“Shall we begin?” Agamemnon asked, his deep voice resonating within the tent, eyes narrowing with impatience.
Nestor, the eldest and wisest of the gathered kings, glanced around the tent with a furrowed brow. “Achilles is not here yet,” he observed.
The air inside the tent thickened. Everyone present knew they were waiting for the most formidable force in their ranks, the man whose very name was a promise of destruction on the battlefield: Achilles. Yet, in this crucial hour, the hero was conspicuously absent.
Agamemnon’s face twisted with contempt, his lips curling into a sneer. “I don’t care,” he spat. “Let’s start without him.”
His dismissal was sharp, almost venomous. Agamemnon had always loathed Achilles, that much was clear to everyone. To him, Achilles was insufferable—arrogant, insolent, a warrior who dared to defy the ‘king of kings’ without the slightest regard for his authority.
Achilles had never bowed to Agamemnon, never recognized his superiority, and that was an unforgivable sin in the eyes of the Mycenaean ruler.
But Achilles had never cared for the politics of kings or the egos of men like Agamemnon. He was there for one reason alone: to fight. Glory and battle were his only pursuits, not the petty quarrels of Agamemnon or his brother, Menelaus, who had lost his wife in the most pathetic manner imaginable. Achilles had no respect for such men.
“What of the Heroes?” Odysseus asked suddenly, a wry smile dancing on his lips as he leaned forward/
“Heroes?” Agamemnon raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with skepticism.
Nestor was quick to clarify, “He speaks of the Heroes from the Empire of Light.”
At this, Agamemnon let out a short, derisive chuckle, filled with scorn. “Those children? Heroes?” His voice thickened with mockery. “The very idea is laughable. They have no place in the company of real men, men who’ve spilled blood on the battlefield. The only reason I haven’t sent them packing is because they came recommended by the goddess Hera herself.
Otherwise, I’d have had their ships burned and left them to swim back to that weak, pathetic Empire of Light.”
“That’s rather harsh, King Agamemnon,” came a sudden, melodic voice, soft yet brimming with an undeniable power.
The kings turned, and all eyes shifted to the entrance of the tent. Standing there was a woman of such beauty that the air itself seemed to still in her presence. Her long, shimmering blue hair fell gracefully past her shoulders, and her golden eyes glowed with an ethereal light behind a delicate pair of glasses.
Her lips curled into a gentle smile, but there was something dangerous beneath that serene expression, something that made even seasoned warriors shift uneasily.
In unison, the kings straightened, their gazes instinctively drawn to her. Agamemnon, for all his arrogance, felt a sliver of wariness. She was not particularly strong in appearance—no armor adorned her, no weapon hung at her side—but something about her aura demanded respect, if not outright fear.
“Our Heroes are more reliable than you may think, King Agamemnon,” the woman said, her voice as light as a breeze, yet it cut through the air like a blade.
Agamemnon’s eyes narrowed. “And who might you be?” he asked, his voice low, though the coldness in his tone was unmistakable.
“She is the one responsible for the Heroes of the Empire of Light,” Nestor answered before the woman could speak. “Lady Liphiel, a Divine Knight of the Empire of Light.”
At the mention of her title, Odysseus’ expression shifted, a gleam of interest sparking in his intelligent eyes. The others, however, remained suspicious, their mistrust of the foreign knight evident in their stiffened postures.
“A Divine Knight, you say…” Odysseus mused, leaning back slightly as if calculating the value of such a figure in their midst.
While the kings knew little of the mysterious Empire of Light, they had heard enough to understand that the title of Divine Knight was not one to be taken lightly. These were warriors of renown, blessed and favored by their gods, wielding powers that could tip the balance in the coming war. Yet, that very power made them dangerous and unpredictable.
Liphiel, still smiling, cast her gaze around the tent, seemingly unbothered by the wary looks and whispered suspicions. “I must say,” she began, her voice smooth, “it is an honor to stand in the presence of such legends. I’ve heard many tales of your bravery, your triumphs on the battlefield.”
“And we’ve heard nothing of you or those brats you dare call Heroes,” Ajax snickered, his voice thick with mockery as he lounged lazily in his seat, arms crossed. His eyes glinted with derision. “Why don’t you take them back to their mothers where they belong?”
A ripple of laughter followed, but it was cut short by a sudden, sharp voice from the entrance of the tent. “I can send you to see your mother first, you motherfucker.”
The words were delivered with a biting edge, and the tension in the room spiked instantly. Heads turned as a young man strode confidently into the tent. He was one of the Heroes from the Empire of Light, and judging by the storm in his eyes, he had heard every word of Ajax’s mockery.
Aidan was visibly bristling with irritation. His youthful features were hard with the look of someone who had been underestimated far too many times. He hated it—being looked down on, being dismissed because of his age or appearance. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, and his sharp gaze fixed on Ajax.
“What did you say?” Ajax growled, rising from his seat, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the floor. His muscles tensed, ready for a fight.
Aidan didn’t flinch. He stood his ground, his expression cool and defiant. “I don’t think it’s wise to underestimate someone just because of their age,” he said, his voice calm, though the underlying tension was palpable. “Consider it a piece of advice.”
