The cries of fury and vengeance rang out across the battlefield, their fervor echoing amidst the cacophony of war.
“It’s him, Heiron!”
“Kill that bastard!”
“Revenge for Ajax!”
The plains before the city of Troy were once again embroiled in chaos, a relentless storm of steel, blood, and cries of valor. Weeks had passed since Nathan—now feared and loathed by the Greeks—had slain Ajax and Jason. Their deaths had sent shockwaves through the Greek camp. Heiron, as Nathan was known among them, was no longer just a formidable adversary; he had become a living nightmare, a name uttered with the same caution and reverence reserved for Hector himself.
The Greeks, however, were not a people easily cowed. Spartans, Athenians, and warriors from countless other city-states had gathered, driven by a shared lust for battle and glory. They were heirs to the tales of their gods and heroes, and each man sought to carve his name into the annals of legend. To them, defeating Heiron was no longer just a military objective; it was a test of their mettle, a path to immortality. Thus, Nathan found himself not only fighting Hector’s war but also enduring the relentless assaults of men desperate to etch their names in history.
A group of Greeks, their armor gleaming despite the grime of battle, encircled Nathan with triumphant smirks.
“We’ve got him now!” one of them crowed, his voice brimming with overconfidence.
Nathan stood calmly at the center of the encroaching circle, his icy blue eyes scanning their faces without a trace of fear. He adjusted his grip on his sword, its blade gleaming unnaturally under the sunlight, as if imbued with a cold light of its own. With a single, almost lazy swing, frost exploded outward. The warriors’ confident expressions froze in place—literally. In mere moments, they were transformed into statues of ice, their final expressions preserved in chilling detail.
Another swing shattered the frozen soldiers, sending shards of ice scattering like glass. The sound of their destruction was a grim symphony, and the warriors behind them hesitated, their advance faltering. Yet, emboldened by desperation or madness, more surged forward. One soldier leapt at Nathan from behind, his spear poised to strike.
Nathan sensed the movement but did not turn. Before he could act, an arrow whistled through the air, piercing the attacker’s skull with unerring precision. The soldier’s lifeless body crumpled to the ground, his ambition extinguished in an instant.
Nathan glanced back briefly, his gaze meeting Atalanta’s. She stood a few paces away, her bow drawn, her stance poised and elegant even amidst the chaos. Her sharp eyes flicked to Nathan, and she offered him a small, almost imperceptible nod. He returned the gesture, then turned back to the fray without a word. The understanding between them required no elaboration.
“Are you already tired, Heiron?” Aeneas’s voice rang out, cutting through the din. The young Trojan prince wore a teasing grin as he parried an opponent’s strike with ease.
“Aren’t you the one who’s tired, Aeneas?” Sarpedon’s laugh echoed as he drove his spear through a Greek soldier. “Focus, or you might end up joining Ajax!”
“No way I’m heading to Tartaros like him!” Aeneas shot back, his tone half-joking but tinged with a hint of unease.
The mention of Ajax’s fate sent a ripple through those within earshot. The Greeks knew well that Ajax, despite his might, had committed countless atrocities. His soul was destined for the deepest pits of the underworld, a grim warning to all who fought without honor.
Nathan shook his head at their banter, even as he continued dispatching enemies with calculated efficiency. It was almost absurd how they could bicker in the midst of battle, but their camaraderie brought a rare, fleeting lightness to the otherwise grim proceedings. It was, perhaps, a reminder of why they fought, a flicker of humanity amidst the carnage.
Not that Nathan worried about their survival. Both Aeneas and Sarpedon had grown considerably stronger over the past months. Their skill and resilience were the result of grueling training, much of it under Nathan’s own guidance. At Aphrodite’s insistence, he had taken Aeneas under his wing, and Sarpedon had eagerly joined. Their sessions had been intense, and though Nathan had initially agreed out of obligation, he had come to view Sarpedon as a friend. Hector, too, had often participated when his princely duties allowed, along with Atalanta, whose sharp wit and sharper arrows made her an invaluable ally.
“Don’t overexert yourself, Heiron!”
Hector’s voice rang out amidst the cacophony of clashing swords and agonized cries. Nathan turned his gaze toward Hector, who fought with his usual commanding presence. Despite Hector’s efforts to sound casual, Nathan could sense the underlying concern in his words.
Weeks had passed since Ajax’s death, and though Nathan should have been fully recovered by now, his body betrayed signs of something deeper. His movements lacked their usual sharpness, and an ache he couldn’t quite place lingered in his limbs. Hector had noticed too.
Nathan clenched his jaw, unwilling to show weakness, but the truth gnawed at him. The deal he had struck with Apollo to extend his life had come with a price. The divine intervention, which had once felt like salvation, now showed its consequences. It was no simple feat for a god to tamper with mortality, and the toll on Nathan’s body grew clearer with each passing day. Still, he pushed forward. For now, at least, he had time—though how much, he did not know.
