiver, nocked them, and with sharp focus, pulled the longbow back until it creaked under the strain.
The moment her power was fully charged, the female hunter abruptly released her grip. Three arrows, united in a piercing, sharp whistling sound, flew in perfect alignment, one after another, piercing through the target.
Finally, the target—covered in three-tenths cowhide and engraved with runes—shattered into fragments under the relentless assault.
"Keep practicing. You have real talent."
After completing the lesson, Atalanta patted Samael's shoulder with genuine praise and encouragement, reminding him not to forget about tonight's cultural studies session.
As the ancient serpent tidied the range, he watched the huntress stretch lazily, her graceful curves outlined under the dim light. A satisfied curve tugged at his lips.
Adults' pleasures are forever beyond children's comprehension.
Hmm, he was talking about studying.
Closing his eyes to savor the moment, Samael sighed and shook his head with regret.
Too bad she's flat-chested.
Also, her clothes are too thick—thumbs down!
...
As night fell, Atalanta clutched a scroll and nimbly leapt through Samael's window.
Long accustomed to this routine, the ancient serpent had long since stopped complaining, simply categorizing it as one of the huntress's bad habits.
Under the flickering lamplight, Atalanta sat upright like a schoolchild, listening intently. The same nimble hands that once drew a powerful bow now awkwardly traced Greek letters on parchment.
If given the choice, who would willingly wander the wilderness, abandoned by all of human society?
In the dim light, Samael's gaze toward Atalanta softened with faint pity and reflection.
...
In the days that followed, the trio waited for the heroes to assemble in Calydon. By day, they practiced archery in the small courtyard; by night, they studied together.
During their free time, they trained in the wilderness or wandered the city streets, sampling local delicacies and enjoying the culture.
Before they knew it, more than half a month had passed—and even Circe had gained a few pounds.
For Atalanta, the days were peaceful and pleasant. She sometimes allowed herself to relax, skipping a day of hunting to lounge lazily on a wicker chair, basking comfortably in the sun.
After all, here she had shelter from the wind and rain, a warm bed, delicious food, and companions to talk with—conditions a hundred times better than those in the wilderness.
But soon, their leisure came to an end.
A few days later, Atalanta, who routinely gathered information, brought word that the heroes of Calydon were nearly assembled.
The three discussed it and decided to set out the next day to join the hunting party.
However, on the eve of their departure, Samael received a message from Themis and once again performed a sacrifice to his guardian goddess, Athena.
Thus, Atalanta and Circe, who were observing beside him, suddenly saw a magnificent pillar of golden light rise from the altar.
In an instant, a set of resplendent turquoise-gold armor, a shield adorned with Gorgon motifs, a black spear, a longbow, and two quivers of feathered arrows floated above the altar.
If they weren't mistaken...
The Golden Cloth, commissioned by Athena and forged by Hephaestus himself—legend says there are only twelve in existence, right?
The Medusa Shield, personally blessed by the Furies, granting damage immunity and petrification effects?
A longbow made of mithril, ideal for channeling Ether, with arrows engraved with curses?
This sacrifice was no joke.
Atalanta stared at the dazzling pile of divine weapons on the platform, completely dumbfounded.
Then, the pillar of light flared again. A majestic figure materialized—snorting as it trotted off the altar and approached Samael, nuzzling him affectionately.
Pegasus! The steed of Athena, Goddess of Wisdom!
Atalanta's eyes widened, her mind spinning in disbelief.
But it wasn't over yet. The magic circle atop the altar ignited a third time.
A divine figure appeared—her skin smooth and radiant like ivory—as golden motes gathered around her.
Athena, the Goddess of Wisdom, manifested her Divided Spirit. Raising her scepter of victory, she gently tapped Samael on the head, bestowing her blessing with a clear, melodious voice.
"My chosen one, in this hunt, you shall secure victory for me!"
At that moment, a snow-white owl clutching an olive branch flew out from the golden pillar, landing on Samael's shoulder.
As the little creature opened its beak, the olive branch transformed into a stream of emerald light that sank into the blessed one's body. A rich, pure aura spread through the air.
Divine Protection!
With three successive waves of divine favor, each greater than the last, even Circe—who barely understood such things—was left speechless.
Two figures, one tall and one small, stood side by side. One gripped the Scepter of the Underworld Moon; the other stroked the Bow of the Sky Dome. Their eyes were red with emotion.
The difference in treatment between these two followers was just too much.
It's just a wild boar hunt! This is insane!
Long after the vision faded, Atalanta stiffly lifted her head. Her eyes turned to Samael, who stood frozen beside the altar with an awkward smile. Her voice came out dry.
"Hey," she said slowly, "you wouldn't happen to be Athena's bastard son, would you?"
...
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