Before Ajax could respond, another figure entered the tent, his arrival drawing the attention of every seasoned warrior present. Jason Spencer, one of the other Heroes from the Empire of Light, stepped forward with a disarming smile. His golden armor gleamed brilliantly in the flickering torchlight, a testament to his rank and skill.
Even the most battle-hardened kings couldn’t help but notice the way he carried himself—with quiet confidence and an undeniable presence.
As experienced men of war, they could sense something different about these two. There was a fire in their eyes, a raw potential that couldn’t be ignored, especially in Jason Spencer, whose very aura seemed to command respect.
Liphiel, still standing by with her serene smile, gestured to the two young warriors. “Allow me to introduce two of the strongest Heroes from our Empire: Hero Aidan and Hero Jason,” she said, her voice filled with pride.
“Hero… Jason?” A voice spoke up, this time with a hint of surprise. The speaker was none other than the Greek Hero, Jason himself, his brow furrowing slightly.
Hearing the name spoken aloud sent a jolt through him. His name—the name of the Hero who had once led the Argonauts across treacherous seas in pursuit of the Golden Fleece—was now being shared by this young upstart from the Empire of Light. And what’s worse, this newcomer was also being called a ‘Hero.’ A wave of discomfort rippled through him, stirring his pride. He didn’t like it.
How could anyone else bear the same title, let alone the same name, when he had crossed oceans and faced untold perils? In his mind, he alone was worthy of that title.
Ajax, sensing his friend’s growing irritation, guffawed loudly. “Look at that, Jason! This little pup has the same name as you! How amusing.”
Jason Spencer, unaware of the tension brewing in the room, merely smiled. “Oh?” he said, turning his gaze to the older Jason. “You must be the great Hero Jason, the one who conquered the Golden Fleece. It’s truly an honor to meet you in person.”
Jason Spencer’s tone was genuine, a reflection of the admiration he had for the myths he had once heard about on Earth. His words were meant to open a friendly conversation, to pay respect to the legendary hero who shared his name. After all, standing before a figure of such ancient renown should have been a moment of camaraderie, not conflict.
But the smile on Jason Spencer’s face only deepened the storm brewing in the Greek hero’s chest. Silence fell thick and heavy in the tent. Every king present knew the truth—Jason of Greece had not truly ‘conquered’ the Golden Fleece. It had been snatched from his grasp in a humiliating defeat by an enemy from Tenebria, a failure that had haunted him ever since.
For many, it had been a source of mockery, a stain on his legacy.
And now, this boy, this other Jason, was unknowingly treading on old wounds.
From Jason of Greece’s perspective, this was no innocent remark. He heard only scorn, mockery laced beneath the polite words. His pride screamed at the affront. How dare this foreigner, this so-called Hero from the Empire of Light, speak to him with such gall?
“You bastard…” Jason of Greece growled, his eyes darkening with a murderous glint. He took a step toward Jason Spencer, fists tightening, his rage barely held in check.
Jason Spencer’s smile faltered, confusion clouding his features. He hadn’t expected such a hostile reaction, and for a moment, he wondered what he had done to deserve such ire.
Sensing the dangerous shift in the atmosphere, Odysseus quickly raised his hand, his calm voice cutting through the rising tension. “Let’s all settle down,” he urged, stepping forward in a bid to restore order. “There’s no need for violence. We’re all here for the same purpose, after all.”
But even as Odysseus spoke, there was a flicker of amusement in the eyes of some—especially Ajax, who was barely containing his laughter. Diomedes, seated nearby, smirked as well, clearly entertained by the growing tension between the two Jasons.
During that brief but charged silence, the flap of the tent stirred once more, drawing the attention of everyone inside. The air shifted, and as the figure stepped in, it felt as though time itself slowed in reverence to her presence. Every gaze was immediately captured, and all eyes turned toward the newcomer.
Aisha Nakano.
She moved with a quiet grace, her long, raven-black hair cascading down her back like a silken waterfall. The dark locks framed her face, accentuating the striking contrast with her flawless, porcelain skin. Her eyes were a deep brown so dark they seemed almost black. Those eyes, calm held the gaze of everyone in the tent.
Her attire was as remarkable as her presence—a beautifully crafted black dress armor that hugged her figure with both elegance and strength. Every curve of the armor was sleek, a blend of form and function that made her appear as if she were both a goddess of war and beauty incarnate.
For a long moment, silence reigned as the kings of Greece, men who had fought and commanded armies, found themselves breathless at the sight of her. Even Agamemnon, who ruled as the king of kings and bore little tolerance for distractions, could not hide the flicker of awe that passed through his features.
Even Menelaus who had once laid claim to the most beautiful woman in the world, Helen of Troy, found himself captivated by the new arrival. Though in his heart he knew that Helen’s beauty was unrivaled, there was something about this woman, Aisha, that stirred a different kind of admiration in him. Where Helen was a beacon of light and perfection, Aisha was the embodiment of mystery and shadow.
Her black hair, her half-Asian features, and her armor—everything about her whispered of a beauty not bound by the expectations of the world but carved from a different, darker allure.
Aisha stood at the entrance of the tent for a brief moment, surveying the gathered kings and heroes with a calm, discerning gaze.