Mount Olympus, outside the temple.
Goddess Hestia, dressed in a white gauze gown tied with a blue satin ribbon, stood beside the roaring sacred fla. Her gaze swept over the land below, where faint embers flickered across the darkened earth. Her expression was conflicted as she murmured softly to herself.
"Protheus... oh, Protheus. Do you truly not understand the cost of angering the gods?"
The blue-ribboned goddess sighed, shaking her head helplessly. As the goddess of the hearth and guardian of human households, she had no desire to punish the newborn race that worshiped her so devoutly.
Yet the irreverence and insult shown during the Great Offering had given Zeus all the justification he needed to act.
All she had done was speak a few fair words in humanity's defense—yet she was the one chosen to carry out this thankless task. What miserable luck.
Well, she had only herself to bla. Why had she ddled at all? None of her siblings were easy to deal with.
After tonight, humanity would surely curse her na. Their devotion would falter, and her share of faith would dwindle.
Tsk. When that happened, those sanctimonious "forgiving" gods would gladly feast on what remained of her faith.
No wonder they'd all waited for to speak first, she thought bitterly.
Even the ever-calm, power-indifferent Hestia couldn't stop herself from rolling her eyes at the realization.
As the Hearth Goddess sighed inwardly, shadowy figures began gathering at the temple gates.
If I get caught up in your sches again, I'll have no one to bla but myself. Next ti, I'm keeping my mouth shut!
Knowing she could no longer escape her role as the scapegoat, Hestia turned her back to her scheming family. Resigned, she spread her hands. Divine power pulsed outward in waves.
In an instant, every fla across the earth flickered out. Countless streams of red light shot into the sky, rising like falling stars, all drawn toward the eternal fire that burned upon Mount Olympus.
...
The next morning, humans preparing to cook discovered, to their horror, that every fire had gone out. No matter how hard they struck their flints, not a single spark appeared.
When the divine decree spread, they learned the truth: because of their disrespect, the gods had stripped humanity of the right to wield fire.
...
Days later, in the city of Mycenae—
"Bang!"
dusa slamd her fist onto the table, her expression dark and furious.
Without fire, food could not be cooked, and water could not be boiled or purified. Already, more than a hundred people in the nearby settlents had fallen ill.
Even worse, industries like slting and pottery-making had co to a complete standstill. Though they had deceived the gods and reduced their sacrificial burden, humanity's situation had only grown more desperate.
"What if we try another thod?" Athena said quietly, her sharp eyes flicking toward Samael, who sat in the corner. "Didn't you once tell stories about making fire by drilling wood—or using polished ice to focus sunlight?"
Samael rolled his eyes. "Still clinging to false hope? If flint won't even spark, what good would drilling wood or focusing sunlight do?
The Hearth Goddess Hestia wasn't rely ordered to collect the flas burning on the earth—she took away the very law of fire itself, the principle that allows mortals to kindle fla."
The ancient serpent's tone was flat, slicing through Athena's last thread of optimism.
"Don't worry," Protheus said calmly, a faint smile softening the tension in the room. "There will be a way."
He rose, pouring wine for his companions, and raised his cup with quiet confidence. His steady voice and unshaken resolve eased the gloom that hung over them. One by one, the others followed his lead, drinking to his words and forcing a hint of warmth back into the night.
...
Later that evening, a lone figure slipped silently out of Mycenae. On the winding path toward Mount Olympus, he ca to a stop, looking ahead with a weary smile.
"Athena. What are you doing here?"
The imposing goddess, one hand gripping her shield and the other her bronze spear, leaned casually against a stone slab. She leapt down with fluid grace, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.
"So, you were planning to walk straight into Olympus's trap from the start?"
Protheus glanced back at the silent, lifeless city, a sigh escaping his chest.
"There's no other way now. I have to try my luck on Olympus. If I can disrupt the law sealed within the sacred fla, maybe the earth's fire will return."
Athena stepped closer, her bright eyes narrowing slightly as they caught the faint gleam of the starlight.
"You decided on this plan the day you presided over the Great Offering, didn't you?"
The god of foresight and prophecy stilled, the helplessness and lancholy in his expression giving way to quiet admiration as he looked at the Goddess of Wisdom.
"So when you said 'from the very beginning,' that's what you ant?"
"What else?" Athena huffed, pursing her lips in irritation.
"I just don't understand—why go out of your way to provoke Zeus like that?"
How could such a simple trick—hiding beef beneath cowhide—possibly deceive the King of the Gods, who possessed the wisdom of tis and a mind sharper than any blade?
Even if Zeus had seen through the ruse between the two offerings at a glance, he deliberately chose the one that glittered on the surface but was hollow within. Clearly, his aim was to grasp a hold over the prophet himself.
Yes, Protheus had secured small advantages for humanity. But in doing so, he had angered the gods, handed them an excuse to retaliate, and even sacrificed his own safety in the process.
To Athena, such a course of action was incomprehensible.
"If there were a peaceful way out, do you think he'd choose to anger Zeus? He had no other choice—he simply handed his enemy the knife," ca a low, cold voice from behind Protheus.
Samael erged from the darkness, arms crossed, his tone edged with frustration. dusa followed a few steps behind, her expression unreadable.
"You did this on purpose?"
Athena turned toward the seer, her eyes narrowing in sudden clarity. The ancient serpent's words struck a chord, and all the pieces she hadn't understood before fell into place.
The offering placed upon the altar earlier was never truly about the bull's at—it was Protheus himself.
From the very beginning, he had planned to use his own fate to buy ti for humanity to breathe.
Likewise, Zeus had played his role to perfection. He had seen through the trick long before, yet chose to act as though deceived, selecting the pile of gleaming bones on purpose. His intent was never the at—it was the leverage.
Compared to punishing humankind, the prophet himself posed a far greater threat.
The God King had been waiting patiently, weaving his sches like a spider tightening its web, for the very mont Protheus would deliver the blade into his hand. And once he held it—how could he resist using it?
As expected, Zeus seized upon the act as an insult to the gods, using it to reclaim fire and force Protheus into submission.
Their confrontation had been a dance of mutual understanding: one offering the blow, the other accepting it willingly. A tacit, wordless accord.
Even Athena, with all her boundless wisdom, found herself stunned by the depth of their intertwined calculations.
"Was there truly no other way?" she murmured, her voice low, her gaze fixed on Olympus veiled in shadow, her face dark with unease.
"Athena, step aside."
Protheus smiled faintly, a glimr of warmth softening his eyes as he looked back at the faint outline of the human city below. His gaze turned distant, his tone almost wistful.
"As long as I don't present myself before him, your father won't sleep soundly for a single night."
The wise God King had always feared prophecies—and Protheus stood at the center of that dread.
Moreover, the beings he had "created" carried within them the potential to overturn divine authority itself.
Together, those two factors made Protheus the most dangerous existence in Zeus's eyes. Peace could never last while he remained.
Protheus understood that only by removing himself—the unstable elent—could humanity hope to be accepted by the gods.
Retreating to advance was the only path left to him.
Now, neither humankind nor their allies possessed the power to challenge Olympus. There was nothing to be done but yield.
In the end, the weak have no right to negotiate.
...
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