The sun burned that day — like it always did in the lower streets of Acheron.
Too bright. Too cruel.
Dion walked with his head down, pretending he was invisible. The market was full again — laughter, voices, coins clinking, merchants calling out their prices as if wealth were a song they could sing forever.
He hated this place. Not because it was bad, but because it reminded him that he had nothing.
The smell of roasted bread hit him first — sweet, warm, buttery. His stomach twisted painfully. He hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. Maybe longer. Hunger didn't keep time. It just stayed.
He lingered near the baker's stall. Just one loaf. Just one. He whispered to himself:
You'll pay her back one day. When things get better. Just one, Dion. Just one.
He reached for the loaf. His hands were shaking.
But someone shouted.
"HEY! THIEF!"
The word exploded through the air like thunder.
In seconds, the market changed.
It wasn't a market anymore — it was a battlefield. Faces turned. Voices rose.
"Thief!" "Catch him!" "That's Dion again!"
"Didn't we beat him last week?" "Dirty rat!" "Someone grab him!"
He didn't think. He ran.
The world blurred — his heartbeat louder than the shouting behind him. He pushed past baskets, jumped over crates, almost slipped on spilled grain. He could hear sandals pounding behind him, voices closer now, curses flying.
Run faster, Dion. Faster.
A hand grabbed his hood — he twisted away. Someone threw a stone; it hit his leg. He stumbled, bit his lip hard enough to taste blood, and kept going.
But the market had him surrounded. There was nowhere left to run.
They caught him. They always did.
A heavy fist slammed into his face. The world tilted. A kick hit his stomach. He folded like paper. Another hand yanked his hair, forcing him up.
"Still stealing, huh?" a man spat. "You'll never change."
"Maybe if the gods had given you hands for work, not theft!" another shouted.
The crowd laughed — loud, ugly laughter.
He wanted to scream that he wasn't a monster. That he didn't want this life. But words never worked here. Not when you were Dion the Thief.
So he said nothing. He took it.
The blows. The insults. The shame.
When they finally let him go, he fell onto the dirt, tasting the dust and iron of his own blood.
They walked away, talking about their day, about prices, about dinner — as if beating a man half-dead was just part of the schedule.
He lay there for a long time. The world spun above him. His ribs hurt when he breathed.
He laughed weakly — a small, broken sound. "Well done, Dion. Another perfect day."
A small boy walked by, holding his mother's hand. The boy stared. The mother whispered, "Don't look, love. That's what happens to thieves."
The boy kept staring anyway.
And Dion felt something inside him crack.
He limped away before night fell.
He walked through the alleys until the city's noise faded and the river smell took over. His home — if you could call it that — waited beneath the stone bridge. A pile of rags. A sack for a blanket.
He dropped to the ground, wincing. His legs ached. His cheek was swollen. But at least he was alive.
He stared at his hands. They were shaking, filthy, scarred from old beatings. Same hands every day, he thought. They never build. They only take.
He hated those hands.
The river beside him whispered softly, rippling under the moonlight. He could see his reflection in the water — bruised, thin, eyes hollow like someone already halfway gone.
He picked up a pebble and threw it at the reflection. The ripples erased his face.
"Good," he muttered. "You don't deserve to be seen anyway."
He leaned back against the cold stone, closing his eyes. He could still hear the crowd shouting in his head — thief, thief, thief. The word had followed him since he was twelve.
He'd stolen bread for the first time the day after his mother died. He remembered how light she had felt when he carried her to the river. How the priest refused to bless her because they had no offering. How he buried her with his bare hands.
After that, hunger became his god.
And he served it well.
He sighed. "You know what's funny?" he said to no one. "They all think I steal because I'm wicked. But truth is… I steal because I can't stop. Because the moment I stop, I start feeling again."
He reached into his torn satchel and pulled out the half-loaf he'd managed to hold onto. It was crushed, but real. His treasure.
He broke off a piece and chewed slowly. It hurt his jaw, but he didn't care. The taste was bitter and beautiful.
"At least this'll last me a few days," he whispered, smiling faintly. "Maybe two, if I'm lucky."
He pulled the sack around himself, curled up tighter, and let the night's chill fade into background noise. His eyes grew heavy. His breath slowed.
No prayers.
No wishes.
Just a man too tired to keep his eyes open, holding onto the one thing he still understood — survival.
And then he slept.
The first thing he noticed when he woke wasn't the warmth — it was the silence.
No shouting. No footsteps. No river.
He opened his eyes and froze.
The stone ceiling was gone. In its place was sky — vast, blue, endless. The ground beneath him wasn't dirt or stone but soft grass, golden and alive.
He sat up quickly. His heart pounded.
"What the—?"
He looked down at himself — and stopped breathing.
His body was different. Bigger. Stronger. His hands were clean. His arms — thick with muscle, skin glowing under the sunlight.
He stood up slowly, trembling. "No… no, this isn't real."
The wind brushed against him, carrying the smell of fresh crops. Far in the distance, he could see farmers working — until one of them noticed him.
The man dropped his tools and shouted, his voice shaking with awe.
"Hercules…?"
The others turned. Then they fell to their knees, shouting, crying.
"Hercules has returned! The hero lives again!"
Dion stepped back, his heart racing. "What… did you call me?"
"Hercules!" they shouted together. "The savior of Thebes!"
He laughed — a shaky, disbelieving laugh. "You've got the wrong man. I'm… I'm just—"
He stopped. His voice was deeper now. Thunder rolled softly in the sky, as if the heavens were listening.
He stared at his reflection in a nearby pool of water — and saw a stranger.
And for the first time in his life, Dion didn't see a thief.
He saw a god.
His lips trembled. "What's happening to me…?"
The wind whispered through the golden field.
And somewhere above, the gods smiled.
Because the man the world forgot — had just become the one they remembered.