Hector, perceptive as always, had been quietly helping him. Without explicitly stating it, Hector shouldered much of the battlefield’s burden, taking the brunt of the Greek assaults and ensuring that Nathan faced fewer formidable opponents. Nathan, though prideful, accepted the silent aid. He understood that in his current state, he might need it.
The battlefield remained a chaotic blur of clanging metal and shouted war cries. Though Ajax had fallen, the Greeks seemed to have rekindled their fighting spirit. Their resolve, once shaky, now burned with renewed intensity. Nathan’s sharp eyes scanned the battlefield and landed on the reason for this resurgence—a tall figure standing on a distant hill, towering over the chaos like a god surveying his domain.
The man wielded a trident that gleamed with an otherworldly light, sending waves of energy that rippled through the Greek ranks. Each wave invigorated their soldiers, filling them with unnatural strength and courage. Nathan’s grip on his sword tightened, and his expression darkened.
It was Poseidon.
The God of the Sea had joined Hera and Athena in their campaign against Troy. For a week now, his presence had tilted the balance of power. Each blessing he granted to the Greeks bolstered their forces and sapped the Trojans’ morale. The once-unstoppable momentum of Troy now faltered under the combined might of three Olympian gods.
Since Apollo’s departure, the Trojans had struggled. Without his radiant blessings to fortify their spirits and protect their warriors, their defense weakened. Ares and Artemis had done what they could to fill the void, but neither possessed Apollo’s capacity to inspire and heal. Nathan could only hope Apollo would return soon, bringing not just light to the Trojans but perhaps a way to halt the creeping shadow of Nathan’s own demise.
“What?”
A sudden, bone-deep chill surged through Nathan’s body, freezing him mid-swing. His instincts screamed danger, far beyond what even Poseidon could conjure. His head snapped toward the source, scanning the battlefield for the disturbance.
Hector paused as well, his normally confident demeanor giving way to a rare moment of unease. His piercing gaze searched the chaos, and his grip tightened on his spear. He felt it too—an immense power descending upon the battlefield.
This presence was different. It was not Poseidon’s smug arrogance or Hera’s calculating malice. It was something else. Nathan’s heart raced as he gritted his teeth, his body instinctively bracing for what—or who—was about to appear.
Suddenly, Nathan’s entire body tensed. A powerful surge of energy rippled through the battlefield, sending an unshakable wave of dread into the air. It wasn’t ordinary magic.
“This isn’t right…” Nathan muttered under his breath, his senses sharpening. He closed his eyes briefly, focusing on the disturbance. His mind raced as he felt mana gathering rapidly in a single location, coalescing with unnatural speed and potency. Then it hit him—the unmistakable signature.
“Celestial magic,” he whispered, his eyes widening.
He scanned the battlefield frantically, searching for the source of this extraordinary power. His gaze darted across the chaos until it landed on Aeneas, standing defiantly amidst the melee. The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning.
He’s the target.
Nathan’s pulse quickened. Aeneas was strong, undeniably so, but even his strength wouldn’t suffice against an attack of this magnitude. If he took the brunt of it, he wouldn’t survive.
“I’m leaving this to you, Hector!” Nathan called out without waiting for a reply.
With a thunderous crack, he launched himself off the ground, moving at a speed that left the earth trembling beneath his feet. His form blurred as he raced toward Aeneas, determined to intervene before it was too late.
But even Nathan wasn’t fast enough.
BADAM!
The air erupted with a deafening sound as the attack was released. It was an arrow—gleaming with an ethereal light, surging forward with devastating force. Its speed was unnatural, impossible to track with human eyes. In the blink of an eye, the arrow closed the distance, bearing down on Aeneas with unrelenting precision.
At the last moment, Charybdis appeared shoving Aeneas aside. Her protective instincts had kicked in, and she prepared to shield him with her own body to fulfil Nathan’s request.
“Charybdis, don’t!” Nathan roared.
He could sense the destructive power imbued in the arrow. While Charybdis was formidable, even she wasn’t impervious to such an attack. The risk was too great of revealing her true self.
Before she could fully position herself, another figure appeared—a blur of motion cutting across the battlefield.
It was Sarpedon.
With a guttural yell, Sarpedon swung his sword in a mighty arc, unleashing a powerful shockwave aimed at deflecting the arrow. The force of his attack rippled through the air, but it was like a candle before a storm. The arrow tore through the shockwave effortlessly, its path unbroken.
Sarpedon’s sword shattered in his hands as the arrow struck him square in the chest. The impact sent him hurtling backward, his body flying hundreds of meters before crashing into the ground with a sickening thud.
BAADAAM!
“Sarpedon!!” Aeneas’s cry tore through the battlefield.
He scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide with panic, and sprinted toward his fallen comrade. Nathan reached the scene moments later, dropping to his knees beside Sarpedon’s crumpled form. He checked for a pulse, his fingers brushing against Sarpedon’s neck.
“No…” Nathan whispered.
The arrow had pierced Sarpedon’s chest with terrifying precision, striking his heart. His lifeless eyes stared up at the sky, a silent testament to the strength and courage he had displayed in his final moments.
“Dead.”